Depression for Dummies

Depression is real. Depression is not just in my head.

NO, I CANNOT JUST GET OVER IT.

Happiness may be a choice. Depressed people try to choose happiness. But something makes that choice seem impossible in any number of circumstances. It would help tremendously if people understood that. I can be happy in a moment. I have moments of joy. But I can still suffer from depression in those moments.

One analogy I can think of is getting dressed during the winter. I can put on layers of clothing to keep warm, but if any skin gets exposed, I can still get cold. With depression, I can participate in a joyful celebration but if something goes wrong, it can ruin the experience for me. (And not necessarily the entire experience, just that specific aspect.) Most people would argue "Everything else went great, why can't you just get over it?" Because that is how depression works--I just can't get over it.

I just had yet another very futile "conversation" with the husband wherein his understanding of my issues boils down to his fundamental misunderstanding and, as far as I am concerned, his unwillingness to try.

I understand that it is hard to invest the emotional capital in someone who suffers with chronic depression. It is much easier to just walk away and leave them alone. I know because get left alone all the time. I am not suggesting that loving someone with depression is futile. It just means that you have to find a way to love that person to reassure them that no matter what, everything will be alright. I know that my family prefers to keep me at arm's length because it is easier for them. I just wish someone would make the effort to love me through my depression instead of in spite of it.

I didn't intend to spend this much effort on this topic, but I really needed to vent. I am going through another debilitating episode that has kept me pretty much confined to the house for the past month. I have gone out, but only as necessary. I have been trying...I bought some new lipstick and drastically cut my hair. I also admitted that I am going through something to others, which is rare because I never talk about my issues with others. I stopped short of telling people that I was depressed, but I was honest that I am dealing with a lot of drama that has left me anxious, frustrated and emotionally exhausted. People are a little more encouraging when you can offer specific terms to describe your feelings.

Just know that telling me to feel better is counter-productive. Telling me to pray is not offering a solution. Neither is expressing frustration that your efforts aren't helping (because my depression is not about you, it is about me). It would help if you stopped to listen, really listen without always trying to offer a fix. It is nice of you to pray for me, but how about inviting me to pray with you? If I cannot express exactly what is wrong, there might be any number of reasons why, but getting annoyed and giving up on me will only hasten a shutdown.

If any of this sounds familiar because you recognize yourself or someone else you know, I hope this gives you a primer on depression (not a clinical one, but a personal one). Maybe it will help you to become a better friend to someone who cannot always muster up the energy to be bothered with life beyond a self-contained bubble. I want to get through this, but I need help.

Going to Meet the Whizard

I have been saving this tirade for weeks, but given the President's little breakfast, little get-together yesterday to launch Black History Month...it's time. Not that I expected any sort of grand gesture that would make up for his offensive and patronizing outreach to "the blacks" (because I honestly think his March breakfast for Women's History Month will really good), but some of y'all have had this coming for a while. This list is not in any particular order and I will address each offender individually. If you got left off this time, no worries because we've got four years of tomfoolery ahead:

1. Steve Harvey: My daughter freaking loves the Family Feud, so do you know how hard it is to find a tolerable alternative program for her to watch in the evenings when we need to do anything other than have her run around in circles??? But it's all good because she will learn to love Jeopardy.

But let me go straight to the heart of the matter--you did not go to the Tower because President Obama asked you to. Admit that you went there to ensure your hosting job on the next Miss Universe Pageant. Admit that you went there because he offered you a deal to license your name to substitute his on those cheap suits he sells at Macy's. Admit that you went up there because you had a temporary loss of sanity, but please do not tell us that you were acting as some kind of hood consigliere to #45 for the African American community. We know better.

2. Dr. Ben Carson: The only chance you have at ever becoming President is to be the guy that gets sent to the bunker during the State of the Union. Which we all know, you will be that guy for every SOTU address, but the kicker is that the rest of us will be dead so no one will care.

3. Pastor Darrell Scott: Bruh, who are you? Like for real, who ARE YOU?

Because are we supposed to believe that a bunch of Chicago gang bangers called you to offer props to the new Prez, and then said that they would stop the violence out of respect for him? Are you sure that wasn't a prank call? Because the utter foolishness of that offer is so apparent that I'm wondering whether you just thought of it on the spot as some sort of fancy gold-plated Black History Month present that you, some random preacher from OHIO, could deliver.

4. Tina Campbell: Girl, I get it. You are a Christian, and you want to be loving and forgiving, and you realize that your sister has moved on, so you need to carve out your own identity. We already know that you are batsh!t cray cray, that you forgave that Mitch of a manager, and you've got other issues, so we are just going to lay your name on the altar and keep it moving.

5. Kanye West: I keep thinking that your visit was really some kind of weird six degrees of separation mission of reality show insanity because you are married to Kim, whose mother Kris was married to Bruce/Caitlyn, who wanted to dance with the Trumpet at his Inauguration. So Kris set this up, you are being held against your will, and that was really a Kanye-bot that was sent to the Tower. 

6. MLK the 3rd: I can't even begin to unpack this one. But again, I am hardly surprised that you allowed yourself to be used for a photo opp on the national holiday set aside to celebrate your father. Or that you allowed yourself to be used as a mouthpiece to explain away the nonsense of the Trumpet's twitter tirade against John Lewis. Or that you are still looking for ways to be taken seriously as a legitimate civil rights leader.

7. My Spelman Sister: So as the folks were being introduced around the table yesterday, I tuned out what was being said because it was clear that everyone in the room had some kind of active role in supporting the campaign. And honestly, I could care less about any of you, but someone told me that one of those eager faces belonged to one of my Spelman sisters. Thus, I have no words for you, just this picture:

8. Chrisette Michelle: I don't know you well enough to judge...but dammit, what were you thinking? Trust, you are not the first nor will you be the last black entertainer to be paraded in front of an audience for the benefit of some wealthy white folks who don't care a whit about you, your issues or what you thought you came to represent (ask Sammy Davis Jr., about that when you get to heaven). But dang girl, you don't even have the good sense not to act surprised that Spike Lee dissed you! And if you notice, Wynton Marsalis' corny ass piped down when he saw what happened to you. Lay low for a few years and come back when you get a clue.

9. Jim Brown, et. al: This was not that much of a surprise. In fact, because I believe your invitation, along with the invite to Ray Lewis, Floyd Mayweather, Don King and every other black athletic figure with issues were just fan calls, I can't be mad at you. I had written you off a long time ago for your toxic behavior towards women so as far as I am concerned, birds of a feather flock together.

10. Talladega College Marching Band: Don't think I forgot about that Inauguration parade performance. I didn't watch, and I suspect a lot of folks who normally would have been beaming with pride about the fact that their babies got to come to DC to march weren't watching either. Nah, scrap that, they watched and we are secretly proud because you are just a bunch of kids. Some of you can't vote, and among you that did vote, well, you have the right to exercise that choice however you choose. However, like the Rockettes whose jobs were at stake, members of a college marching band don't always get to take a stand.

So this criticism is not aimed at the band or the students, but at the alumni and the Administration of your institution. HBCU alumni talk big but don't have much to show for our cyber activism if our schools have to strike Faustian deals in order to raise money. And I don't know anything about your President, Dr. Billy Hawkins (no relation :), but I got issues with him going on FOX with his hat in hand knowing what would be the likely outcome of his appeal...which turned out to be more than $500,000.

But I know the high stakes of being a college president these days, especially at an HBCU, so here is where I put my money on the table and declare that I plan to donate to Talladega. This is NOT a reward, but a challenge. I expect y'all to graduate and to go on to do great things, but I also demand that you set an example by regularly contributing to your institution so this never happens again.

11. Omarosa: Don't worry...I'm saving all my ire for her to be published in a piece over at the Busy Black Woman blog.

Alternative Perspectives from the Twilight Zone

This is a cross-posting from the BBW Blog. I started writing it here, decided to publish it there, and then came back to tweak it a little more over here.

The Hub grew up watching the Twilight Zone, so every major holiday weekend when one of the cable stations runs a marathon, he half-watches every hour or so in order to guess the episode within the first few minutes. I begin with this seemingly random pop culture anecdote because life since the Trumpacalyspe has felt at times like one of those bizarre Twilight Zone episodes. For instance, there is the one when someone with a golden chip on her shoulder blasts a Hollywood icon for being too elitist...

Which is otherwise known as that time when Meghan McCain criticized Meryl Streep's Golden Globe speech. (I am a couple of weeks late, but I'm feeling a bit inspired by the Women's March to revisit this matter, especially since the Trumpet also made a point of lambasting celebrity activism).

The first irony, of course, is that Meghan McCain is herself an elite. She is the daughter of a U.S. Senator who happened to run for President. Twice. I'm not really sure what she does for a living, what she ever did for a living, but I know it currently involves working at FOX News. But even if she doesn't have any other real job, she is still the daughter of a U.S. Senator who ran for President, twice. Meryl Streep, on the other hand, is just the hardest working actress in showbiz (but let's not get it twisted as we all know that Streep is quite privileged herself, but go with me on this for a bit.)

I honestly would have overlooked this as white noise, but this weekend's juxtaposition of truth to alternative facts made me wonder. Why does an actor's statement at an awards show that only certain coastal elites bother to watch, and that would not have gotten much attention except for the fact that she took aim and fired a perfect shot at the then-President Elect without calling him out by name, matter to the conservative "activist" daughter of a U.S. Senator who ran for President, twice? Gee...

So my best guess is that as Meghan's Dad is still wondering why he is not vacationing with his lovely wife like the guy who beat him eight years ago, or painting lovely portraits like the guy who beat him 16 years ago, the family needs to find creative ways to stand up to the Trumpet. That guy who took the birther ball that McCain failed to deflate during his candidacy in 2008 and ran with it. The Trumpet. That guy who got endorsed by Sister Sarah, that chick McCain unfortunately tapped to be his running mate in 2008. The Trumpet. That guy who suggested that McCain was not much of an American war hero since he got captured and tortured. That guy.

So Miss Meghan seized the opportunity of the Golden Globes, the most self-congratulatory of the entertainment award season, to take a predictable swipe at Hollywood elitism and then quickly deny culpability since she and her family did not vote for That guy. That while she feels our pain, it is our "snowflake liberal" high-mindedness that enables folks like Meryl to dare speak out against him. I mean, what is she anyway, just some well-known blond with an opinion...

Perhaps it is the irony of Meghan's waning relevance as the conservative millennial who speaks for the little guy. Well, now that job now belongs to Lady Ivanka, but she still has a job at FOX, right? Oh wait, FOX just decided that Stacy Dash was redundant, so maybe they will be going in a different direction now that Rupert Murdoch is gone and the network is imploding. Can they fire the daughter of a U.S. Senator who ran for President twice?

Meghan, as the daughter of a U.S. Senator who ran for President twice, you could have used the opportunity to say a lot more about how Hollywood can facilitate building bridges to middle America without throwing bricks. How Hollywood has a responsibility to present diversity of opinion in such a way that demonstrates mutual respect rather than fomenting disunion. Instead, you emulated the Trumpet and deflected. If we really are on the same side in opposing the divisiveness that helped to elect him, then why perpetuate the narrative that certain Americans are somehow more authentically "American" than others?

What got the Trumpet elected was the unwillingness of men like your father, who ran for President twice, to do more than just not attend Trumpelthinskin's convention, not actively campaign for him, or maybe not vote for him. I remember how your father, who ran for President twice, politely corrected a woman at one of his rallies when she accused then-candidate Obama of not being an American. So having stood up and shown that type of character when it did not serve his interests back in 2008, it would have been just as courageous for your father to have denounced birtherism from the beginning. If he had, he could have saved us all from this American Horror Show.

Sorry Meghan, you do not get to blame liberals for the election of a reality TV star to the most important job on the planet. You do not get to tweet out nonsense and then assume that because you are the daughter of a U.S. Senator who ran for President twice, you bear no culpability. And it is not Meryl Streep's fault that your party got hijacked by its extreme fringe, nominated a demagogue, and is now stuck with him. Hollywood elites don't fan the flames of discord by embracing and promoting a narrow and opportunistic definition of patriotism. Tinseltown is far from perfect (having been shamed into making more efforts at diversity by a hashtag), but at least they try. The Hollywood version of America that Streep celebrated in her speech was an ideal, but it is far more reflective of what we are supposed to represent.

Week One

I have been inspired to write a lot lately. I have been posting a lot to the BBW blog, and this piece started there, but I am posting it here as I try to figure out a few things about my direction these next few years.

I feel like I am just spinning my wheels here--both on this blogging effort and at life. I wonder about life generally because the older I get, things just seem to get more complex. There is a lot of shit swirling around me and I feel utterly powerless in its midst. There is a lot of change going on in the world and you already know how I feel about much of that nonsense and fuckery (yeah, I am back to cursing). And as writing is my refuge in times like these, I am placing a lot of pressure on myself to increase my output even though it is not entirely clear that it matters...

So let me address that issue first. I started blogging more than 10 years ago just to have a means of expressing myself, but I have been writing like this for years. Before it was called blogging, I wrote pieces in a spiral bound notebook with a black Bic ballpoint pen. When I wrote out some of my thoughts on the computer, I called it computer journaling.

When I began this effort, my intention was to be discovered as a writer. I had written a few things that had generated some interest, and after having two jobs where I wrote to convey the positions of others, I thought I was ready for the next level. I think back in 2005 when this blog began, I had hoped that I would end up writing a column for some online ezine or maybe I would have written a book or two by now.

Well, I am still at it, writing in obscurity. I am a decent writer, but not a very good promoter of my writing. In fact, I am not good at all when it comes to self-promotion or taking credit for things. I am like those artists that only focuses on making art, but needs lots of help managing everything else in their lives because the art becomes all-consuming. Or perhaps I am a writer afraid of both success and failure because I have found failure is way too easy. It takes the same amount of effort as trying to achieve success; however, success requires more sustained effort. Failure can happen any number of times but success seems to be a one-time shot.You get plenty of opportunities to make the shot, but you only get that one chance to make that shot.

After blogging all these years, I believe that I want more, but I am afraid of what more means. Does it mean that I need to dedicate real time to writing and not just make the most of stolen moments? Does it mean that I need to prioritize my craft above the needs of everyone else, and at what cost?

Which is where I question how well I am doing at life beyond my writing. This month has already been a bitch and whenever I think things have calmed down, shit happens. Like yesterday, I was working on this piece when I got a call that fucked the rest of my day, my night and is still causing me agitation. So when I contemplate whether I should become one of those people whose every waking moment is spent honing her craft, it is never a realistic thought. Or in other words, I could never truly tell the rest of the world to go fuck off while I write since a good deal of what fuels my need to write is the shit that happens to me!

My most honest writing comes from the constant questioning and self-doubt: have I been a good enough daughter, am I a decent mother, how can I be a better wife, why don't I feel like I am enough? Why do I take so much to heart? Why do I keep getting in my own way? Who am I to think that my dreams are realistic? Would I have been better off if I had just been content to be a mediocre lawyer? What made me think I had what it took to be any kind of lawyer in the first place (remember how you nearly failed out of law school)? Why don't you just give up and admit that you are a failure?

Because even if I am unexceptional, mediocre, average or just ok, I am not a failure.

So I will continue. The world may never discover me, or it might. I will continue to write when I need to express how the world affects me. I will write when I have a lot to say but no one available to hear any of it. I write to leave a record of my opinions, my thoughts, my anxieties and also my hopes and dreams. I write because I am a writer.

Windows on the World

About last night: (two, er three glasses of wine and a whole Xanax)...Pretty coherent until I fell asleep.

I had plans to leave the house today for a reason other than to try to get this child to sleep. She did sleep, but only during the Window.

Parents know what I mean. There are these rare opportunities of time called Windows, that must be used wisely, or else you end up un-showered, unshaven and dressed in pajamas or sweats all day. These Windows are like anomalies in the space-time continuum when you can get a very specific task completed while the Babe is asleep--until it closes and then you are back on her time. In my world, the Window only lasts for about 90 minutes.

Last week in Chicago, I was blessed with a Window. The Babe was restless and needed her nap, I had an errand to run, so I strapped her in the stroller and rolled out. First errand completed, but of course, this chick did NOT go to sleep, so I had to think of a Plan B--an impromptu trip to the mall. She found her second wind, so I let her run free around the Nordstrom until she began circling the stroller. I let her climb aboard while I took a spin through the food court. She was still sitting upright as I searched around for an elevator, but just as I found it and leaned over to press the button, the Window opened! I made a mad dash back to the hotel.

My official apologies to the Planned Parenthood activist in the wheelchair, because yes, I really do support your cause, we do give money, but no I had NO time to talk because you were cutting into my Window. By this time, the Babe had been asleep for maybe about 20 minutes. I needed a shower, to get the room in semi-decent shape since the cleaning service had not come while we were gone, and time was a-ticking.

Yesterday as usual, the Babe was refusing to nap and was literally spinning herself in circles fighting valiantly to stay awake. So I loaded her into the car and with no particular destination in mind, got ready to leave the house. The mailman saw me and trotted up to me with a package. Bless his heart (and I do not mean it in the snarcastic way), he hands it over and says I see you are about to roll out with the kid, good luck Mom. I'm guessing he recognized the exasperated I-need-tranquilizer-darts-NOW, or maybe he knows all about creating the Window.


This might be the only parenting advice I ever offer because I am THAT hot mess mom: the one who barely makes it to story time even though it is a 15 minute drive away; the one who takes her kid to the matinee where they show rated R indie films and is not the least bit ashamed; the one who believes cheerios eaten from the floor must have special powers. The Window is real.

And a word to anybody who writes one of those mommy-war envy pieces about wishing she could stay at home and get stuff done while her kids napped...again, one word: Window. Lady, I don't get anything done unless I get that Window. (Except right now since I have turned the Babe over to her father for the day). Your lovely fantasies about immaculate homes, well-balanced dinners already prepared from the slow cooker, Martha Stewart decorating projects, and Hallmark card moments of hugs and kisses...yeah, right.

Let me go take a shower.

Reconsidering Mother's Day

I actually wrote the piece referenced on Mother's Day for the BBW blog, but I am now going back to read/edit/publish a few outstanding pieces here at the Cafe. Bear with me.

I've been trying to gather my thoughts to write over at the Busy Black Woman blog about Mother's Day for a while, but I think that effort is futile. My emotions are a little too erratic for humor...so I am here to be raw and serious and to try to express my emotions in a more or less coherent manner.

Because I hate Mother's Day. I have probably admitted this previously, and maybe I will go back to see if I am right, but for now, I will let that declaration stand alone. I. Hate. Mother's. Day.

At some point, my mother made Mother's Day a test of how much anxiety could she force upon me by making me feel that I never loved her enough, or that I never demonstrated the right amount of gratitude. You see, before the Alzheimer's my mother was a pill--at times, a bitter, oblong, hard-to-swallow horse pill. In the years after my grandmother's death, and literally up to the year I revolted and determined that something was terribly wrong (when all of this was becoming a reality), she could be a...bitter ass pill.

I will not recount how bad, how bittersweet, how utterly insufferable this time of year could be for me--when nothing I did was good enough (but the nothing my Dad and brothers did was somehow, just fine). But I will say that even after spending my first Mother's Day last year with my in-laws, practically spoiled because the Babe was brand-new and this was the first time everyone was meeting her, I still dread this stupid holiday. Even though it felt good to be the quasi-center of attention for once. Of course, they were all excited about the Babe, a month old, but I have come to realize that a lot of my happiness nowadays comes from her.

All of that was written back in May. All of this below is new:
I survived Mother's Day by going to church, which has become a refuge for me. That is unbelievable because it was only a few years ago that I was declaring myself a proud member of Bedside Baptist. Life, man.

Someone at my church (and I will have to write about this at some point) has decided that they will find whatever opportunity possible to stand me up in front of that congregation. I was asked to give the welcome for Mother's Day, which meant a lot of preparation before and then a lot of rushing the morning of, but we made it! And several months later (because I was asked to give another presentation at church just yesterday and had to do the same thing) I am now getting it.

Public speaking was something that my mother did very well, but as usual, her stage mommy ways made it an uneven experience. As kids that grew up in the church with both grandmothers, an aunt and then later in Catholic school, we had plenty of opportunity to speak in front of church folks. Many of those experiences did not involve my mother, but her spirit was there because the Hawkins children never read from a slip of paper in front of an audience. The Hawkins children always memorized their scripts.

Did I tell you that my mother taught public speaking? And drama? Do you see where this might be going?

I will actually go in the opposite direction to say that she seemed pleased by my presentation. And that I am already thinking of how well-trained my daughter will be when she reached the age of standing in front of the church. Like mother...as they say.

Since the tone of this piece has changed from a whine to a tribute I must say that for all of her faults, my mother was right (just not about everything). I learned a lot from her example. I may never become a great public speaker, but if the people at my church think that I am a decent enough speaker, then it is because of her high expectations. This past Mother's Day, when I was just happy that we made it to church on time, I forgot to reflect on the reason why...

I hope I made her proud.

Self-Pitiful

I have been blogging a lot lately, which is great. Except I need to be packing right now for Chicago. So I am blogging as a new way to procrastinate.

I am also here to vent after a monologue with my husband. I went to talk to him about something and I guess I cut into his podcast time because he had to actually listen to me. Or he just had to fake like he cared.

I am so over this.

Am I so inconsequential? Actually a better question is when did I become so inconsequential, but since my answer is as far back as I can remember...

I am not in the mood to bare all. But let's just say that I am always alone except when I'm with my daughter, but even then we are always alone. I was telling the hub my feelings of isolation and suggested that I might try (again) to connect with one of those exclusive membership organizations. He responded in his usual manner of telling me how I would find fault and be turned off by the pettiness, and I left feeling like he missed my entire point.

I am lonely. And I think my loneliness and isolation will have an impact on our kid.

I don't wish to bemoan the state of my life because it should be rather obvious since I write about this topic at least a third of the time. I found some great photos of us from a few years ago when I did not feel this way and they make me sad. When did this happen?