Stigma

A little less than two years ago I found myself in a place I'd never been before.  I guess you could say that things had been building over the past six year or so, and had finally come to a head.   I was a mess.  On the outside things looked okay, but I was struggling.  The breaking point came when I had a total melt down over rescheduling a time to meet up for a tailgate party.  I got off the phone and immediately called poor Cassie back and told her "I'm going to take a nap and change my diaper and then I'll be ready for the game. I'm so sorry!  I don't know where that came from?!"  Later that summer I went to the doctor because I wasn't sleeping, I was emotional (a gross understatement), withdrawing from social situations, becoming overwhelmed easily, and the list goes on.  Basic things like the daily task of getting ready or going out with friends resulted in a kind of ongoing narrative in my head.  "Okay, you need to walk the dog and then have a cup of coffee and you'll then have enough momentum to take a shower and get ready.  Then you'll feel better."  I was having to give myself pep talks to do almost everything.  On the weekends if I had committed to more than one event I felt overwhelmed and often cancelled one or all because it took so much emotional energy to get there, to be present, interact, and enjoy myself.  Those of you who know me know how much I LOVE people!  I love being around people of all shapes and sizes and often feel at home with those I've just met.  As a child, at the ripe old age of five, I made friends with a wino at Lake Lowell and invited him back for dinner.  At conferences my parents often heard "She's very social."  Which is a nice way of saying "Your kid won't shut her gob!"  Needless to say, I've never met a stranger!

Having just finished my fifth, and most difficult, year teaching I wondered if I had it in me to continue teaching for the rest of my career.   The thought of retiring as a middle school teacher literally made me feel like I wanted to curl up in a hole and die.  It was physically exhausting to think about.  In the previous years along with teaching I had undertaken a masters full time, was running a Young Life group at the school, advising student council, coaching tennis, hosting a weekly bible study at my house, running an after school program going on it's 4th year, teaching summer school, subbing for night school and occasionally working at the Rec Center in the evenings as the Night Supervisor. It was the first time in my life I felt so overwhelmed by things that I honestly loved doing.  I loved teaching and being around my students!  I just couldn't figure out why I felt so on edge all the time.  My poor boss would see me coming and grab the box of kleenex before I even got into his office, knowing the floodgates were about to open.  So of course, I thought I had some kind of hormonal imbalance; certain I was pre-menapausal at 30, oh Lord!  When I went to the doctor he said it sounded like I was depressed.  In my head I though, "Jackass! I'm not depressed!  I'm making plans and I'm hopeful for the future! I'm looking forward to the next school year and I'm applying for grad school in London!" This is also why I'm not a doctor!  :)

What I didn't realize is that there are different kinds of depression and that I was most definitely depressed.  I assumed that if I were depressed I would have completely shut down and wouldn't have been able to function.  Stigma.  There it was, that word.  I had ascribed to the stigma surrounding depression and was immediately trying to separate myself from "it."  Growing up in the church there was a stigma surrounding issues like depression and I remember reading articles and books that frowned upon the use of anti-depressants.  Several insisted that seeking medical assistance for struggles with depression was a sign of weak faith.  Stigma.  If I could have willed or prayed myself to a better place, and believe me I tried, I would have.  I thought that by pushing forward I would see reward in the end and I would have some great epiphany about my struggle.  Stigma.  In truth, I was depressed and I wasn't capable of fixing anything without help.  I had been through counseling and was in the process of making major life changes, but I still couldn't manage to pull myself together.  

Today was the first time I had encountered the stigma surrounding depression from the other side and the reason I decided to write this blog.  I went into the doctor to check in, because a few weeks prior my medication had been reduced and she wanted to see how I was functioning.  The doctor I had previously seen was out sick so I was to see another doctor.  No problem.  I went into her office and sat down as she looked over the notes on the screen.  I told her I was just there to check back in because my prescription has been reduced.  She began asking me questions about how I felt.  I told her I felt fine, no difference really.  She said "I bet you're feeling less medicated?"  I told her that wasn't the case and that there wasn't really any change.  I told her that I was taking the max dose in the U.S. and it was different in the U.K. so I was fine to reduce my prescription and go from there because it was only a minor adjustment.  To which she replied, "Well, we're not so gung-ho about prescribing medication like they are in America." I explained to her that my doctor didn't just put me on the max dose and that it was a gradual process that took place over the course of a year.  Then she said, "I've never met anyone taking that much before." I felt like she was looking at me like I had three heads.   So, I explained to her that I'd had several conversations with my doctor and my brother and sister-in-law, who are psychologists, about my reservations about increasing my dosage.  And that it was a matter of figuring out where my baseline was.  I had been struggling for so long, I didn't know what normal felt like anymore.  I wanted to make sure I wasn't taking medication to make myself feel happier and happier and happier.  (Which my sister Bekah explained does not happen.)  She then told me that in the UK the only reason they prescribe that much is to treat people with Bulimia, "Do you have Bulimia?  Do you make yourself vomit?"  My response was, "Oh, I don't have the discipline to make myself throw up!"  I thought it was funny, but she apparently didn't.  Throughout the course of the rest of the conversation she asked me two more times if I made myself vomit.  She then asked me how long I was here for and if I had friends.  I told her I'd be her a year in total and assured her I had friends in London.  I explained to her the conversations I'd had with my doctor about this not being permanent and that I most likely wouldn't be on anti-depressants my whole life.  The rest of the appointment when pretty much like that and I left feeling frustrated, hurt, and deflated. 

I tell you this because it was the first time I'd ever had someone look at me and treat me the way she did.  She knew nothing about me accept what was written in a 1x5 inch box on a computer screen.  It was the first time I had encountered the other side of the stigma surrounding depression and it made me feel terrible.  I wasn't a person who has a life and goals.  I can't tell you how many conversations I've had with people since I began being treated for depression, who've found themselves in the same place I was just a few years ago, experiencing the same struggles.  These conversations reassure me and remind me that I'm not alone, and I'm comforted by that.  I have also found that by listening and sharing my story with others, I find a deep sense of peace.  I'm thriving.  I'm happier than I've ever been and have again found the joy that I'd been missing for so many years. I'm pursuing my dreams and have recently taken an internship at a place called Core Arts, where I will be teaching art classes to people who have been marginalized their entire lives because of stigmas.  I realize that my little story pales in comparison to what many of them have experienced.  However, I feel fortunate to be able to be a part of something like Core and am certain it is where I'm supposed to be.  Maybe this is my great epiphany, the big Ah-Ha moment?  Or maybe its just another one of those things that draws me closer to my Creator and to those He created.  

Don't Feed the Monkeys

I'm Pro-Giraffe!   

Shortly after "The Great Walk," when I had gained feeling in my feet again, Sam, Avi and I decided to go to the zoo.  We  talked about it and made a plan to go on a Sunday.  We decided to meet at 1, and with only some minor difficulty, we all made it there around 1:45.  It was a cold, greyish day in January, so the zoo was less than crowded.  Although the sky threatened rain, it held off and we were able to see what we wanted.  Sam had his heart set on gorillas and penguins; Avi wanted to see the lions and tigers; and I wanted to see the giraffes and otters.   What we didn't realize was that The Monkey House was the place to be!

The Monkey House

 On the left side of the entrance there are two large plexiglass windows that reveal the inside of the shelter for the Bolivian Black-Capped Squirrel Monkeys.  They were tinny and there were so many of them.  What I didn't realize is that you actually get to go into their habitat and interact with them.  It's a netted off area with an open top created to replicate the rain forest in Bolivia and the monkeys are everywhere.  It was super cool to say the least.  We wound around the path and came to a stop where people were taking pictures of a few that were sitting on a post.  These little guys are super cute!  They are a little bigger than a cob of corn and are quick!  There were two volunteers  in oversized jackets standing close making sure no one grabbed the monkeys and vice versa.  As we watched, a woman with a stroller, sans baby, came near to the action.  Suddenly one of the monkeys jumped onto the stroller and picked up a bag that was tucked into the handle of the stroller and pulled out the remnants of a muffin and began eating it.  The volunteers panicked a little and tried to get to the little guy without success.  It was in the bushes within seconds, knowing that was his only chance of keeping his treat. The women in their huge jackets began jumping around sticking their arms and faces into the dense shrubbery in an attempt to locate the critter, who was now joined by an accomplice.  Due to the giggles in the crowd one of the women popped up and panted in her most serious voice about how it was not funny because of how bad the food is for the monkeys; which is entirely true, however from our perspective things looked a whole lot different.  The fact that these two women were flapping around in clownishly large coats trying desperately to catch two monkeys the size of corn cobs, hiding in a giant bush with contraband, was hilarious!  The monkeys were popping in and out of the bushes while the women tried their best to grab the remnants of the muffin from them.  It was like watching the hillbilly version of whack-a-mole.  After a bit a crowed had gathered, so we decided to move on to another exhibit as we had already seen the show.  

One of the things I appreciate most about the British is their sense of humor.  They have a very polite and humorous way of being honest.  As we approached The Monkey House I noticed a banner hanging on the outside of the entrance.  It had a cartoony character on it and was blue and white.  I didn't pay much attention  initially because I assumed it had to do with a kids camp or something similar.  On our way out of the monkey house, I looked over and noticed the same sign as before, but this time it wasn't obstructed.  It was a cartoon of a boy on one side holding his right hand in the air which contained four intact fingers and a bloody stump of a ring finger.  On the opposite side of the banner was a monkey sitting on a stump with blood running down its teeth and chin.  It read "Meet Norman Nine Finger (he tried to feed the monkeys) Please don't touch or feed the animals - they sometimes BITE! Bahahaha!  AWESOME!

Norman Nine Fingers

Avi being gobbled up by a lioness!

We proceeded to visit the penguins, otters, giraffes, lions, tigers, llamas (one of which had only one eye and had been given the name Captain, and was cartoonishly depicted in a sign with an eyepatch, classic!), pigs, camels, zebras, and all sorts of other animals!  It started spitting just as the zoo was about to close so we made our way to the only shelter we could find, the gift shop,  and warmed up a bit, well played zoo, well played!  We looked around and then headed out.  We walked back through Regents Park, which is filled with rugby fields, manicured gardens, walking paths and benches.  It was getting dark but the walk was crisp and beautiful none-the-less.  And at one point, Avi stopped in his tracks to ask why we were walking so fast.  Sam's reply, "We are walking at a normal pace!" 

Sam and I on the bus

As we were all cold and hungry we decided to grab fish and chips from a chippy (a British term for a fish and chip shop) down the road from my house called "The Venice Fish Bar."  I'd not yet had their fish and chips but had heard they were amazing.  We jumped on the bus and off at the chippy.  There they freshly battered and fried three huge fish fillets for us and stacked each one onto a heaping bed of chips, topped them with vinegar and salt and wrapped them up in newspaper.  We walked up the hill to my flat and ate until we were full.  What a great way to end a day with friends!  

Fish and Chip GOODNESS!

**Shameless plug!! Since then, I've tried several different versions of the same meal other places around London and nothing seems to quite measure up to the fish and chips of Little Venice!