I think the biggest misunderstanding about depression is that a person has control over it.

That i should be grateful for what i have - just get over myself. Believe me i am grateful and i would give every penny i have to just get over it. Shane asked me the other day how i was feeling.

Since being in the hospital, which is such a humbling and embarrassing situation to be in, and changing medications my sadness has changed. It's not right there on the surface anymore. I no longer well up with tears at the thought of any mildly sad thought. It's deeper now. It's more all consuming. I just can't brush it off. I can ignore it, but happiness and laughter completely elude me now.

I am working harder than ever at keeping it all together. Keeping the house clean, doing laundry, taking the kids on adventures. Ensuring that everything around me is not falling apart.

My children are happy. They frolic about in the yard, enjoying the sun that has finally appeared, making up games. Being kids. Oblivious to the giant, often frightening world around them. They have everything they need, including plenty of love from me.

I'm not sure why i feel this need to defend myself, or more aptly my mothering skills. But, when i open myself up to this giant world of advice, criticism and friendship it's hard to hear the negative things.

Will somebody, just please, please come and save me. Take me away on your magic carpet.

Make time stand still while i am gone.

And then return me.

Unbroken.

I have begun my behavior modification therapy. Which, as far as i can tell, involves looking into my brain and finding all the ways it's broken.

We are looking at my "Core Beliefs" and "*Filters."

* "A filter is an extremely stable and enduring pattern of thinking that develops during childhood and is elaborated throughout an individual's life. We view the world through filters." (Young, 1999)

Not surprisingly i scored very high on many filters that are bad. BAD. Highest on the list were self-sacrifice, vulnerability to harm and illness, emotional deprivation, and defectiveness/social undesirability.

Of course i am pessimistic, at best, about all this hocus-pocus and nobody wants to know how screwed up they are. Do they? I know i'm supposed to be learning from this. Looking at these "filters" and understanding why i feel the way i do. All i see is that i am socially undesirable and vulnerable all wrapped up in an emotional straightjacket.

I have lots of homework. Mood logs to fill out. I just have so much trouble being honest. Seeing the benefit in all of this when it leaves me swirling in a muddy pit of despair.

In good news my feelings of heightened depression and lack of passion (in every aspect) are side effects of withdrawal from effexor and, most probably, not a side effect of the lexapro.

But, i still have softball. Three games a week of pure adrenaline, muscle burning fun.

One of the reasons that shane wanted a cat was because of our country size mouse problem. We were worried about poisoning them because of the dogs, yet the traps made our feeble city hearts shudder.

All of our pets have a job. Doodle puts the kids to bed, in that she sleeps upstairs with them, hopping from bed to bed, until they are all asleep. Then she comes down for some grown-up belly rubs and snuggles. Lucy eats every single crumb or spittle of drool that falls from our children's mouths. And marmalade? He must kill mice.

About a month ago we cheered and high fived as we walked out the door on the way to school/work and found a dead mouse at the door. But? Nothing since.

Then today i heard the shriek of a girly-man as shane opened a seldom used closet door and found the lifeless bodies of several mice that marmalade had obviously killed and lost in kitty style hardwood floor hockey to the recesses of the closet door.

I have been thinking about my time on the psych ward. How really, really terrible it was. It may seem like a time to relax and reflect. It really wasn't. It was a place where everybody is waiting, counting down, till the day they can get out. Just outside the windows, one floor down, there was a lovely garden terrace. I would watch the hospital staff go out and enjoy their lunch in the warm sunshine. Wondering if they knew how lucky they were to be out there. And now i feel lucky every morning when i go out and the sun is warming the gravel on our driveway. I take that first step off the porch and think of all the things i have to do to make sure i never end up back on that fourth floor.

While i was there i was desperately bored and terrified. There was nothing to do to take my mind off of it. So, i wrote a little musical number. A theatre impromptu. We turned up the radio loud. It was an old blues station. We danced up and down the halls. We pushed the grandma's in their wheelchairs. And we laughed for a few moments.

I have gone back to visit a few times. Once i brought bubbles and we laughed as we chased them around the television room. Then i brought a blow-up beach ball and we played a mini round of soccer. Grandma cheering us on.

I have been having a tough few days. A tough few months. I guess, it's coming up to a tough year.

My new medication isn't really helping with the depression. My anxiety is fine. But, i feel low. Very low. I am afraid. Afraid that this is what it will be like forever. I try not to think about it. To let go of it.

I think a large part of it is the therapy. I guess this is the long road. It just seems so fucking unfair that in order to feel better you have to feel worse. Opening up to strangers. Telling them all your dirty little secrets. It's unsettling. Talking for an hour, then left to deal with the backlash of emotion that comes in the days following.

I know i need to take better care of myself. I need to eat better, sleep better. I should get out in the garden that is exploding in my yard. Amazing how all those flowers come back. Every year. Each day when we come home from school, as the kids pile out of the car, we stop and look at what has grown in the past twenty four hours. We stoop down to smell the blossoms. Pointing out the colours. Choosing our favourites. Eliza inspects her fairy house which sits amongst all the blossoms. She tends to it every day. Re-arranging the house and the little rock path leading up to it. Leaving them gifts. Wondering when they will leave her another note.

We have these moments. These perfect moments. All the time. I hope they will remember them.

Not the days like today where i hid in my room all day. Sleeping. Thinking. Avoiding. Blaming it on my sore throat and cough. When in truth i couldn't face the day. I couldn't face them. I want them to see me. Not the me i have become.

Last April.

This April?

Go Canucks!

Therapy day.

It's exhausting really. Trying to be truthful. But you have to trust someone to be truthful. It takes time i suppose. Right now we are in the "getting to know each other" stage of our relationship. My therapist, my case worker and me.

They sit and ask me many, many questions. Sometimes i talk for a long time. Today we talked a lot about the kids. The different demands and challenges of each of them. I could see it in their eyes though. That question you all are thinking too. "What the hell was she thinking having four kids?"

I was thinking of love. I was blinded by love. The moment each of my children were born i felt a deeper and stronger sense of the meaning of love. The kind of love that you only read about. The kind of love that makes you wake up in a panic in the middle of the night because the mere thought of something bad happening to one of them had skipped through your heart while you were sleeping. The kind of love that makes life worth living. The kind of love that you want to be constantly surrounded by.

And so we talked about my children. How my love for them overshadows everything. Pushes me to the brink of exhaustion. That love is what is driving me to such sadness, yet at the same time pushing me towards a better, stronger future.

I've been trying to sleep. I went to bed at 9 hoping for a good rest. Rest. It just will not come.

As i lay there watching parker sleep softly beside me i couldn't help but feel the terrible burden of such perfect beauty. These children of mine. I am so afraid of being a disappointment to them. I try so hard to face each day as a new day. A day that has the possibility of being better than the one before.

In 2007 i have had pneumonia, a friend killed himself, i broke my tailbone, i was hospitalized, i totaled my car. I was talking to someone about it all. She said i had angels flying around me. Keeping me safe.

I suppose that may be true. It doesn't feel like it late at night.

As i wander the house, quietly shuffling from room to room, watching my gaggle of kids sleeping quietly under the glow of little nightlights i whisper in their ears little promises. Promises of love. Of safety. Of the best i can. Sorries for boring days full of rain and no energy for puddle jumping. Sorry for short tempers. Or worse, sorry for nothing, the joy that has been sucked from me by medication and sadness.

Toby made the connection between depression and my friends suicide. He has been worried. We spent an hour after dinner sniggling in bed, taking turns tickling each others backs. Practicing our new signal for "everything's okay" - a kiss on the forehead. That's a lot to ask of a seven year old boy, but he gives me those kisses every single day now. They keep everything okay. Parker too with his hundreds of kisses smack on the lips and eliza's sly little "i love you mommy's" that come at every unexpected moment. And tristan, listening to her giggle in her bed, talking to herself about her day.

So, i guess it is okay. I am doing the best i can. I just wish it felt a little better. A little more real.

Well, ICBC (insurance corporation of BC) called today and the van is "a total write off." A third party someone or other will look at it and we go from there i guess. It's not worth much i'm guessing as it was a '98 and we all know vans are a crappy dime-a-dozen.

(If you have any ideas of what i can buy for around $8,000 that will seat all of my kids let me know.)

Before i move on i have to say that air bags, though they save lives, suck ass. I have burns from my belly button on up. A little rosy i am. Also, the police officer that came to the scene was a woman i already knew from some school stuff and she was awesome. She mentioned that the amount of time it took me to actually stop was quite long. I whispered in her ear that i was trying some new anti-depressant medication and it probably affected my reflexes a bit. You know what she did? She hugged me and said she'd never mention it again.

But. But! I have had a happy day. I am okay. Totally okay. Not a sore muscle, stiff neck. Nothing. I totaled my car and walked away healthy. Maybe i am a lucky person.

I had my very favourite babysitter in the world over today and as i went to ride my bicycle away he threw me his car keys and he even laughed when i called and told him (jokingly) that i crashed it into a pole. And another friend gave me a trail-a-bike so that i can transport all the kids around while i get all this stuff organized.

People are nice. You are nice.

I am thankful tonight.

I totaled my car today. I broke a utility pole clear in half.

I was alone. I am fine. The air bags deployed and i have some burns on my face.

Mostly, i feel kicked when i'm down and i have no car for at least awhile. I live in the country. Do you know what that means?

Hell. I am in hell.

Stupid cellphone ringing while i'm driving.

I've just returned from my first appointment with my psychiatrist since my hospital discharge, which i was nervous enough about, but i walk into the room and surprise! There's another woman. She's my case worker. And. And! We need to go over everything again for her.

"Let's see. Overdose "fingers" serious attempt "fingers" 1994. Ten years gestating, lactating. Depression summer 2006. Effexor 150 trial. Headaches, sleeplessness, weight loss, brainshivers. Effexor weaning february 2007. Overdose "fingers" not serious "fingers" two weeks ago."

"so jess. How's life been since then?"

So we talked. And talked. And talked.

And he said "How come you laugh whenever you should cry? Are you going to cry? Ever?"

"When am i going to see you in emergency again?"

And so we talked. And then we talked about toby.

And! Ha-ha! I cried.

And we talked a bit more, made a few more appointments and he sent me on my dragging my heart along the pavement way.

When i was in the hospital all i could think about was the ways i was letting my children down. That is the curse of motherhood made worse by depression.

Look at all those other moms on their blogs i would think. They bake. They sew. They garden. They do crafts, with their kids! As much as i love blogging it has this way of making you feel insufficient as a mother. Sometimes i feel like it's a competition to see who has the best house, the best craft room, the best photos of their projects. What happened to just being a mom? Why is it so damn hard for me to even think about those things?

I am not crafty by nature. I love to cook, but my kids hate food. I don't love to bake - too much mess, too many calories.

I used to love looking at all the pretty houses and pretty things people made. Now it just makes me feel more like a failure or give me this desire to compete.

That's not what i want. I want to hear all your stories. I want to hear celebrations of the terrible days and the whimsical days of motherhood.

So. Today we drove to victoria and had lunch with dad, then we went to the evil giant mall which made it all too clear to me how ragamuffin my kids are, we visited the giant toy store where we wandered every aisle and my kids marvelled at all the stuff, rode the bikes, sat in the cars, played with the trains, and then we left. They asked for nothing. The mere adventure of seeing ALL THAT STUFF was enough for them. Then we came home and drove over to their school and while i did some painting on one of the portables and a little work in the garden they played happily. For hours.

That's it. Now they are sitting at home watching shane's new band record some songs.

It is such a simple life. But, today, i am very happy for it.

I'm not sure what to say. I'm lost in this place where i have sliced myself open top to bottom for you.

Here i am. Easy, lost and free.

I have this little button ----> there to your right. My family is in financial crisis. It goes well with mental crisis. I went to buy easter eggs for my kids egg hunt and found insufficient funds ring up on all my bank cards and declined on all my credit cards.

I would really like to go to blogher, but the ads won't cut It. So, I'll only mention this once, but if you find yourself so inclined or curious to meet me - please help me with that blogher button.

Humbled i am.

I am having trouble beginning this life again. I am very depressed. To the point that every single day sits daunting in front of me, every night.

Nights are my problem. Nights are when i call crisis lines and ambulances. But, know what? The day comes and it's all okay. I have kids and school and play dates and laundry. And softball!

I am doing my best. My best is not good enough yet. I still want to curl up in my bed. Have my mom cook and clean, kiss the kids as dad heads them off for school, wake up late, welcome children home and retire back to bed.

Life doesn't work that way.

Shane has been amazing. I have to give him every possiblethankfulness for that. I can see and feel the worry pouring from every inch of him. I am just not me. He knows that. I am a walking, talking jess - missing the life that made me who i was. Frustrating, joyful, fun, maddening, loving.

I am waiting for my new medication to work and the effexor to leave my body. I have dizzy spells, which sometimes have to do with wine, but often just hit me out of the blue where i tip over like a drunken hussy at 2am. (Which, happily for shane, i have been known to be.)

I'm just not sure if this is my body or my brain anymore. I'm not sure who i am or who i'm supposed to be.

My man is worried about me. Just to let you know again this is how he feels about me.

He's a wonderful husband. He loves me. He writes songs about me.

But, he drives me crazy. Crazy mental. He is so mad at me. Mad that i have thrown this rock into our gently flowing lives. That i am stubborn. That i stay up late. That the way he wants to help me isn't the help i want.

I want softness and understanding. Love and empathy. Kisses on the forehead. Scratches on my back.

He is my better half. The part of me that keeps me going. That supports our family. The one with the biggest spazzes. The one who organizes softball.

Things are not as bad as they seem. It all takes time.

We don't have the money for blogher. Click on those ads won't you?

I'm rooming with jenijen.

When i was released from the psych ward at the hospital my doctor told me of two stories.

The short long road. And the Long Short road.

He told me he was giving me the short long road. Meaning he's was giving me the short road in the hospital as long as i promised to follow the long road to recovery. He said there was no shortcuts, no dead-ends and no cul-de-sacs.

I have one chance.

And then the long short road.

"You see these people you've made friends with?" he asked me.

"they have been here a long time."

"there is no way out for them."

"When we let them out the short road leads right back here. Or death."

"do you understand? this is your chance. i left you here for five days without privileges for a reason. have you learned that reason?"

I guess i did. There was a man i met. He was bi-polar and committed to starting his life again. He went out every single day for 5km walks with the activity coordinator, then he was driven to the gym. He would work out for 1/2 an hour and then come back for dinner. I would watch them. All the people allowed to leave walking up and down the sunny street to the hospital. This man i met, his medication made it impossible for him to sweat. So he had to watch his exertion and his fluids. On friday he went to the gym and passed out. His heart rate was nearing 180 BPM. He was brought back by ambulance. Taken care of somehow, and brought back to the ward.

He paced the halls for hours.

A funny aside about him was that everything was confidential.

"Where do you live?"

"Confidential."

"What gym do you go to?"

"Confidential."

"What's your real name?"

"Confidential."

Anyway, he was all set to go home on his first overnight stay in preparation for release from the hospital sometime in the confidential future. He was very worried. Because of the gym incident. But he paced. And he paced. And then he packed his bag and he left after dinner.

He never came back. He killed himself at home that night.

I am home.

I am okay. If okay is this weird world where life goes on after you've been locked up in the psych ward.

I will write more. Soon.

Thanks for all your well wishes, corny as it is to say. I read them all on my cellphone.

I will be fine. I keep telling shane that. I tell myself that.

I have done nothing but sleep. And listen to Bright Eyes, which is probably the worst choice.

I have many stories. Soon.