saying no to drugs

(actually, it's saying no to meds, but that wasn't as catchy a title)

It's been just about a month since I swallowed my last dose of Lexapro, after a year and a half of taking it religiously every single morning. And stopping was almost as terrifying as starting. But, much to my surprise, I'm finding myself stronger, more cohesive, more integrated, more capable than I've been in longer than I can remember.

Medication always terrified me. It was about losing control in any way. Having a chemical alter how I felt, what I thought, how I acted was a far worse thought than the benefits that might be achieved. Even nighttime cold medicine made me nervous—drifting off into a Benadryl haze I'd consciously try to fight the effects so that I wouldn't fall asleep to never wake up, an irrational but real fear. Whenever prescribed something for pain, after childbirth, after an exposed nerve in a tooth, after kidney surgery, I'd never take a full dose. The hurt was almost easier to handle than the fears that went along with meds.

But a year and a half ago I started cracking. Both my brother and sister were spiraling downward, not nearly to the rock bottoms they'd both hit over the summer and into that fall, but things for both of them were getting out of control. Both were struggling with issues beyond my help, one physical, one psychological, and for long stretches of time I wasn't sure either would survive. It was getting hard for me to get out of bed, to accomplish anything beyond the bare minimum, to be in my normally glass half full mindset. I started to panic. I was afraid to pick Jack up at school, that I'd fall apart in the yard and not be able to get it together. Sitting in my car during alternate side parking mornings, I'd feel so trapped I couldn't breathe. Anxiety is my kryptonite. More terrifying and destructive than anything else out there.

I couldn't talk to anyone about what I was feeling. As if putting it into the world I'd crack faster.

Finally, I opened up to a friend and started sobbing. At a table in the window of a busy restaurant on 6th Avenue. Just saying it out loud, once, made me realize how fragile I'd become. I knew I couldn't live like that anymore. I knew I needed help.

The idea of help though was as scary as the panic that was now a constant companion.

I started taking Lexapro, in spite of scanning every single rant about how life destroying it could be posted on message boards and in online forums. I could quote side effects of strangers. I intimately knew how people reacted, gained weight, felt more anxious than less, lost interest in sex. I couldn't stop reading, for hours on end, even though it did nothing but make me feel worse.

In the end, the meds worked. It wasn't as if all bad feelings were washed away but I wasn't panicking all the time. Life got brighter. I started taking subways again. Talking to people. Being social. Eventually I realized the constant fear of a breakdown had quietly slipped away. And I was able to cope with all the life threatening illness surrounding me.

As I was settling into this new, medicated mindset, my kidney donor journey began. I know that without meds I never would've been able to handle the stress, the fears, the pressure, the unknowns. It's not that I wasn't freaking out on a regular basis, but that leveling off of emotions kept me from completely losing my mind.

I was vaguely aware, as I was going through tests and exams and the endless waiting that the meds also shut down my creativity, my drive, my energy that sometimes borders on frenetic. That was my fuel but that wasn't the person I needed to be then.

Turns out I couldn't maintain that forever. After surgery, after healing, after settling back into myself, I knew more and more I wasn't myself. That a vital part of me was being kept in check. But, I was terrified, petrified, to let go of this medical crutch. What if I stopped taking drugs and I was worse than before. Anxiety ramped up. I started panicking again and that was a new rock bottom. If I was freaking on meds, what would happen when, if, I went off? But, at the same time, I was subconsciously weaning myself, often forgetting to take them when I first woke up.

I made the decision at the end of the summer to cut down. So slowly it must have been almost imperceptible to my body.

I survived.

The less I took the more drive I had. Ideas started popping into my head. I'd forgotten that's how I used to be all the time. I started crying more. It was almost impossible to cry on meds, but as they left my system, I'd tear up more quickly than I ever had.

I started putting ideas together for a kidney book. And sobbed as I read through the blog I'd written almost daily through the experience.

All the while still unnerved about the breakdown I'd thought was imminent.

Turns out I'm stronger on the other side of this tunnel. Anxiety will always be a part of me, but I have tools to handle it better. I don't want to be that person anymore, crippled by the thoughts in my head that are nothing but that, made up mindsets that have the power to paralyze but aren't real.

Life without Lexapro is a different kind of living, feeling, experiencing. And I'm finally ready to jump back in.

riding the waves

At the moment I'm sitting in a public atrium on Wall Street. Right in front of me is the weekly NYC yoyo club meet up. Behind the spinning discs and neon strings are extras for the final battle scene in the new Batman movie, waiting for their scene to start shooting. Across the way is an Occupy Wall Street organizational meeting with 20 or 30 people in a circle sharing information and ideas. 

15 minutes ago, in search of snacks for a hungry child (and me) I was wondering streets that alternated between deserted and preparing for a cinematic battle. Skyscrapers cutting off almost all sun, patches of blue glancing off mirrored facades. 

25 minutes ago a random text to an old friend led to passes to the 9/11 Memorial. 

An hour and a half ago I walked down subway steps only to find I'd forgotten my wallet. 

3 hours ago every network in my apartment failed and I fought back absolute frustration and tears staring down tech problems I don't know how to solve. Hey, I don't even know what the problems are. 

4 hours ago my brother and I spent far too much time on speakerphone with Daisy at TiVo and managed to accomplish nothing. Except drive ourselves crazy. 

5 hours ago I was just finishing a yoga class. 

7 or so hours ago I was writing out morning pages as the puppies wrestled on top of me. 

So far this day has been utterly frustrating, completely  inspirational, filled with urban beauty, parental pride, personal exasperation, apartment angst, exploring new neighborhoods, boundless love, technology hell, embarrassing hair, and a quiet satisfaction. 

I have to give that last one a shout out. The transplant was 5 months ago today. Iz asked me if that was a memorable anniversary and I realized that every single day my brother is out in the world with a healthy kidney is memorable.  Of course the time we spent together today was aggregating to no end. But, that is incomparable to what the alternative could've been. 

I'm learning, slowly, to ride the waves, to hold it together when they're crashing over my head, to appreciate the moments of calm, to revel in streams of sun reflecting off the water and not let go when storms are ripping me apart. 

After all this I'm thinking an Arrested Development marathon will be a great way to end this day. 

a fork in the creative road

Ideas are smacking me so hard in the head, I'm feeling dizzy at times. I've had 4 or 5 flashes of what to write today and at this point I'm curious as to what trajectory this blog post will take and where it'll end up. I kind of love these pieces - they unfold and lead me somewhere unexpected. 

Last night I was struck by yet more synchronicity and signs about where I should be focusing. While checking blog stats (yes I do this) I saw someone had check out a post from just over a year ago, a post about my brother and sister, who were both just out of the hospital and how I was feeling helpless, hopeless, frustrated watching them suffer. I desperately wanted to make them better, to radically change things, but I was powerless to do anything but be a support system. 

The post ended with me knowing that should there ever be anything I could do, of course I'd do it. 

A month later my brother asked me to be tested. 6 months after that I drastically, dramatically, positively changed his life. I've been wondering if a book about our kidney would be worth exploring and then I realized what a truly profound story it is. To choose to save someone's life. And have it work? Inspiration is a great launch pad. 

Which led me to my next potential blog post: for the love of drama. As soon as positive wraps its warm arms around me and holds me tight, doubt comes creeping softly in. I start spinning negative and last night, as my dad and stepmother, whom I haven't spoken to in almost a year, took hold of my thoughts, I was able to more clearly see just what my destructive process is. It doesn't have to be new drama. It doesn't have to be in the moment. I can dredge up pain and angst from years back to beat myself up with. And, I've learned, the most debilitating kind is focusing on not being wanted. Rejection, for whatever reason, is my kryptonite. 

I have to say that again: rejection is my kryptonite. Or, to push it even farther, fear of rejection. Of not being important, acknowledged, of being pushed out, ignored, marginalized. 

Whew. I can spend copious amounts of time and energy blaming other people. And then blaming myself. That place isn't easy for me to get out of. It's comfortable - as I've often said, there's comfort in the discomfort. 

And then, this morning as I was blasting my stereo in the car, listening through a genius playlist based on my new anthem, I heard this:

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
'Cause I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing a piano

And what it all comes down to my dear friends, yeah
Is that everything is just fine fine fine
'Cause I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailing a taxi cab - Alanis Morissette

Yup. No one's figured it out just yet. But everything is fine. 

Everything is fine. 

As I'm getting back to myself, post book mania/Lexapro/kidney anxiety, these swings, these bursts, these flashes are feeling more and more comfortable. Intense yes but damn, to feel like myself again is awe inspiring. For a long time I forgot what that felt like. For a long time I was afraid that feeling like me meant falling apart. But maybe, I'm finally learning, that to be me is to accept all there is - the creativity, the drama, the anxiety, the fear of rejection - and to treat myself with acceptance and kindness regardless of where my thoughts and feelings are spinning. 

Hmmm. This feels like a good place to stop for today. Love Shack just came on. 

I have a theme

Nope, not a dream (although I'm sure I could conjure some interesting things up here), but a theme. A theme, as in theme song. I'm trying it on, trying it out, as I start this new road back to myself. After starting The Artist's Way last week, I've been looking for synchronicity, potential pathways, changing my point of view.

One of the exercises is to list 20 things you like to do and when you last did them. Listening to music was one of mine. Throughout my life I've always had anthems, or songs that powerfully resonated with what I was living through at that moment. I can't think of how many times I listened to Like a Rolling Stone while my parents were splitting up. Muddy Waters was the soundtrack of my art school portfolio. Traffic got me through FLOW.

But, I don't get to listen very much anymore. Living in an apartment where everyone is always in the same room, my background noise is reruns of The Office mixed with Jon Stewart, Assasin's Creed and an occasional Abba interlude. But lately, I keep coming back to this one song: Praise You, by Fat Boy Slim. Its positive power washes over me every single time I hear it..

Here's the synchronicity part: last night in a mind-blowing, thought-provoking, inside-looking yoga class, the teacher challenged everyone to let go of their stuff. The blame. The shame. To go deeper and appreciate and accept.

Which is what The Artist's Way is saying.

Which is how I'm starting to feel when I look at all I've accomplished and where I am.

"We've come a long long way together,
through the hard times and the good.
I have to celebrate you baby.
I have to praise you like I should."

Damn. Those words are ringing really true right now. For me. About me. I am proud of who I am. Of what I've done. Of all I've overcome. Of the person I've become. The writer, the mother, the volunteer, the donor, the designer, the friend, the partner, the support system, the motivator, the organizer, the inspiration.

We all deserve some of this. Some appreciation and acknowledgment of who we are. Of how we handle these crazy lives, the stresses we'd never imagined, the challenges that continue to show up.

A little praise goes a long way folks.

Try it.

(this post would not have been possible without Ashleigh Beyer and Emily Stone)

just do it already

When I mentioned to Jack the other day that I was happy I'd started writing here again, he said: yeah, but if you took all the time you spent blogging and worked on a new book, you'd be done already. And it would be a good one.

Words of wisdom from a 10 year old - at least about the getting it done part.

And yet, I can't start. I'm not sure why. I know how to write a book. I've done it plenty of times before. Then again, every single other project I've worked on has had a subject that I could research, find images for, background about. I've spent countless hours scouring ebay for vintage ads and ephemera, trolling online for obscure facts to share with the world.

I'm not thinking about that kind of book this time.

Perhaps that's why I'm stuck here.

I want to write my kidney book. Or, I feel like I should. Even more honestly, I feel like I should feel like I should. It's now a part of my past. Would anyone be interested reading it? Would I be interested writing it? And if not, what? There are plenty of other ideas I could grasp onto and delve into, but nothing is calling to me. Compelling me. Screaming my name and making me make it real.

At least not today.

But just thinking about it is a really good first step.

someone else's story

Today thousands and thousands of kids took the NYC specialized high school test.

Mine was one of them. After a morning of anime (emotional comfort food) followed by chocolate chip pancakes paired with a chocolate egg cream (actual comfort food), Iz and I headed downtown in a rare October storm. Sleeting as we headed down into the subway, hail pelting us on the other end, we slogged through slushy streets, past countless black umbrellas towards the test site. Shivering, she agreed to wear my purple scarf, soaking wet, she walked behind me as I tried to shelter her from the driving rain. We slowly walked up the slick steps to the footpath across the west side highway and that was it.

No adults allowed any further.

It was chaos, crowded, steamy and freezing at the same time. She moved ahead, quickly getting lost in the crush and suddenly she wasn't mine anymore. I couldn't help her,support her, protect her. She was heading into the most challenging test of her life completely on her own.

For specialized high schools this test is everything. These scores are the only entrance into these esteemed establishments. One test. 100 questions. 2 and a half hours on a snowy afternoon. GPA's don't count. There are no teacher recommendations, or extra curricular extra credit. Colds or hormones or broken bones don't matter either. Just this one score.

That's what I watched my child dive into, having no idea what to expect on the other side.

The crowd after the test was brutal. Parents crushed together in the freezing rain,umbrellas painfully poking into and backs shoulders as we waited. And waited.

And waited.

As the first couple of kids came out it was like watching celebrities navigating unexpected packs of paparazzi. They looked shell shocked, dazed, after having their brains stretched for hours, suddenly finding themselves thrust into a sea of anxious parents.

Finally, I saw her at the top of the stairs, looking pale and shaken.

I pushed through the crowd, shouting until she saw me. She'd forgotten her umbrella, her favorite black and white houndstooth, and was upset they wouldn't let her back in to get it.

It didn't matter. We could get another. And it didn't matter how she thought she did on the test. It didn't cross my mind to even ask. I was so proud of her, her strength, her poise, her self confidence. Her independence.

It doesn't matter where she goes to school. What does matter is the kind of person she is.

And she is remarkable.

She blew me away today.

But that's nothing new.

getting back

It's been almost 5 months since I donated a kidney. Almost 2 weeks since my final dose of Lexapro. Almost 2 years since my last book was published. And more time than I can remember since I've felt creativity wanting, or rather needing in my case, to take a front seat.

Even writing here isn't the walk in the park it had been for so long. Writing my kidney journey had purpose, meaning, a chronology—events to summarize and feelings to explore. Before that, it had been FLOW, and before that, fears of being a writer, or finding out I was just playing one on TV. I was almost never at a loss of what to say and every day, for almost two and a half years, I wrote here.

It's not that I'm empty. Maybe I'm not as willing to share as I'd been in the past. Maybe, for me, it's an event that spurs the exploration and baring of my soul in writing. Maybe it's because right now life is about everyone else and while there's plenty of stress and angst and unknowns, they're not really mine. I'm just herding others along their own burgeoning paths.

But, I want a path of mine own. Again. I know it's there. I'm just not sure which direction it will go in. I've never had a linear one. No clear direction, no clean cut next steps. I'm at a loss as to what to even think about doing next.

I started The Artist's Way this week - a 12 week book/course/set of exercises about discovering creativity. I'd done the program once before. 15 years ago. I did morning pages (writing 3 pages long hand as soon as you wake up in the morning) for more than 2 years. It was amazing, as I cracked open my new copy last Sunday night, at how much I've accomplished since then. I last read it before I'd written a book, before I had kids, as I was just beginning to be a designer. I was someone else back then. Scared. Timid. Fearful. Terrified I'd never amount to anything. That I'd never make an impact. That I'd never make things happen.

Years later, I have. I know how. I've created far more than I'd ever dreamed of. Had experiences that back then I never would have even contemplated.

I know how to get things done. Make things happen. Put ideas and projects out into the world.

But for me it's not ever about what I've done. Or what I'm going to do.

It's about what I'm doing. Now.

And I think I'm finally ready to start figuring that out.