Yesterday was my anniversary. I am not married and I was not celebrating another year of sobriety.

April 27 is the anniversary of my last clinical depression. It was one of the worst days of my life. That was three years ago – April 27, 2006. I got up sometime between 4 and 5 am. I hadn’t slept much. I walked the dog to the park, sat on a picnic table and cried. I just wanted some relief. I slogged down to my gym, got on a stationery bike and rode until I foamed the mouth. Nothing. No endorphins. 

I got dressed and went to work. I walked in and felt that I was not in my body. I sat at my desk with my back to the newsroom. I was weary. I could not stitch my thoughts together. I was barely eating or sleeping and smothered by anxiety and desperation. I walked out.

I went home and sent a text to my boss. I couldn’t talk to her. I didn’t know what to say. I called a friend who has depression. She told me I must see a doctor immediately – or go to a hospital emergency room. I found a nurse practitioner who specializes in working with addicts and alcoholics. She saw me that afternoon – probably saving me from relapse. She started me on antidepressants and a mild anti-psychotic to help me sleep. 

After six weeks of hell and progress measured in little baby steps I returned to work. I gradually slid back into a new life – A.D. – After Depression. Nothing is the same. I can go weeks now – actually months – on terra firma. No crashes. No blasts offs. It is so amazing. I am still in awe of how stable my life is today – even when things around me fall apart. This is what it must feel like to have a healthy brain. 

I used to wonder how long this would last. I don’t anymore. This is my new life. If I get sick again I will know what to expect and what to do. There is a floor beneath me …

There could not be a more beautiful  morning. 

The sun is just barely up –  no clouds in the sky. The temperature is perfect – you can sit quietly on a bench without feeling a chill or ride your bike without breaking a sweat. There is a light breeze coming out of the southeast. The palm trees are gently swaying.

But me, I can’t stop thinking about that stupid meeting Thursday afternoon and how frustrated I got when my idea – which I have been working on for a month – was shot down as soon as it came out of my mouth. I hate that.

I am stuck back on Thursday, missing this beautiful Sunday morning. I am missing the fact that at this moment in time, everything is wonderful. My dog is trotting the perfect distance in front of my bike without tangling his leash. My teenage daughter is still in bed after spending her Saturday night hanging out with friends in our backyard. I seemed to have lost a couple of pounds when I got on the scale this morning. My bills are paid and I made my last car payment this month. Best of all, I have no hangover – I am sober.

But I am stuck on that damn meeting on Thursday. What is WRONG with me? I have a really hard time being in the now.  I am always three days in the past – still at some stupid meeting – or ten years in the future – worried about my 401K. NOW passes me by.

I know this is bad. It is this kind of stinkin’ thinkin’ that triggers anxiety, anger and fear – essential ingredients for my depression. I have been working on this for years. I do not know if I have made much progress beyond recognizing that I am doing it. But I keep trying.

My first lesson in NOW began about years ago when I took off my watch. I had a really nice watch – a Cartier given to me for my 20th anniversary of writing for the newspaper. I gave my watch to my daughter. I realized that looking …

Twenty-one polo ponies died here last Sunday.

I do not know much about polo. But I do understand this:

“These horses give you their all,” said one of the world’s top polo player. “They are like the best dog you ever had.”

The best dog I ever had died in my arms. Her death was the last in a 22-month wave of death that finally pulled me under. My father died first. Sixteen months later, my mother. Eight month after that – my eternally faithful and infinitely loving dog Bella died.

Of the three I cried the hardest when my beautiful Weimeraner Bella died.

My daughter, Kealy, and Bella

 Maybe it was accumulated grief. But I wept like I had never wept before. I dug a hole in the backyard and buried her. My daughter and I made a headstone from a children’s craft kit designed for imprinting little hands in cement.

I replaced Bella several months later with another Weimeraner named Bella – the fourth dog in my life to carry that name. Bella IV is my depression dog. She stayed beside me through my descent to hell and refused to abandon me. She did not judge my illness and she had utter faith I would get better. 

I consider her as vital to my recovery as my medications and therapy. When I did not want to get out of bed she reminded me – with those piercing yellow eyes – that she had a bladder and if I did not get my butt out of bed there would be trouble. When I could not sleep she, too, would awaken and accompany me on my sad wanderings through our silent neighborhood.

When I had no love to give, she snuggled beside me and asked for nothing. She watched me. She knew something was wrong. She never left me alone. She waited. Even though I know nothing about polo, I do understand that devastating loss. I understand why grief counselors were brought in for the players, the trainers and the workers who cleaned these ponies’ stables. 

I know …

When you spend a lifetime trying to make other people happy, you forget what makes you happy. You convince yourself that making other people happy makes you happy. You become so consumed in making others happy – people pleasing – that you have to think – really think – when you are asked what you would like for your birthday. 

You come up with gift ideas that you know would make others happy. Slippers. An apron. Perfume. A photo album. Or the ever popular gift certificate. They are clueless. They don’t know what makes you happy because you don’t know what makes you happy. You try on the apron, stare at the gift card and try on the slippers.

Secretly, you seethe. Then you go back to making them happy with a huge chip on your shoulder. You try to ignore the resentment but it grows because now they expect you to make them happy. You get angry – at yourself and them. You sit on the pity pot and listen to those tapes in your head that say what you really want to say – You take me for granted! You don’t appreciate all I do for you! You expect me to do everything!

That was me. That was the kind of behavior I had to unlearn when I was finally diagnosed with depression and bipolar. The medications were not enough. I had been holding the hand that held me down. This behavior fueled my depression. I had to learn a new way of life.

So, I asked myself “What makes ME happy?” Silence. Hmmm. More silence. Hmmm. Even more silence. Hmmm. What makes ME happy? Took me awhile. SCUBA DIVING! That would make ME really happy. I live a mile from the ocean, on the northern edge of the only reef off the continental U.S. 

I did it. I got certified. Every Saturday morning – water temp and weather permitting – I sit on the bow of the dive boat. Then I put on my gear, jump in the ocean and gently fall to the ocean floor. No cell phones, no television, no IPods, no newspapers. Just me and …

Where do I end and you begin?

You could be a stranger and I would not know. Your problems are mine. Your consequences are my challenges. “I will take care of that.”  ”You don’t have to worry about it.” ” Lemme see what I can do.”

This is my codependency. It is masked in selflessness and martyrdom. “Go ahead. I didn’t want it anyway.” “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” “I would never think of…”

I will offer advice and directions when you don’t want it. I will push and pull you at the same time. I am like a tick – I will dig my fingernails into your psyche and suck out your free will. No matter what you do to me, you cannot get rid of me. I will mask all my demands in good intentions. I will take care of all your needs — even the ones you do not know you have — and you will feel guilty. I will mirror your feelings.

Nothing I do will ever be good enough. You will embarrass me if you praise me. I will resent you if you don’t let me help. I will never ask ask for anything and I will lavish gifts and favors on you. “Let’s do what you want to do.” “Why don’t we go to your favorite restaurant?” “That’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Someday I’m gonna make some man a wonderful doormat.

I had heard about codependency. It sounded like psycho-babble. Then, on April 27, 2006, I fell into the darkest hole I could have imagined. To get out I needed medicine and a new way of living. Not just eating better and getting more exercise. I needed a new paradigm. I needed to be willing to accept that my good deeds were often bad. My right was wrong. Your free-will was not mine. And God forbid – I deserved more.

I went to co-dependency camp at a treatment center. The cost was about $3,000 (including airfare) and I had never spent that much money on myself. I cringed with guilt. I was scared. It was excruciating but thrilling work. It was as if the clouds …

Former First Lady Rosalynn Carter – also the first lady of mental health advocacy – will give  the opening remarks tonight during a live webcast from The Carter Center on common misconceptions and stigma about mental illness. Panelists include:

Dr. Benjamin Druss, the Rosalynn Carter Endowed Chair at Emory Univeristy, who has published more than 80 peer reviewed articles, mostly on mental health policy and primary care.

Charles Willis, the Peer Wellness Initiative Director with the Georgia Mental Health Consumer Network, which promotes recovery through advocacy, education, employment and peer support.

Patrick Corrigan, a psychologist at the Illinois Institute of Technology. His work focuses on research and training efforts for the needs of people with psychiatric disabilities. Dr. Corrigan also serves as editor-in-chief of the American Journal of Psychiatric Rehabilitation. 

The webcast begins at 7 pm (make sure you have RealPlayer!) If you cannot listen in tonight, the webcast will be posted on the Center’s site next week. 

Monday. 7 am. Time to jump back into the gerbil wheel. 

Sometimes it is the eternal monotony of doing the next right thing, putting one foot in front of the other that kills me. I am not tired. I am weary. 

Walk the dog. Read the paper. Take a shower. Ride to work. Make the car payment. Schedule a mammogram. Write, write, write. Work, work, work. Meeting. Write, write, write. Work, work, work. Lunch. Write, write, write. Work, work, work. Appointment. Write, write, write. Work, work, work. Cook dinner. And on and on and on. Wah, wah, wah.

“Would you like a glass for your whine, madam?”

This is the kind of thinking that can fuel dysthymia, a low grade depression that is durable, dependable and enduring – great traits for a car – not a life. When you have dysthymia, everyday is Monday. The sky is always March-in-Michigan gray. Dysthymia goes on and on and on – like your mortgage payment. It is not like a major clinical depression. It is a white noise kind of depression. You get so used to it that you are not aware of it. It’s just the way life is. Right?

Wrong. I am not powerless. I can take my medications, pray and compile a mental gratitude list. Here is my list:

Yea, the dog is a pain in the butt but he does not chew or snack on the contents of the wastebasket. He is a good watch dog. Yea, he drinks from the toilet – but he never leaves the seat up.

Yea, work is work – BUT YOU HAVE A JOB!!! 

Yea, scheduling all these doctor and dentist appointments is a hassle – BUT YOU HAVE MEDICAL INSURANCE!!!

Yea, cooking dinner is a drag – BUT YOU HAVE FOOD, A KITCHEN AND A GREAT LITTLE HOUSE.

I read somewhere that if you have depression, constant thoughts of bad can program the brain to think more bad thoughts. We instinctively cop to the negative. Our proverbial cup is always half empty. But just like I exercise my body, I can exercise my brain. I can compile a gratitude list. I can become aware of the drone of my …

Did you hear about the new donut shop called Lou Gehrig Donuts? Come in early and two lovely nurses will feed you donuts while you sit helpless in a wheelchair. Offensive, right? Of course it is. Lou Gehrig’s Donuts is not real. I made it up.

Would you be as offended by a donut shop called Psycho Donuts? If you get there early enough you can “strap yourself into the padded cell and have donuts administered to you by the lovely nurses.”  You can even have your photo taken in a stratjacket!  Psycho Donuts is real. It is in Campbell, California. The shop’s CEO, who calls himself the “Chief Psycho” thinks it’s a shame folks don’t have a better sense of humor.

“Is El Pollo Loco insensitive to Crazy Chickens? Was Patsy Cline being hurtful when she wrote the song Crazy? Is it insensitive to call a donut bipolar? We might be insulting the flour inside of that very sensitive donut, but let’s agree on one thing: donuts are not people; and the names of our donuts do not correspond to any opinion or pre-conceived notion about people,” Chief Psycho wrote in his blog.

Why is it okay – even funny – to make fun of mental illness? I have depression, bipolar and alcoholism. Am I supposed to be amused by a donut called “bipolar” with nuts on half and coconut flakes on the other half? Should my friend – who suffered major head trauma last month when a drunk driver hit him – not be offended by a donut called M.H.T. – massive head trauma, decorated with an X for each eye, a frown and a smudge of red frosting (blood) on the side of the face?

Mental health groups are not amused. NARSAD, the world’s leading charity dedicated to mental health research, returned a $50 contribution from the owners of Psycho Donuts yesterday after the “Chief Psycho” advertised on his blog that his contribution to NARSAD shows that Psycho Donuts is a “positive contributor to positive mental health.”

Puh-leeez. …

Alcohol is a depressant. I wished someone had told me this when I was 14, when my drinking career began. Although at that age it wouldn’t have meant anything to me. I was going to drink regardless of any warnings. 

I drank despite two car accidents and two suicide attempts. I drank to be a part of and I drank to be different.  I drank for any good or bad reason or none at all. I only learned three years ago that alcohol is to depression what gasoline is to fire. I am 50.

I knew early on that not-drinking made me calmer, more stable and balanced. I actually quit drinking for ten years, between ages 20-30. Of course I embarked upon a marijuana maintenance plan so I was not exactly clean and sober. I picked up drinking again when I was 30, right where I left off. I was back on the roller coaster. 

Ten years, two divorces and one child later, I threw in the towel. I had had enough. I have been sober now for over 10 years. Still, I did not make the connection between alcohol and depression until I was seven years sober. A major depression struck and I had no way to numb the pain. Alcohol was not an option. Asking for help was all I had left.

It worked. Therapy, medications and humility. Today I am healthy. I can look back over the decades and my life makes sense. I do not use my dual-diagnosis as an excuse for things I have done. I use it to stop beating myself up and start making amends. I use it to help me understand myself.

Drinking on my depression explains why, for so many years, I would wake up in the middle of the night and hear a voice in my head, saying to someone: “Oh, she killed herself. She put a gun in her mouth…” It explains why I reached for the drink in the first place – to give me some relief – even a few hours – from my depression. It explains why my hangovers lasted more than a day, because the …