Let me just start by saying I was not a touchy-feely, self-help-book kind of girl. I was more of a You-want-a-piece-of-me? kind of gal. Comes with the profession – journalism – and the more time you spend in a newsroom, the more refined your sass. So, when I came out of my last major depression and my therapist suggested I do some “Inner Child” work I rolled my eyes, thanked God for our  confidentiality agreement. No one would find out about my “Inner Child.”

It seemed really silly at first. REALLY silly. I drew pictures, wrote letters with my left hand from my “Inner Child,” went through boxes of old picture and visualized my “Inner Child.” I have very few memories of my childhood. But after a couple of months of working with my “Inner Child” weird stuff started happening. Memories struck like lightening – totally out of the blue. I could suddenly recall the tile and and door knob at the swimming pool. I could see myself as a 6-year-old with long pig-tails, ridiculously short bangs and my favorite red check dress with the black velvet ribbon around the waist. My sister helped me remember the library with the creepy stuffed bald eagle.

So, I was at church with this friend and when it came time to pass the basket. She had left her wallet in the car and didn’t have any money to put in the basket. She leaned over and whispered that she was embarrassed and worried about what people would think. I got all self-righteous and told her she shouldn’t be concerned about what other people think and that God knew her wallet was in the car and that was all that mattered. She could square up with God later.

A week later, I’m at church with the same friend and before the service started I showed her my new shoes – a brand spanking new pair of Ferragamo pumps that I found at Goodwill for $8.99. (I kid you not. $8.99. Clearly, the biggest Goodwill score in the history of Goodwill shopping.) She shook her head.

To prove it I showed her the bottom of the shoe, where the good folks at Goodwill had written the price with a big fat Sharpie on the sole: $8.99. She leaned over and smirked, “You know when you go up for Communion and kneel down everyone in church is going to know you got those shoes at Goodwill.”

A friend with bipolar reminded me last night that work is work. I’m not talking about “work” work – the kind that pays your mortgage. I’m talking about the work of staying mentally healthy. It ain’t easy.

For me, it’s a 24/7 job. Literally. It starts as soon as I get up. I check my mood. If it’s bad, I ask myself “Why?” Usually, there is no reason. Like this morning. There is nothing really wrong in my life right now. The checks aren’t bouncing. The air conditioning works and I’ve been having some pretty good hair days. So, the feeling I have this morning is not a fact. It feels real and I respect it, but it isn’t real. It’s my brain playing tricks on me.

Breakfast. It only took me 50 years to figure out that caffeine jacks my mania. The last thing I need when I’m manic is a stimulant. D’uh. So, I quit caffeine. I suppose for some people it’s okay to have a cup of coffee or a Diet Coke. But I am also a recovered alcoholic and there is no such thing as A cup of coffee or A Diet Coke just like I could never drink A Long Island Ice Tea.

As for food, I went gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free and Twizzler-free after my last depression. It took a few years to cut that stuff out of my diet, especially the Twizzlers. I did some research and realized that these things probably weren’t helping my depression.

The bad dreams are back.  I don’t know why. I had a perfectly wonderful day. I am visiting my daughter – who just happens to live by an outstanding outlet mall – and we are power shopping. Everything fits, looks good and the prices are so low I have to ask the clerk if there has been a mistake. She says, “No and it’s another 40 percent off of that.”

What more could a mother and daughter ask for?

So, why are the dreams back? Why am I waking up in a sweat with the anvil of anxiety on my chest? I have been healthy and feeling good for months. Why did I just dream that I fell into another deep depression and my bosses were going to fire me? The bosses who, during my last depression, were so understanding and kind.  The anxiety engulfs me.

I went to a pot luck dinner on Saturday night at my gym. We all brought a dish from a nutritional program called the Paleo Diet. I had heard about the Paleo Diet but didn’t really know much about it. We listened to a short presentation and I concluded that it basically consists of eating only foods that were available to cave men: meat, veggies, fruits and nuts. No bread. No dairy. No cappuccino. No beer or wine. However, Tequila is okay. (Hard to imagine cave men sitting around a camp fire doing shots).

What does any of this have to do with depression? Lots. The discussion turned to insulin, cortisol, blood-sugar levels and the glycemic index. I will skip the science by the goal is to keep your blood sugar levels stable. Rapid spikes and drops in blood sugar levels CAN AFFECT YOUR BEHAVIOR. When I get really hungry, my blood sugar gets too low and I get tired and irritable (aka “bitchy”) When I eat a lot of carbs and sugar, it gets too high and I get kind of intense (aka Charlie Sheenish).

I try to eat low glycemic foods – grapefruit, strawberries, raw carrots -  to stabilize my blood sugar which will help control my moods and behavior. Simply put, if I am careful about what I put in my mouth, I’m less likely to regret what comes out of my mouth.

All my mom and I wanted was to see each other happy. I’m not sure either of us got what we wanted.

As a kid, I remember my mom being sad, anxious, worried or tired. There was no question that she loved us kids to death. We were her world and she scrimped and saved and did without  so we would have a better life than she had growing up in a family with five kids and an alcoholic father who kicked her out of the house when she decided to go to college because “women didn’t need a college eduction.”

She graduated, became a teacher and then went on to earn her master’s degree. But she wasn’t happy. I tried to make her happy with good grades, lot of blue ribbons and medals in swimming and working – babysitting, cleaning locker rooms and life-guarding. Still she seemed so stressed out, overworked and worried.

She missed most of my swim meets but when she did come she sat the in the stands, grading her students’ papers. She canned applesauce, cherries, pickles, tomatoes and made jellies and jams. She made our clothes when we were little, darned socks and ironed all of my father’s shirts. She shoveled snow, planted a garden every spring and mixed powered milk with regular milk to save money. She was not happy.