Confessions of a Mellowed-Out Tomboy

I know, I know. My presence doesn’t exactly exude ‘Tomboy’; perhaps ‘Shy and Serious’ more encapsulates who I was as a kid. Heck, maybe that’s who I am now. I’m cool with that. But secretly, when I was growing up it’s what I was aiming for.

Thinking back on this now, I think I was the classic middle-child. I desperately wanted SOME way to stand out from the bunch, and if aspiring to ‘Tomboy’ was going to get me some attention, that is what I was going to do.  (Side note: Kyle and I followed American Idol’s final season, and as I watched one of the finalists, Avalon Young, sing Beiber’s “Love Yourself”, I found myself thinking, ‘THAT is the hero of my 15 year old self!” She’s pretty awesome.)

When I was a kid I was fascinated with a girl called Andrea who was on my baseball team. She could hit the ball, run fast, would slide into the bases, would shine during arm-wrestling contests and some of her best friends were boys. She was loud, sporty and confident. I wanted to be just like her.

For a brief season in grade four, I felt my dreams were coming true. One of the boys in my class saw me throw a football during gym period, and all of a sudden, quiet, serious little Stephanie was the coveted team member for recess football games. My classmates (read: Boys) were noticing me! The ‘popular’ girls were jealous of the attention I was getting… it was exhilarating. I decided to switch out ‘loud’ for ‘tough’ as something to aspire to.

Getting praise for being sporty, being admired for being tough, not caring about getting dirty and receiving attention for injuries became little highs I would seek out. At some point I subconsciously decided that all characteristics typically considered ‘feminine’ were synonymous with ‘weak’ and there was something morally wrong with me allowing myself to align with any of them. I didn’t feel particularly pretty or feminine anyway, and receiving snippets of attention by being the opposite was kind of addictive. I sought out many ‘face your fears’ moments over the years, not to rid myself of them, but rather to garner admiration, or at least some sort of attention from my family members or peers.

The summer I was 13 my dad and his buddies built a floating campfire on the flooded shores of Dorcas Bay under a cold clear sky of stars that looked like a glass of spilled milk. They sat on their semi-submerged lawn chairs with their beers cooling in the frigid water, feet toasting on the ply-wood platform, calling to their wives on the higher ground, joking about how the ‘MEN’ weren’t going to let a little flood get in the way of their annual campfire. Seeing my chance at upping my ‘tough’ factor (or at least at getting a little extra attention) I picked up a lawn-chair and dragged it through the water snake, leopard frog, crawfish filled water to join the increasingly tipsy bunch. I was welcomed with cheers and pirate-worthy ‘Arggg’s’ and made an honorary member of the “Studs of the Bruce” club, offered a third of a cold beer and hung out with my dad and his goofy friends for a few hours, pretending to drink my beer, watching the fire slowly burn through the platform and the embers slipping beneath the water.

Then came grade nine, which was awkward (I’m sure all but a lucky few can relate). I was bright and athletic, but not particularly pretty or confident. I was bullied for being a good student and being liked by my teachers. I wanted to be known for being something other than ‘Stephanie the Brown-Noser’. I upped my game. I cut my hair within 1.5 inches of my scalp, threw myself into cross-country, swim-team and soccer. The latter proved to offer the most opportunities for me to shine in all things ‘tough’.

In grade 10, I faced off with Victor, the Spanish exchange student during a soccer game, plowing my way through him, ending his ‘break-away’ and chance at a goal. I proudly displayed my fat lip, bloody nose and hexagon-bruised thigh to anyone who showed the slightest interest.

This trend continued throughout high school and as a young adult: I didn’t wear make-up, I wore large shapeless t-shirts, I insisted ‘Guinness’ was my alcoholic drink of choice. I taught myself to play guitar and started listening to ‘Dashboard Confessional’ to impress the summer camp boys (side note: this totally worked). On one occasion I enthusiastically volunteered at a summer camp to empty a giant blue recycling bin that had been filled with loose garbage (no gloves were available) to convince others I didn’t get grossed out easily. I was lying to myself. Let’s be serious.  

It took a terrible season of Tree-Planting in Northern Ontario to cure me of some of this. One day, after falling in a swamp for the 15^th time, I stood knee deep in the muck, cold and shivering, covered head to toe in swamp water, dangerous amounts of DEET, and bug bites, I stood for a long moment staring at the trees before announcing to the blackflies, “I do not like to be cold. I do not like to be wet. I do not like to be covered in mud. I’m ok with admitting that.” This was big step for me.

In University I started admitting, at least to myself, that I cared about how I looked. I began wearing jewelry and clothing that fit properly, I bought some perfume, started hanging out with other girls regularly and began dating my future husband. Being this new Stephanie felt strange, but I surprised myself by feeling pretty great about it too.

Seven years later, our beautiful Sophie was born. We wanted her gender to be a surprise; and if I’m being totally honest here, part of that was so we weren’t drowning in pink if our baby was a girl. I was a little militant about being anti-‘pink’  during my pregnancy, which I had kind of forgotten about until Sophie was about six months old. Sophie and I were at a neighbourhood carnival our church was putting on when a sweet Jr. High girl I taught piano lessons to asked me about Sophie’s overalls and blocks.

“I’m sorry Sweetie, I’m not sure what you are talking about …”

“STEPHANIE!! You SAID your kid, boy or girl was going to just wear overalls and play with blocks, not barbies!” 

She looked at Sophie (who was wearing a hand-knitted sweater with pink buttons, faux-denim pants with a pink belt and pink shoes.), then at me and started giggling. I had to laugh at myself as well; this kid very seldom was an overall-wearing block stacking gender-neutral baby.

Like all parents, I had lots of ideas about how I was going to parent my kids and the kind of kids I was going to raise. I’ve had to loosen up over the years. When we couldn’t afford all new clothes for our babies and our generous friends dropped off boxes and boxes of clothing for us to use, I had to lose some of my ‘anti-pink’ attitude.

The summer Sophie was two, she was wading in the Ottawa river with her friend Hope, who flashed her newly painted hot-pink toenails at Sophie. Sophie decided right then that pink was her favourite colour. Whenever she was asked, “Why is that, Sophie?” She would respond, “Because pink is a HAPPY colour.” And you know… she’s right. It is a happy colour.   

That winter Kyle took Sophie shopping for a new snow-suit. A very ecstatic two-year old arrived home a while later calling to me, “Mummy, MUMMY! Come see my new SNOW SUIT!!” “I just want you to know” Kyle told me gently, “This is the LEAST girly one we could find…” Out from around the corner came Sophie, proudly displaying her new hot pink, faux fur hooded, Hello Kitty emblazoned snowsuit. “Mummy!” She yelled, “It’s PINK!!” Yes, yes it was.

Recently a friend was sharing with me about an incident involving her son. “You know,” she told me, “I just really want him to know that there is something wonderful and beautiful about being a boy!” I’ve thought about that a number of times over the past month. I think the flip side of that is what I’ve slowly been convincing myself of since I was a young adult, there is also something really wonderful and beautiful about being a girl.

I admit I still get a weird rush out of doing something somewhat gross or requiring a lot of my strength; when I find myself still standing at the end of it, I’m pretty elated. I still love playing soccer, I love feeling confident and strong and capable, and yes, even ‘tough’ sometimes. There is nothing wrong with all that. But I’ve hit a point where I can embrace the following about myself as well: I really REALLY hate getting my feet or hands in the mud, I like putting effort into my appearance on occasion (make-up is still a somewhat rare occurrence), and wearing clothes that fit properly is important to me. That’s also a part of who I am, and that’s ok.

These days I try to keep 'Joyful Confidence" at the forefront of my mind when I let Sophie choose her clothes and day after day she gravitates towards tutus, or dresses, worn with hot pink dress-up gloves and fairy wands. I’ve started to enjoy that painting our nails together is routine activity. Sophie is dressing as Princess Elsa from ‘Frozen’ for Halloween, which a few years ago, I would not have been ok with. Traditionally Disney Princesses don’t do a whole lot, wait around for their princes to come rescue them and wear pretty clothes. Not cool. However, after watching the movie and realizing that Olaf the snowman’s definition of love was one of the best I’ve heard, I’m beginning to embrace Disney Princesses… I know, right? What is this? My 20 year-old self would not recognize me.

I also try encourage both my kids to jump in muddy puddles, I try not to make a big deal about clothes getting dirty, Kyle is teaching Sophie Gracie Jiu Jitsu (she’s slowly becoming a Ninja), and she wears a blue-jays ball cap in the summer.

In the end, what I want is for Sophie (and for myself too) to be confident and embrace who she is. It’s my job to help discover with her discover how she is wired and grow into those things. It’s not that I want her to reject traditionally ‘girly’ things, but rather I don’t want her to be limited in her interests because she was born a girl.

We’re both growing as we go along. I’m learning to embrace tea-parties and tutus, twirling contests, playing dress-up and ‘getting fancy’ (aka putting on dresses and makeup and jewelry), while introducing her to frog-catching, soccer and the wonderful world of insects.

In the end, I’ve decided to scrap my previous ‘tough not-resembling-anything-girl-ish’ agenda with a focus on ‘Joyful Confidence’. And as I work towards that in my parenting with both my kids, I can feel myself changing a bit too. I’m so thankful Sophie has opened my eyes to the joys of twirling skirts and crowns, dress-up gloves, pretending to be princesses, and yes, even to the fact that pink is a happy colour. Slowly this beautiful gift of a child is helping me to discover new things about myself and to learn that there is something beautiful and wonderful about being a girl after all. 

Hello From the Other Side: Winning my Battle with Anxiety and Depression

I’ve been seeing frequent Facebook posts lately about Depression and Anxiety in the name of ‘Raising Awareness’. You know the ones: the ‘Please Share’ kind. It has become pretty mainstream in the last while to talk about ‘Raising Awareness’ about mental health; so much so that recently my daughter’s school had a ‘Wear-Purple-to-Support-Mental-Health-Awareness’ day. She’s in JK – it struck me as somewhat odd to ask four-year-olds to participate.

A couple weeks ago Sophie’s class was involved in a Terry Fox run. As we sat at the kitchen table the night before the run, I tried to explain to her about Terry Fox and what he raised money for, and what cancer was. For a four-year old who spends a lot of time talking about teeter-totters and Paw Patrol, this was pretty heavy stuff. I didn’t actually find out about the latest ‘awareness raising’ effort until after the fact. I’m kind of glad. When Sophie is a bit older I will gladly broach the subject with her, but talking about mental health stuff right now is a bit too heavy for both of us because, well, she’s four, and for me, the subject is personal.

Hello, I’m Stephanie and I fight a daily battle with Anxiety and Depression… Yep.

Truth be told, a take a couple pills every morning that do most of the fighting for me. A year and a half ago however, things looked different. I was fighting on my own and failing, routinely. This had been my story for a while. In the end I found courage to seek help and hope that I could feel better in the stories of others dealing with something similar.

Eventually I spoke with my family doctor, was referred to a counselor, I was assessed and followed up with by a psychiatrist, and (this is a big AND) I decided to take her advice. In the last year and a half I’ve made the daily choice to grab the ropes thrown my way, to toss aside my ‘I-Can-Manage-This-On-My-Own ‘ pride climb out of the pit.

And finally, I’m out. So here it is, my ‘Please Share’. This is my story.

Hello from the Other Side.

When I was six months pregnant with Sophie my brother was killed in a house fire. Like the rest of his family and friends, I was devastated. I found mental and emotional safety in my routine, compartmentalizing my grief so I could make sure my baby was still growing and healthy. Three months later I was holding a beautiful baby and my routine was scrapped. As it turns out, my routine was my only line of defense between me and my grief. Add healing from an emergency C-Section and a failure-to-thrive baby to the mix and I had a full-blown physical/emotional spiral on my hands. I was taking a lot of pain-killers (healing from a C-Section is no joke), I lost my appetite, I had trouble sleeping and I was crying four times a day. I was unraveling and was at a loss for what to do.

Well-meaning individuals attempted to comfort me with sentiments like,

            “Everyone goes through this, you’ll be fine.”

            “Oh you’re doing a great job, just sleep when the baby sleeps.”

            “I had trouble too, I just kept trying and it turned out ok.”

You can imagine just how helpful these thoughts were.

I started to experience what I now know is a common symptom of Post Partum Depression: I started catching myself daydreaming about ways to harm my baby. The basement stairs, the knife set in the kitchen, the gas stove, the bridge that I crossed routinely all became potential threats. My brain would quickly and creatively turn something in nearly every situation I was in into a potential instrument of violence. It was as though someone else was channeling murderous thoughts into my brain. NEVER was I worried that I would act on those thoughts, but I was worn down from fighting them away and constantly felt confused and guilty about them being there at all. Above all, I was terrified about what would happen to me or to Sophie or to my family anyone knew what was happening in my head.

After 10 weeks I called my family doctor.

(Deep Breath), “Hello… I’m a patient of Dr. R’s. I think I am struggling with Post Partum Depression. I would like an appointment please.”

“Sorry. He’s away for three weeks.”

“I don’t think it would be wise for me to wait another three weeks to speak to someone. Is there anything you can suggest?”

“I can make you an appointment for when he returns…”

No suggestion for a local health clinic, no women in crisis line, no online resource, nothing. I put down the phone and cried.

A few weeks later a well-meaning individual told me about a mother who murdered her children, “Now THAT person had Post Partum Depression”. Wonderful. I heard this as, “You really need to pull yourself together. You’re fine. Things aren’t as bad as you’re saying they are. Other people have it worse than you do, you just need to suck it up and keep going.”

Thinking back on this, I think this person just didn’t know what to say. If I had been in her position a few years before, I wouldn’t have known what to say either. I recognize she didn’t mean what I heard, but in my state, I was physically unable to filter those thoughts.

I told myself to Pull. It. Together. “You’re fine. Get some more sleep. Start eating properly. Just pray about it more. You can do it.” I saw a counselor a couple times. I tried to make myself busy. The terrible thoughts didn’t get much quieter I just managed to increase the volume of other thoughts.

A few months later a friend whose mum was working on a Masters Degree was asking for help with an assignment regarding PPD and I was on the list of volunteer guinea pigs for a dry-run. She knew nothing of my situation. I read it, sobbed my way through the questions and realized that ‘willing’ away my depression had been ineffective. I decided to ask for help a second time. I found an e-mail address at the back of the pamphlet. I can’t overstate the courage it took for me to send that note. No response came.

I started clutching Sophie closer when we crossed the bridge. I panic prayed with every step, turning my back to the railings trying and failing to not think about tossing her over the side. I stopped watching the news; every horrible scenario captured on cameras would all of a sudden become a “What if this was to happen to Sophie” mental game. I would have terrible dreams about abandoning Sophie. I had uncharacteristic moments of rage and sadness. Through all of this I was weighed down with guilt. The thoughts and emotional roller coaster came in waves. I kept going. 

A couple years later, sweet Asher was born. Another frightening birth – one month too early, an excessive amount of blood lost. He wouldn’t ever wake up to eat. He was physically incapable of breast-feeding and would often vomit up milk and blood. I could feel myself beginning to spiral.

“This is different.” I would tell myself “He’s just not well, you’re just tired. When he’s better and you get more sleep you’ll be fine.” Whenever I started sinking, I would force myself to focus on this. Eventually after a few months he did get better. Eventually I did start getting more sleep. On the day I woke up completely rested yet still had to pep-talk myself into getting out of bed I had to admit the obvious: I wasn’t fine. Then the game changer… instead of catching myself daydreaming about harming my kids, my thoughts did a subtle switch to considering ways to harm myself. Quickly realizing I had entered a new, more serious danger zone, I picked up the phone, and scheduled an appointment to be assessed by a psychiatrist.

Fast-forward a few weeks. After an intense hour and a half in the psychiatrist’s office I was told,  “Well Stephanie, you definitely have PPD, and you’ve had it in various waves since Sophie was born. Also…you have Chronic Anxiety. You’ve probably had it since before you could talk.” Of course I did. After that conversation it just seemed like she was stating the obvious. Finally, as my friend Bev puts it, the monster was out from under the bed.

I left that appointment cried-out with a prescription for anti-depressants. It took me three days to get up the courage to fill it, and another few days to actually take them. Within a week I felt a difference. After two dosage increases, I felt like myself again, something I hadn’t felt for three and a half years.

I walked around in a bit of a daze for a week, trying to come to terms with the diagnosis, “Mental Illness. I have a Mental Illness…” This admission was simultaneously heavy and freeing. I finally had a reason for my obsessive violent thoughts, my mini panic attacks, my crying bouts and my general lack of ‘happy’. Not only did I have a reason, I now had a plan for getting better. Thank you Jesus. I shared first with my Mum, then some close friends, who surprised me and encouraged me by sharing their own similar stories.

Not all the people I have shared with responded well. In hindsight, I think it has been because they have been caught off-guard and just didn’t know what to say.

If you’re reading this and you’re lucky enough to have never had to deal with something like this before (and I’m so glad you haven’t), here’s a response that is always welcome. “Thanks so much for sharing. That sounds really difficult. Is there something I could do to make life easier for you? Have you spoken to your family doctor?” This shows concern, is an offer to help and a wonderful suggestion for professional help. Memorize this.

So this is where healing journey with depression and anxiety sits. Crossing bridges with my kids isn’t so much of a problem anymore. I can watch the news again, although I confess I choose more carefully what stories I read. I lose my temper a lot less frequently. I cry a healthy amount. I no longer catch myself daydreaming about harming my kids or myself.

I consider all of this a win.

I don’t love that medication is my solution for now. But for now, this works. I feel like myself and I am thankful: Thankful and Relieved. As a dear friend from University told me once, “If I had diabetes, I wouldn’t think twice about taking insulin. If a doctor recommends medication to help me with another part of my body, why should I hesitate?” Why indeed. Now instead of dealing with symptoms all my waking hours, I think about it for one minute every morning as I down my apple-juice.

I am so thankful I decided to pick up the phone and try one more time, to speak up, be vulnerable and take the advice of my doctors. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. I’m so glad I decided that I deserve to feel better.

So there you have it – my ‘Please Share’. Maybe you can relate to some of this, or all of this. Maybe, like me, you’ve tried to reach out for help and received instead a fresh wave of shame.

Please. Be courageous. Try again. Make an appointment with your family doctor. Ask for a referral to a counselor, or a psychiatrist, or both. Tell a professional EXACTLY what has been going on in your head. Trust her expertise. Take her advice. Share with a trusted friend or family member. If they respond badly: THAT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. Try again with someone else. You can do it. Be courageous: because you too, deserve to feel better.