Not Everything is a Pinterest Frickin' Project!

"Hey, wanna make a fun, easy project?"

I go on binges where I want to re-paint, spray paint, dig up, hack down... you get the picture.  I'm sure in the future my kids will use these spans of time as proof I should've been better/differently medicated, but for now, I call them Creative Uprisings.

So, when my friend Crystal texted me with pictures of American Girl doll furniture she'd found on Pinterest, I asked her how much glue would be involved (a must for any of my projects).  When she replied lots, I got in the car and met her at Home Depot.

Only... there's a reason I've never built anything with wood before. See, I've got the Dyscalculia, which is NOT that I'm a math vampire, although numbers do suck for me.  Dyscalculia is a fancy term for Math-dyslexic, so when I see numbers, they get wobbly, sometimes they switch spots, or disappear altogether, sometimes I write 91 when I mean 19 and I say 61.   There's more but that's all that matters for this particular moment in time.

Oh, it's a fun affliction with a capital F.

And, everything gets infinitely stupider when we add fluorescent lights into the equation.

Now, I want you to head to the furthest corner of the Home Depot and think about nothing but the fact that these dang fluorescent lights have destroyed my brain by the time I get there, and now there are itty bitty fractions (eighths? what the FRICK is an eighth?) and Crystal is standing there asking me how much wood do we need?  And I can't even see the numbers on the little price thing beyond the price and I say "The $2.50 one." and she says, "But it's not the right size." And I say, "I'm sure it's fine." and she says, "Well, what are your measurements?"

And I mumble something like "Eleventeen, Niner... fifteenths?" and blink my eyes like Madonna when she's nervous.  And everything is too bright and burn-y, and why are we here again? I don't remember needing to build a deck.  And Crystal is watching this patiently, apparently I either do this a lot OR she's used to me not making any sense and just waiting me out.  Frankly, either idea is possible. So she repeats, "Well, what ARE your measurements?"

Jaysus Aitch Christ, I'm rubbing my face now. Everything is blurry and I feel a white light on my face like a spotlight, only dizzier and swimmy-er, and Crystal says "Focus! Do you need 18 and three sixteenths?" and I don't really even know my name anymore.  And then I do the unthinkable.  Like a prisoner being tortured, I admitted the one thing I was working so hard not to say, I blurt out, "I dunno. I'm gonna eyeball it." and she nearly falls over laughing because apparently you shouldn't eyeball wood cutting or maybe my fly is down, or maybe I look crazy cuz I can't stop rubbing my face because I'm trying to get the blurr out of my eyes and it's not working.

I haven't had a full-blown math meltdown in probably 20 years. It, coincidentally, stopped with the end of my need to be in a math class.  This, in case you're checking facts was when I completed my OAC (AP) Finite math class, which I took out of spite to show Math that I could do it (which, btw, I couldn't, and needed the help of the cute nerd in that class, who happens to now be my cute husband).

But I digress.  Crystal, who, by the way, can recreate anything by looking at it hard enough, sat there with a pencil and paper and figured out what my measurements were gonna be, and how much wood I needed, while I rolled on the floor grunting like an ape and trying not to cry.

I wonder why none of the Orange Smocks came to help us out that day, in retrospect.  Although, maybe not.  A grown woman making animal sounds on the floor and rubbing her face might not be something Orange Smocks have been trained for.   Not. In. The. Handbook.

Anyway, Crystal got her wood, I, like Hodor, good for nothing but brute strength and the ability to say my name, carried it through the store and dutifully packed it in her car.  And once we were out in fresh air the setting sun, my brain stopped exploding quite as much and I was able to at least safely drive home, drink a gallon of wine and go to bed.

Meltdowns take a lot out of you; any toddler will tell you the same.

2 weeks later, Crystal finally screwed up the courage to ask me if I was ok enough to start the project.  Then she made sure to remind me to eat something before coming over.  Apparently I'm quite a disaster when I'm hangry, too.  Siiiigh.

Full tummy, glasses on, with caffeine in hand, I cautiously drove to Crystal's to begin the eyeballing process.

I think she thought I was kidding, but I got there and got out the bed that Crystal bought her daughter (oh how smug I was thinking MY bed was gonna cost $20 plus labour!) and began tracing it onto the wood.

Yes. I traced it.

Look at all those perfect right angles. 

Fuck you.
It's hard to measure stuff right. The ruler always moves and shit gets in the wrong spot and sometimes you start at the 1 and other times you start at the end, and then your numbers get all wrong.

Just shut it. Math makes me hostile.

So I traced the bed onto the wood while Crystal and her pretty ruler and measure-y thing drew out all her cuts.  And then she said, "Well how big is the bottom of the bed?" and I said, "Uh, it's that big?" (gesticulating wildly at the wood in no particular area)

Then she says, "Right, but the trundle goes underneath it, have you drawn the trundle yet? Cuz it's gonna have to be precise." and I said, "Listen, Sister. I've got this. You do it your way, and I'll do it mine. And your shit can be perfect and mine can be a lesson to all engineers."

Because sometimes you gotta embrace the truth.  It'll set you free, they say.

The next, next day, her dad came over to show us how to use the jigsaw and the table saw.  Her father, by the way, is just like Crystal, meaning he nearly peed his pants laughing at me when I told him I'd traced the bed to get mine.  Then he stuck around to see how the Bad News Bears were planning on making American Girl Doll shit.

The noise is making me want to 
Hulk Smash and Cry. 

First off, when the table saw started the high-pitched squeal, I started to cry. Apparently I don't like screamy noises.  I plugged both my ears and tried to figure out how I was gonna cut the wood with my hands in my ears, while it rested on my gut and my knee.  Then I realized I needed earplugs, only apparently I couldn't leave (I don't know why it didn't occur to me to drive and buy some earplugs, but I blame the noise that was piercing my brain for screwing that up) so I went inside and wrapped a hoodie around my head and over my ears.  Only that didn't really cut enough of the noise out, and plus it kept slipping down and I also decided to use the jigsaw because it's quieter.

Jaysus.  Then Crystal went inside and got me a HUGE winter toque to put over the hoodie that was tied around my head like a turban and the ear flaps helped a bit, but then they had these dangly bits that kept falling in front of the jigsaw blade.

I think, also, we should've recorded this whole thing for a Health and Safety video, since I was kneeling on the board I was cutting with a jigsaw, which was over the lip of the deck they have.  And wearing a turban, sunglasses and a mohawk-earflap-winter toque in July.  Nope, August.

Did I tell you the part where we jammed the nail gun and only got it to work one time, and that was the one time it was loaded with the too-big nails, which went through the wood sample and straight into Crystal's counter top? What about the time I cut my wood and then realized you can't just lay one piece on the other piece and jigsaw that shit to be the same size without a vice grip.

Fixing my shit for me, like wee elves.
I think I owe them each some felt shoes, now, right?

Roughly 8 hours later of pure cutting, re-cutting, shaping, sandpapering, gluing and nail gunning later, I wanted to run over the bastard thing with my car, except I was pretty sure there were 1000 nails in the stupid thing and I'd get a flat tire.

However, like all things, paint and silicone fix a lot of problems.  Just look at Anna Nicole. Or Cher.  Once I spray painted it, sanded it, touched it up and added the wee embellishments, the bed stopped looking like wooden dog shit, and started to really look right. Ok. So Crystal's carpenter father helped out a bit, but mostly I did the work, which was a big deal to me because I wanted to check "using a jigsaw poorly" off my bucket list.

Then Kiddo #1 and I went down to the sewing room and picked out some fabrics for the bedding. I sewed up some seams, she filled it with both polyfil (stuffing) and when that ran out, she filled it with scraps from my never-emptied sewing garbage bin.  I may have told her that scraps of cloth were used to fill old mattresses in the "olden" days, too, so it was practically educational.  And possibly a lie, but whatever. We were having a mother-daughter moment and I was almost done making the fucking bed. I'd tell any amount of lies to make that project end.

"This is as straight as Elton John."

So, here's the end. It's cute. It really is. I'm not gonna pretend I did it-- Crystal and her father kindly stopped laughing long enough to measure and re-cut the pieces for the trundle part.  And they didn't make fun of me, at least to my face. Much.

All I think about at night, though, is what if Kiddo #2 wants a damn trundle bed for his various stuffies now? Because this $20 bed cost about $550 in labour and sweat and tears.


Materials:

1 American Girl Trundle Bed
3 pencils (one to use, two to lose)
1 piece of board that is heavy. And rectangular.
a jigsaw
earplugs, or something to wear on your head
glue
nail gun/nails
paint
fabric scraps

Process:

1) trace the American Girl trundle bed (poorly) onto the board.
2) try to cut it out with a jigsaw and realize you didn't draw straight lines
3) curse and cry a little because the table saw (that your friend needs) is too loud
4) scream FUCK IT and call American Girl
5) Buy the bed and never speak of this again

8 Ideas and a Pie In The Face

So we're all reeling from the news that Robin Williams has died. And, moreso, that he was openly battling depression and addiction, and still managed to be the funniest guy on the planet.

And yet, he clearly wasn't happy.
He wasn't ok.
He wasn't comfortable with himself on some level.

Right? I mean it's that simple, right?

Ok. We all know Depression isn't that simple. And in the last few days following his death, everyone is coming out of the proverbial closet about Depression.  I don't know if you know this, or if you've guessed this, or if you've ever wondered, but I definitely battle Depression. The crippling, real, voices-tell-me-I'm-a-bag-of-shit-and-I-believe-them kind.  The self-harming, out-of-control, emotional roller coaster type that destroys lives, and relationships, and families.

And even funny people.

There have been months, whole months, whole seasons, whole half-years, where I have had to literally force myself to get out of bed in the morning.

I know there are some of you who don't believe this because I don't "look" like someone with Depression. I don't furrow my brow, or bitch incessantly or whatever you think Depression looks like.

Here's the thing, here's my two cents on why Robin Williams' death has affected us, as a global community, the way it has: we all will fake-it-til-you-make it sometimes, and we all wallow in self-pity sometimes, but we all figure that IF we were "_(insert that one un-achieved dream that lingers)_," things would be fine/better/magnificent.

Robin Williams is proof that there is no magic fix to Depression.

In fact, I'll go one further: there's no magical fix to the voices in the head that deem you unworthy. Meds calm them, quiet them and can fix misfiring neurons.  Talk therapy can keep you from going over the edge, and friends can (without knowing it, even) keep you alive til morning comes.  But ultimately, I think the person who decides to sink or swim is YOU.

And, that's no reason to give up hope.  :)

I don't know a LOT of things, but in 36... almost 37 years, I at least have figured out how to weather my depressive episodes.  I don't know if what I do will help or work at all for you, but I want to put it out there in case it leads you on a path of self-discovery that helps you survive until you can smile without faking it.

I mean, isn't that what pushed Robin Williams to do what he did for a living?  He worked tirelessly to give us a reason to smile, laugh, cry and feel real, true feelings.  Being authentic, being real, is the only way to get through Depression.  The rest of the stuff (meds, therapy, friends) all make the fog thinner so we can remember what it's like to be real again, non?

1) Learn Your Triggers/Alarm Bells.  

This is the hardest part of the job, I think.  Figuring out what can send you on a Depressive Episode is key to being more in control of it, though.  My triggers include, but aren't limited to: sad songs on the radio, The Notebook (specifically that dang rain kiss), The News.  My Alarm Bells start ringing when I do things like: start thinking about the butterflies I'd get when I dated some toxic guys in my early years, when I download or start listening to "suicide playlists" which usually include Sarah McLaughlin "Angel" and other songs that make you pull over on the highway from sobbing.

See, when I'm happy, and when I'm not depressed, I have no use for learning the minutiae in a child abuse case. But when I'm starting to slide down that road of thick tar, I get morbidly intrigued with how or why someone would do "that" to a kid, whatever 'that' is.

So, when I start to perseverate on things like that, I make a note on my calendar. I don't care much for data, but I love coincidences (ha), so I've noticed that I can usually have about 3 sad thoughts a week, without it being attached to the beginnings of a Depressive Episode.  But, when I'm having upwards of 3 "sad thoughts" a day, I know trouble is coming.

2) Force Yourself to Be Around People

When I see that a Depressive Episode is coming, I force myself to reach out to others.  I'm not a super social person to begin with-- I feel easy being around people, but it's quite exhausting at the same time.  But when I'm starting to slide, I make coffee dates and force myself to get out of my head for a while.  I've noticed that the more time I spend in my head, the deeper the depression goes.  (I've had 36 years to figure some of this shit out)  The more time I spend distracted from the mean, dark voices telling me I'm a bag of shit, the better.
Also, Depression waits for you to be alone before it attacks. It wants you to feel like you're the most worthless, the most pathetic, the dumbest (etc). So when I'm low, I really work hard to not be alone as much as possible.

3) Surround Yourself With Proof You Don't Suck

For me, this is the reason I spend my non-depressed time creating art, writing, sewing, and whatever else I do.  I have my art all over our home and it's really because when I'm laying in bed thinking about never maybe getting out again, and why would anyone care anyways because all I do is destroy everything I touch, I can look at my paintings or re-read a blog, or whatever and let my (rather quiet, underfed) rational brain pipe up with a meek, "Uh, well, uh, you do suck, I guess, but maybe this art wouldn't be as good if you also weren't like, sorta, sometimes awesome?"  And, as I get out and hang around with other people, and as I refrain from indulging my depression by turning off Adele and Alanis and The Notebook, my rational brain's voice gets sturdier, gets louder, gets clearer.


4) Exercise and Sleep 

Your brain can't run haywire if your body is too tired to be awake to listen.

This is so important I want you to re-read it another 8 times before going on to the next point.
Then go for a run. Don't worry, the blog will still be here.




5) When you're Happy/Not Depressed, Don't Quit Your Meds

Yeah, so turns out that I'm balanced BECAUSE of my meds, not in spite of them.  Nothing starts a downward spiral faster than the false-logic that my meds have cured me and I don't need them anymore.  For the love of all things holy, people with Diabetes don't stop taking insulin because they feel good. People on chemo don't stop taking them cuz, meh, I feel good today.

Don't stop the meds for mental health, no matter how good you feel. They ARE the reason you feel good.

6) What You Resist Persists

That old yoga saying is so true when I'm in an episode.  The more I pretend I'm not low, the more I bottle up what I'm feeling instead of expressing it for what it is, the bigger it grows.  The more out-of-control it becomes.  The more I want to do stupid stuff (harmful stuff, like booze or drugs or self-harm) to quiet the voices I just should've let out in the first place.  Honestly, some of my issue is that I'm ashamed of the petty bullshit that has me so upset.  And some of it is that I'm afraid to say it outloud and give it a voice or reality.  But truely, all that has ever happened by me voicing "I'm just not happy with my job." or "I feel like we should be able to go on a vacation."  is that I realize that a) it's not shameful and b) saying it outloud takes the shame out of it anyway.  Ironically, Depression is like stifling a laugh-- the more you try not to do it, the bigger, louder and more disruptive it becomes until it takes over your entire body and now you're making a scene, rolling on the floor, crying and howling at something that really isn't that funny.  Right?

Let the Depression flow over you, and through you, but don't hold on to it.
Let it go.  (Sorry. It's my jam.)

7) Everyone feels this way

It makes me sad when someone says "Oh, what do YOU know about this? I bet you're never down/depressed/sad."  Just because I choose to find the laughter in things doesn't mean I don't get down.  In fact, it's choosing to find the laughter in the most ridiculous situations that is one of my coping mechanisms.  The harder I look to find the humour, say, in the $600 I just spent on my car, the $150 I spent on the fridge and the $200 on groceries in the SAME DAY, the more I'm focusing on finding the good instead of the bad.  See that? I'm focusing on finding the good; what you look for you find.

And speaking of coping mechanisms, that's my final point.

8) Get Coping

Insist on seeing live comedy.  Go to a movie staring whoever makes you laugh.  Hide behind a door and surprise your partner with a pie in the face (but make sure there's one loaded for him/her to use on you when s/he catches you-- it's only fair).

I don't care what you do, but find it and make it accessible.  Today you might not want to sew/write/paint/dance/sing/do yoga/whatever.  But tomorrow if you do, and you don't have what you need, you'll just Eyeore-out and make it worse.



Anyway, like I already said, there are lots of things I don't know.  And if you're in danger, in crisis, get yourself to a professional who can listen and talk you out of whatever harm you're considering.  Please. The world is a better place with you in it.  Even if you might not agree right this second, it really is.

Plus, I'm waiting here with a pie with your name on it.