Rachael

If you've been hanging 'round here at Chez Yarnagogo for any length of time at all, you'll know I'm predictable in the way that every six months or so, I end up writing something that some might think is too personal (and yep, this complaint does land every now and again in my inbox. Hey, if  you don't like what I write about it, I will stop coming to your house and holding the words in front of your eyes. All you have to do is ask. I thought you liked it when I did that). 

This, my friends, is gonna be personal. 

When I had my hysterectomy in May, I intended to go on estrogen-replacement therapy. I was 39, and after doing research, I'd decided it was the sensible choice for me. Unfortunately, it turned out that I have an extremely rare and potentially fatal form of estrogen-dependent angioedema, and can't take estrogen in any form (no supplements, no soy, no phyto-, no bio-identical, nothin'). 

So I hit menopause like a juice glass hits a tile floor. 

The doc said I could expect all the symptoms, but I haven't had one single hot flash or a moment of crazy emotional rage. I actually started sleeping better.

But my only other symptom was a doozy: Depression. 

I was sad, yo. And at first, I didn't recognize it for what it was. I just called it brain fog. I couldn't connect with anyone, couldn't seem to hold an intelligent conversation. I went to a writing convention and cried my way through it, thinking I was just being overly sensitive. Everything was out of focus and so difficult. During that time simply going to the post office was too hard for me to figure out. I felt bone-tired and got more exhausted every day. At home, I started sleeping in, something I never do. One day I was in bed looking at the noon-time sun reflected onto the ceiling, unwilling to move. I thought to myself, Why am I lying in bed? This is what depressed people do. I'm not depressed. Thud. Wait for it . . . Oh. 

I talked to my doctor, and even though I failed her Depression Quiz (there's a fun afternoon!), I rejected her recommendation for medication. I also rejected therapy. Now, I LOVE therapy and sign up for it whenever I think I can use an intelligent outside perspective on a confusing or difficult situation, but this was not situational depression. Love life was good. Family was good. Friends were good. Both jobs were good. I was happy with my life. I just wasn't happy, and the move from always happy to unbearably sad took exactly the four weeks it took for the estrogen to leave my body. So I knew it wasn't therapy I needed.

Now, I know I'm lucky. I don't know from depression.I've had situational depression, the kind of depression that comes from life's hardships like losing a loved one. Grief happens. Depression in those cases is natural and (usually) eases with time. But me? I'm one of those happy-chemicals people. And I've always, ALWAYS said that if my happy-chemicals changed for any reason, I'd march myself up to the pharmacy line and get me some of the good stuff. I understood in layman's terms the idea of serotonin reuptake, and I'd studied the way serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine function in the brain. I held no judgment, none at all, for people who chose to assist their brains' chemistry and functionality. 

When my joy and positivity plunged along with my hormone levels, I was astonished to find I totally rejected this option for myself. 

Without knowing it, I'd bought into the stigma that medication brings along with it. I'm not sure if it comes from having a mother who didn't take a single Vicodin after her hysterectomy because she could tough her way through it, but I was surprised by how desperately I wanted to try to fix my depression myself first. 

(I realize that some of you are, or have been, clinically depressed for a great part of your life. My friends, I can't imagine your struggle. I fought it for a few months, and so often I thought, This is TERRIBLE. They aren't kidding! I commend you for everything you've ever tried or done to make yourself feel better. It's so hard, and I only got a taste. Please know that I understand I'm very lucky to have been born with the positive chemicals, so lucky that I haven't had to struggle more with this in my life.) 

I told my doc I wanted to fix myself. I read books, lots of 'em. I learned our brains have to have exercise in order to keep the right levels of serotonin/norepinephrine/dopamine. Ha! Exercise! That's what you feel like doing when you're so sad you can't get out of bed. But I started running again, because I am nothing if not stubborn. I took it like medicine, trying to exercise every day, even though I hated it. 

I'd already changed my diet, eliminating dairy, sugar, wheat and all other grains, as well as the nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, eggplants). I didn't think I could get any healthier in that respect, but I did cut back on my optional sugar-of-choice, wine (which is, obviously, a depressant).  

I waited to feel happier. Instead, I just ate well, ran around the block and on the treadmill and kept crying. I hid this from you pretty well, didn't I? I might have dropped a mention or two of it on twitter and here at the blog, but I'm pretty damn adept at functioning as a happy-looking individual even when I'm not. No one at work had any idea. Many friends didn't know.

I hid it because I'm known for being happy. Someone has nicknamed me "Sunshine" at every job I've ever had. It was a huge part of who I was, and I was proud of it. (I wonder now if I'd have been so proud had I known that happiness was so dependent on my hormones?) And I hid my depression because I knew–it had been drilled into me from all parts of society–that being depressed is wrong, and trying to fix it with medicine is EVEN WORSE. It would mean that I was crazy and/or incompetent and/or untrustworthy. I am none of those things. So my knee-jerk reaction was NO THANK YOU NO DRUGS FOR ME BACK OFF NOW. 

But a month into trying to fix myself with diet, supplements, acupuncture, yoga, talking to friends, and exercise, I broke. I called my doctor and, literally through sobs, asked for the pills. I went on Celexa that day. Two days into the treatment, I stopped crying. Two weeks into the treatment, I felt better. Six weeks in, I felt normal again. 

It's been a few months now, and this—> I feel normal. 

Normal again! I'm not living in a haze. I can communicate with people. I sing again (the fact that I hadn't been singing had been so weird. I didn't sing in the car or while working in the kitchen. I hadn't even chalked it up to depression, I just had the odd thought perhaps I was getting too old to sing all the time. So it was very, very nice when the singing came back). Now I feel wild bursts of joy at random moments, just like I used to. I also get stressed out and overtired and snappish and grumpy, all mixed in again with my regular, even-keeled mood. 

Normal.

The thing I'd most worried about when going on the medicine–that my creativity would suffer somehow, would change–hasn't happened. The only thing that's changed is that I sit at my writing eagerly again, instead of dragging myself to the page. My words come out sharper because I'm sharper. And I'm still completely me. I just feel like I put on the right emotional glasses and things are in focus. 

Sure, I'm nervous hitting Publish on this post. My boss reads my blog, for Pete's sake. (Hi, Denise!) Especially in my day-job field, the world of police and fire, being on depression meds was really stigmatized for a long time. You could lose your job for it. That coloring made an indelible impression on me. I'm also nervous because of that volunteer job I really want–what if they read this post and think I'm nuts? Yep, super nervous. But I've never regretted sharing myself here, ever. So I'm gonna hit that Publish button and squeeze my eyes shut tight and maybe take a little nap and have a smoothie later. 

This is what I think: let's talk to people about depression, directly and honestly. Tell those you love you need help with figuring this shit out. Encourage those you love to accept the help they need. IT'S NOT WRONG to be depressed, and there are things that can truly help you feel better. (And the thing I hear most when I do bring it up? "Oh, I don't want to go on that, it might affect my sex life." Dude, your LIFE is affecting your sex life when you're depressed. Don't buy that line. Sex is a lot more playful and fun when you're happy.) 

I deserved to feel better. I deserved to find the things that would help. For me, it's diet, exercise, and medicine. You deserve to figure out what makes you feel better.

Big love.

Just a drive-by to say that today (Thursday) and today only, my memoir, A LIFE IN STITCHES, is the Kindle Daily Deal, available for just $1.99. 

Woo! 

Winners of the raffle have been drawn, and we made almost a thousand dollars for the George Mark House! Thank you, friends, with all my heart. (Emails are going out now, more will go out as people pick their favorite of my sweaters.) 

Now, for your rewards! 

This is a whole pile of ridiculous cute. I don't know how we work under these conditions. 

Lala bought a cat hammock. (It's stated aim is to "reduce clutter." How? By putting away our cats?) I bet her five bucks we wouldn't get a cat in it. Within four minutes of its installation, I'd lost that money. 

And rather than give you the sloths or kittens I promised you, I give you something better. If you haven't seen this, enjoy. If you have, watch it again. Your heartrate will go down and your hopes for the world will rise, I promise.

Isn't that just the heart-happiest video? I swear it's my favorite of all the millionty-billionty videos I've watched in the wee hours of the night. 

What's your heart-happiest video? Wanna share it in a Sunday come-together meetin' here at Yarnagogo? 

Again. (I'm aware this might not be a surprise to you.) 

I had almost completely decided not to do NaNoWriMo this year (a lark during which you write a novel in November, as fast as you can). I was pretty okay with that. I didn't know what I wanted to write next (I'm between novels right now), and I didn't have a plan. 

And then my sister said, "Let's do it." Convincing, isn't she? That's all it took. I'm in again, and I actually have an idea I'm trying to wrangle to the ground using yarn instead of rope. 

Again, we'll be going to the Night of Writing Dangerously. If I raise $250, I get to go to the Julia Morgan Ballroom and eat candy and drink booze and write all night with a couple hundred other crazies dressed in noir costumes. It's AMAZING. If I raise $350, I get to take Beth. My fundraising link HERE. And thank you. 

(I realize I asked for donations for something else in my last post, and I'm a bit red-faced about doing it twice in a row (or it could be the rosacea. But I don't think so). I promise to put an amazing FREE kitten video in my next post. Maybe kittens and dolphins. And sloths! Playing in yarn!)

Edited to add: We are now funded to go, thanks again to our Fairy Godmother. (Really, I have one! It makes me feel wonderful and magical and like I can really do this thing.) I actually thanked her in the acknowledgements of my second book, her support means that much. Thank you, Fairy Godmother. xoxo

::off to google animal videos::

Hey, y'all! Entries are low on the below post, so if you donate to the George Mark House (hospice + children = need), you have a good shot at winning a sweater. I'm just sayin'. And THANK YOU! 

As a perk (don't you need a pick-me-up on Wednesday? Even though I work a truly weird schedule that shifts every six days, Wednesdays can still be rough for me), I thought I'd give you a treat. Actually,  it's a treat from FeralKnitter Janine (who will be here soon! Yay for friend dates!) who said I could share it with you. 

This is the BEST CHICKEN I've ever made. Seriously. And it's so easy. No one can screw this up. The secret is buying bone-in chicken breast. I didn't even know that existed till I looked more closely at my butcher's selection. At my butcher, both breasts come together, which is huge, so I have them cut them apart for me so I don't have to. 

This is crispy and flavored and moist and one hundred percent delicious. Serve on a bed of lettuce and cuke and onion, drizzle the pan drippings and a little lemon over it all? Unreal. (Also, for those of you on the special diets, this is anti-inflammation diet and Paleo approved). 

Janine's Herbed Roasted Chicken (adapted from SF Chron recipe)

1/4 c  olive oil
4  garlic cloves, crushed
2 tsp  red chile flakes
1 tbsp  thyme
salt & pepper 
2  skin-on, bone-in chicken breasts

Preheat oven to 450°.
In a small dish that holds the chicken neatly (say, an 8x8" pan) mix the oil and herbs. 
Roll the chicken in the oil until it is coated. Place it skin-side up in the pan. 
Bake for 45 minutes or until cooked through. Let rest for 10 minutes, then slice and serve with juices.
Serves 2. Usually there are leftovers!

 

First off, the winner of the Happier at Home drawing is jdrbel — you've been emailed! Thanks for subscribing! I love doing random giveaways to people on my list! 

You guys, I loved this book. I actually liked it better than Rubin's original Happiness Project. (I'm all about home. I love home.) It got me off my ass to do a couple of things that I'd been putting off because they were difficult to do. 

Rubin quoted Mother Teresa at one point (that sounds sanctimonious, but I promise, it wasn't). Mother Teresa said, when asked how people could help her with her mission, "Find your own Calcutta." 

This struck me SO hard. Now, I'm not drawn to assisting a leper colony. 

You know what I am drawn to? Hospice. And specifically, children's end of life hospice.

Years ago, I learned of the existence of the George Mark House, the country's first freestanding palliative care center for dying children in the United States, and I've been unable to stop thinking about them. It's been helping children and their families since 2004 (and is still only one of four children's palliative care homes in the nation). 

In 2010, they had to close due to lack of funds. See, they provide care to children who need it, regardless of their ability to pay. It's a non-profit. They ran out of money to care for children at the end of their lives. They were closed for six months (I thought erroneously they'd shuttered forever and had been broken-hearted about it). 

But they're open again, and they need money.

Okay. I'll give you a minute. Here's a Kleenex.

Last night I put in application to be a volunteer there. I can't tell you how much I want that. But no matter what happens with my app, I want to help in some way. Thus, what follows:

Another thing that Rubin's book helped me to do was to get rid of stuff (oh, how I love to do that). 

I went through my sweaters and found a bunch that I don't wear, that don't suit me (or that are honestly just strangely patterned and/or knitted). I was going to donate them, but I thought that was weird for handknits. I was going to sell them, but I thought that was kind of odd, too.

But this? This is perfect. I'm holding a fundraising drawing for George Mark. 

Every $10 donation gets you an entry (therefore, $50 gets you five entries). At the end of the drawing, I'll pick the eleven winners. Winner number one can have her first pick of the sweaters. Winner number two can have the pick of what's left, et cetera. 

I'd love it if you sent the money to my paypal so I can make one nice donation from The Knitters and Writers.   It's been pointed out to me that Paypal might shut this down as they don't like raffles, so let's just go this simpler route:

Send your donation to the George Mark House directly — just send me your receipt (to yarnagogo at gmail dot com) so I mark down your entries. 

And thank you, dear hearts. I know money's hard to find these days. So thank you, for anything you can give. Many ten dollar donations add up to very real money that HELPS. YOU are helping. 

With no further ado, here are the eleven sweaters available (click each sweater's pic for Rav/yarnagogo link, etc.). 

Ruby's Bookstore Sweater, from How to Knit a Heart Back Home, Noro Shirakaba. A bit too big for me. 

Drops 110-23, in Paton's Classic Wool. A little rounded shape, esp. in the back. But I do love the knitting of it. 

Levenwick, Cascade 220. Never worn, never blocked. I didn't even put fasteners on it — I was victim of the photo fallacy, forgetting that I had boobs. Sigh. 

Cabled chickami, Rowan Calmer. Cute. I just don't wear it. 

Lace Wrap Sweaterbabe #112, Brooks Farm Mas-Acero. I have NEVER been able to make this wrap around me the right way. Someone's body style is perfect for this. Not mine. 

February Lady, Lion Brand Cotton Ease. I love this, but it's too big on me now. 

Spring Forward Fall Back, Knit one Crochet two Cotton. This is also great, but just a wee bit short on my long-waisted torso. 

Coachella, Brown Sheep Cotton Fleece. Cute, never wear it (requires racer-back bra). 

Artfibes cardie, Artfibers alpaca. I've wornt the hell out of this, a little nubby. Still a good sweater, just rarely wear it. 

Shapely Tank, Soy silk. Just fine, rarely worn. 

Back in the DAY (bonus points if you were reading me then) – Noro Kureyon Raglan, now with buttons, rather worn out of shape, but still fun. Rarely wear. 

I'll draw winners in two weeks, on October 19th. I'd love your tweets and FB links to this — let's spread it far and wide, my darlings. Thank you so much for considering donating to this amazing cause. I kiss you on both cheeks, mwah! mwah! 

Really. Thank you, from my heart.