5 Hacks for Bathing When Depressed

It has been ‘sweat dripping from under my boobs, behind my knees, and between my fingers’ weather and daily showers have become mandatory. I’ve always been pretty good at sudsing up, but it’s been a challenge this last week. My depression has been following me around like an annoying younger sibling and I’ve noticed my showers are starting to happen later in the day and zapping all my energy. 

 

I understand the shame of not showering or brushing your teeth for a week (or two). I feel like such a failure when I can’t muster up the mental or physical energy to do something as basic as keeping myself clean but that’s the dirty truth. However, when I can eventually force myself to bath there are some hacks I picked up. The goal is to always make it as easy and enjoyable as possible. Possible being the operative word.

 

1)When and how. When do you have the most energy to lather up? Do you want a soak in the tub or a quick shower? I’m usually awake by 6am and have a limited number of hours where I have energy to shower so it’s one of the first things I do. Generally I’m a shower girl but if standing for 5 minutes feels like slogging through mud, I chose to have a bath instead. 

 

2)Be prepared. What do you need in the shower/bath and after the shower/bath? I lay my purple towel on the toilet beside the shower, set out my leggings, sensible undies, and tank top, and make sure that the shampoo and Ivory soap are where they’re supposed to be. It’s so stressful to get in the shower and then have to chase the soap into the corner of the bathtub where it inevitably escapes again. It belongs in its conveniently placed dish. Ditto with the shampoo. If it helps, buy one of those hanging shower caddies.

 

3)Make it easy. What takes the least effort? I only wash my hair 2 or 3 times a week and use a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. I haven’t used this before, but I heard dry shampoo works well. Or if your hair has been in a messy bun for a week and your brush refuses to do its job there is always detangler. This may seem silly, but I wash my body in the same pattern each time because it takes the least amount of physical and mental effort. I start at my feet and legs and work my way up, so I don’t have to bend down twice. When I’m really tired, I follow my husband’s advice: “You don’t need to wash your feet because that’s where all the soap is anyway.” He’s a brilliant man.

 

4)Make it enjoyable. What will motivate you to get out of bed and into the shower/bath? Sometimes, the only thing that gets me in the shower is the knowledge that my shower head will massage my aching shoulders and back. I haven’t invested in a massage shower head but I might just do that. Also, it can help to use shampoo and soap that smell good. I’m a lavender, coconut, and vanilla kind of gal but some like it fruity. There is a whole industry dedicated to you breathing a sigh of relief when entering the bath; bath bombs, bubble bath, bath beads, aromatherapy oils, etc.

 

5)Desperate times call for desperate measures. What if you’re really unwell and haven’t bathed in a couple weeks? I set an alarm so that I know I’m only going to be in there for 5 minutes and then dive back under the sheets when I’m done. I understand how deep down exhausting it can be to even stand up. So, we deserve a break after. The last weapon in my arsenal is to have my husband come into the bathroom and talk to me while I’m in the shower. This distracts me so that the 5 minutes don’t feel so long, and I don’t feel so lonely. 

 

These tricks may or may not work for you, but I hope it helps a bit. Even knowing that you’re not alone in this horrible, exhausting, depressive episode can be huge. What tricks do you have when bathing feels impossible?

A Road to Love: 5 Things I've Accepted About Myself

I would love to love myself like those girls with bright, white teeth on the cover of self-help books that give you a formula for self-love in 5 easy steps. But I’m finding it a tad challenging. Loving and appreciating myself feels impossible but so did making it to 40-years-old with bipolar so I guess it’s worth a try.  

 

There are so many reasons that I don’t feel worthy of my own love but mostly it’s 25 years of the bipolar monster spewing its hateful words and me drowning as I gulp them down. It hijacks my mind and colors the way I see myself and the world around me and it’s time to take some of that power back. There is a softer, quieter voice underneath that has been patiently waiting for me to shut up long enough to hear it. 

 

I’m not quite ready to love myself but I figure if I can start to like myself that’s a step in the right direction. I’ve come up with a list of 5 things I’m starting to accept about myself. I feel like an imposter and a liar but if I don’t commit myself to this loving journey then I’m not going to live the life I want. And for me, nothing is more dire. I’ve fought so hard to stay alive and I CAN NOT have that fight mean nothing. 

 

So, here’s my acceptance list:

 

…hmmm…

 

Ok, I’ve got this.

 

1)I’m coming to accept that my love will always feel like all or nothing and this often corresponds with my depression and hypomania.  One minute I want to run and live by myself in the woods with a bunch of cats and the next my husband feels like the only home I’ll ever want. It’s beyond challenging not to pack up my purple leggings and electric toothbrush when I start obsessing about whether he’ll leave because I’m so broken. I’m scared he’ll figure out he can do better and go find that better.

 

2)I’ll always need help when my brain stops working. I get stuck in the bathtub, well not literally, and need someone to come in and help me figure out my next steps. I can’t wrangle my thoughts enough to piece together how to get from wet in bathtub to dry in bed with pajamas on. This may seem ridiculous but when my mind shuts down it doesn’t leave any cookie crumbs back to knowing
how to dress myself.

 

3)I can’t support myself financially. This may change in the future when I sell my next book for sweet, sweet ‘cabin on the water money’, but right now I can barely work. Working part time sent me to the psyche ward so staying stable is now my full-time job. I’m trying to see, though, what value I bring to my household without money. It’s still a work in progress.

 

4)I will always have hanging boobs and stretch marks on my, well, everything. I was super skinny when I was young but food became my way of coping with bipolar, so I have ballooned. As I get older, though, my concern becomes more about health and not how I look in a bathing suit.

 

5)I’ve accepted I won’t get back all those years I hated myself, but I’m starting to create a gentler relationship with myself. I’m not sure if it’ll lead to love but you never really do at the start of a possible love affair.

 

            Do you love or at least like yourself?

Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction: A Game Changer

Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) is a game changer for me. I don't deal well with stress so there've been countless nights where I'm lying in my bed crying with my stomach and neck muscles so tense, they're aching. The worst part is watching my mind racing with thoughts like, “You're a horrible person who deserves to die. I can't do this. Everything is too much.”  

MBSR isn't about relaxation but this can be an awesome side effect. (Finally, a side effect I can get on board with!) It's about taking the moment as it is, no matter how stressful, with curious awareness instead of judgement. In the 8-week course I've been taking there is a formula that's at the heart of mindfulness. Suffering = pain x resistance. Basically, this means that pain is inevitable in everyone's life but it's when we resist the pain that suffering is the outcome. MBSR teaches you to sit with the pain and just watch and accept it without the expectation of change.  

Turns out there's science behind this. MBSR was created by Jon Kabat-Zinn who is a professor of medicine with a Ph.D. in molecular biology. Research has proven that MBSR helps to alleviate stress, anxiety, depression, and chronic pain. It brings together cognitive behavioural skills, mindful movement (yoga and walking), and meditation. 

What's the connection between stress and our body/mind?

People of the cave man era generally dealt with stress by either fight (take on the tiger trying to eat them) or flight (run and hope the tiger eats someone else). And while this was mandatory to stay alive, those of us in the current era have held onto this way of dealing with life's stressors, both big and small. While it's helpful when a building is on fire, it's a bit of an overreaction when someone cuts us off on the drive home from work.  

The flight or fight response causes oxygen to rush to our large muscle groups and shuts down bodily systems that don't seem essential to kill the tiger. These include the digestive, immune, and reproductive systems. Then the brain decides it's time to create a ton of cortisol and adrenaline which increases heart rate, temperature, blood pressure, and sets off so many other alarms. After the threat is over you become exhausted and rest until the heart rate, temperature and blood pressure return to normal and your other bodily systems come back online. This takes about 20 minutes. In life threatening circumstances this is imperative but if we start to respond to all of life's stressors, like the jerk who cut us off, the acute response becomes a chronic one and your body just ain't down with that. 

When the acute stress response becomes chronic it can lead to headaches, chronic pain, frequent illness, decreased energy and insomnia, fertility issues, high blood pressure, high blood sugar, low sex drive, and increased risk of heart attack, anxiety, and depression. This list is exhausting to write so imagine how exhausted your body is when you live this way every. single. day. 

How do we generally deal with this chronic overreaction to stress? 

Through maladaptive behaviours such as overeating, spending too many nights binge watching Netflix, drugs, sex (as a distraction), and overspending. The list is as long as the number of people reading it.  

So, how does MBSR help? Well, let me tell you how it's helped me.

MBSR is teaching me is to regulate my stress response so that I'm not always primed to kill the tiger or finger the driver. Instead, it's given me the space between stressor and response to decide how I want to react. Instead of trying to numb myself by shoving down double stuffed Golden Oreos (the best!) or binge watching serial killer cult documentaries (also the best!) maybe I sit and just take deep breathes for 5 minutes.  

MBSR has been truly amazing in decreasing my anxiety and depression. My brain is calmer and little stressors like having to go grocery shopping or make dinner have become so much easier. But most importantly, the loud and incessant voice in my brain still says awful things 85% of the time but there are now moments of, “You are such a strong person. You can do more and handle more than you think.” All I really want is to not hate myself and I never thought this was possible. Just sitting with and accepting what I feel, think, and who I am at that particular moment has given me the space to re-evaluate my relationship with myself. Man, if I can just take half of the energy I use to fight my self-hate and apply it somewhere productive imagine the things I can do. 

Grocery Store Anxiety

         Do you guys have a get ‘er done friend? I have this friend who is amazing. She has 10 kids (well, maybe 2) and is always getting her to-do lists done. I make a list with the first items being: “Get up”, “Have a shower”, and “Finish making this list”. Three check marks to start off my day. I have such good intentions at 8am but by noon my brain and body have agreed that I just need to chill out for the remainder of the day. Maybe I can stretch it to 1pm but if I push too far a mixed episode is the consequence.

 

         I feel exhausted just listening to how my friend fits in the grocery store, bank, and work between school drop off and pick up. She makes a grocery list and goes shopping. Done. No obsessing about what could go wrong or having to leave the store without her groceries because there’s too many people and it’s overwhelming. 

 

         So, for all of you who may not live up to the get ‘er done title, here’s my experience. Brandi vs the Grocery Store.

 

         I spent the day before making a grocery list that included the brand name and price of each item. This way I could find the product without getting overwhelmed by all the choices. Who knew how many types of toilet paper there were? How many ply’s would I actually need to make my bathroom experience optimal? I blocked off the whole day for 45-minutes of grocery shopping because the noise and fluorescent lights overstimulated me.

         

         I left around 9am on a weekday because the store was mostly empty. Usually only a few elderly people were shopping. They tended to cause a line up by the milk and cheese, while they looked at a flyer, but it was better than being surrounded by stressed parents and cranky kids. 

 

         At the entrance to the store the greeter gave me a smile, but I was embarrassed. I knew my hair was disheveled, I was pale, and my eyes were darting around looking for danger that was never there. 

 

         Upon entering the store I headed to the fruits and vegetables. I squeezed the kiwi’s but they were all too hard or too soft. So, I froze. Did I still get them? If I didn’t check that off my list did that mean I was a failure? A loser? I wished I didn’t go from hard kiwi to failure in 10 seconds, but this was my world. So, I grabbed a stupid, tiny plastic bag, licked my fingers, and packed up the kiwi’s I won’t eat. Covid be damned!

 

         The meat aisle was next. I forgot to write the brand name of the bacon I wanted but to my relief I wrote the price. Unfortunately, there were 5 different brands with that price. My pits started to stain my tank top and cotton filled my mouth. Breathe in, hold for 5, breathe out. (After 40 years you’d think I’d have that breathing thing down by now.) Which bacon had less fat? Which would my husband like? Did we want applewood smoked or just applewood? My get er’ done friend would have snatched one up and moved on but I stood there with a stunned look on my face. Why did everything seem so much harder for me? 

         

After searching up and down 4 aisles I found the Kraft Dinner. The new arrows for Covid protection added a whole new level of anxiety. I came to the end of an aisle and I almost ran into another cart whose driver was searching the floor to see what direction would keep us all alive. We laughed nervously and I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She was just trying to stay awake long enough to find the goddamn peas and get home to teach her 5^th grader math she had to google. I felt a little less alone.

 

         I made it to the lineup to pay. There was one thing left on my list but it was either give up or sit in the frozen food section and cry. I hadn’t brought a sweater, so I decided to leave my list unfinished. I was too inept to even find the McCain’s hash browns that my husband wanted. He did so much for me, and I couldn’t even manage to get him his favorite breakfast. Wife of the year over here.

 

         The woman in front of me was on her phone complaining about how much it cost to have her car detailed. Why was she so loud and grating? I could barely breath, how could she be worrying about her car? Also, why was her shirt so yellow? It was too bright. I looked away and scrolled through Facebook hoping I could distract myself until I went numb. Numb was so nice.

 

         Someone came up behind me. I needed 6 feet, 6 feet, 6 feet. I’m trapped. Breathe in, hold for 5, breathe out. No, you couldn’t reach past me for the frozen fruit bars. Stay in your little red circle and don’t tap your ridiculously long nails on your cart. 

 

         My turn for the cashier. She smiled but I looked down because kindness would make me break down and cry. As I placed my kiwi and bacon on the conveyer belt the toilet paper started to climb on top of the soap beside the cashier. Did I stop placing groceries on the belt? Screw it. I didn’t care anymore if I failed at the shopping experience. I just needed it to be done. I needed it all to stop so I could lay on my bed in the dark and wonder how come I couldn’t be a get er’ done friend.

 

         My friend made a list and went to the store. A short story that she probably wouldn’t  remember at the end of the day.

The Stories We Build Our Lives Around

            It would be great to escape into someone else’s brain. Shrink, “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” style, and burrow through their ear to hike among their gushy brain matter. Eventually I’d find the Cineplex in their brain, grab some caramel popcorn, and watch their life story unfold. Not the story of what actually happened but the story they tell themselves about what happened.  

            The particular film, of a 30-year-old man I know, has two scenes. One of him and his bride covering each other’s nose in buttercream icing and the second was ten years later when a couple signatures made him feel like a failure. But the movie, and marriage, was so much more than that. It was two people who rooted themselves in a messy, distressing, and beautiful life. Those ten years of creating a safe space to fall apart, change, and rebuild themselves wasn’t proof of failure. It was a testament to how two people created a home with no guarantees but still showed up every day to do their best. That’s a huge success in my mind. 

            I’m watching my own story through the lens of twenty-five years of therapy and there’s a deep pain that I’m never able to fully excavate. It’s like the dead flies that you push into the corner of a windowsill when cleaning. You can’t pick them up no matter how many times you stuff paper towel down there. I’m spending thousands and thousands of dollars on therapy when I just need someone to tell me that these flies are part of the messy and uncomfortable human experience. It reflects how clean the rest of the window is. That I work really hard to make them sparkle, but at some point, I have to call it a day.             

            My most predominant story, the one that insinuated itself into all parts of my life, was the belief that I was broken because of bipolar. I was born defective and could never be fixed. That I would never be fully functional. However, I’ve really been working on this and the next step was to write a letter to my 15-year-old self about why I decided she was broken when diagnosed with bipolar. She deserved an explanation and apology.  

            Dear 15-year-old Brandi,             

             I’ve erased and retyped this letter so many times. I still don’t know if I have the words or wisdom to explain to you why I drowned you in shame and convinced you that you were horribly broken. I’ve been experiencing this grief that has no words or breathe or reason. Just a gut feeling that it was time to let go of this destructive and inaccurate story I’ve built my life around. It’s terrifying because the story made me feel safe but it’s bulldozing through my joy. I got to the point where it didn’t really feel like a choice anymore. I can’t carry around this shame.  

            I’ve engraved you into my mind as a victim. Someone who had life happen to her but that wasn’t the real story. The real story was how I helped create a safe place for at-risk youth to heal their own painful stories, opened a brewery, published a book, fell in love with my best friend, and showed up every day to fight for a kick ass life. That’s a pretty impressive list for someone who was only a victim. You were such an integral part of this story. You had this spark, and grit, that I still carry around with me. I’m a scrappy fighter.  

            So, I guess this turned out more of a letter of gratitude than an apology. Maybe you don’t need my guilt but my love and gratitude. And I do so dearly love you. I guess the bottom line is we’re broken and whole, loved and lonely, and strong and exhausted. It’s messy and there’s no need for shame. I don’t think you could understand this at 15, but you gave me the balls to stay alive long enough to figure this out. I miss you.   

                                                                                                                                 Love 40-year-old Brandi

 

What About Fun?

            

            My husband was playing online trivia and seemed genuinely engaged. So, I asked, “Are you having fun?”

 

            He nodded. “Yeah.” 

 

            And then it hit me. Like all heavy moments that were inevitable but blindsided me anyway. My mind was so ravaged with the shouting monsters that it never occurred to me to even want to have fun for the last year. How sad is that?

 

            This last year’s been pretty awful but the last couple months have been hell. One day I’d feel confident in my creative abilities and would write 5 poems and 2 blogs but the next I’d hide under the covers and watch Serial Killer documentaries. They numbed my mind and distracted me from the growing hole inside.

 

            I’m finally, finally starting to feel better. As my unraveling slows down a heaviness in my chest appears. I’ve lost a year of my life. There've been so many goddamn years that I’ve lost and will continue to lose. 

 

            What do I miss the most?

 

            1)Laughter. Not chuckling from a sit com with predictable tropes, but an explosion of laughter. Pepsi shooting out of my nose laughter. Bent over, not able to catch my breath laugher. Joy that doesn’t expect me to earn it. All my struggles with eating and sleeping and hiding fade into the background. The joy will drain away, and the hidden will be revealed, but the moments of glee give me hope.

 

            2)Hugs. I shy away from hugs when depression bulldozes through the life I’ve just rebuilt. I wish I spent less time falling into depression and more time falling into my husband. 

 

            3)Nature. When I go into the forest or sit by the ocean I’m always amazed by how calm and whole I feel. Nature takes the sting out of knowing this illness will never end. I start to wonder if maybe the real power of my broken pieces is not in how they tear me down but in how they help others build back up. 

 

            

 

             

 

            

40 the New 30? My Body Calls B*llshit

           

 Whenever someone says, “I feel healthier than I did 10 years ago,” I mumble, “Good for you.” I’ve just turned 40 and it’s actually been my favorite birthday, but my body would like to lodge a complaint. 40 is not the new 30.

 

            When I went to the doctor at 30 it was for birth control and burning when I pee. To be clear, it was a bladder infection not a consequence of sexy time scenarios that went rogue. This year my doctor said, “I think we’re going to start doing some routine tests every year. You’re getting to that age when things start to go wrong.” This was met with stunned silence. Had my heart and eating innards chatted with my brain and decided to revolt as well? That’s just unfair b*llshit.

 

            Once upon a time when I looked in the mirror my nipples would be standing at attention. Now, that only happens when it’s cold like a motha. Otherwise, they stare at the floor, drained from holding up too many Dairy Milk Toffee bars. No longer are they saying, “Let’s go meet some boys!” but, “We already got the boys to the yard, now leave us alone.”

 

            I do yoga to trick my brain into thinking my body is relaxed and I’m not constantly unraveling. There’s this 25-year-old yoga guru who goes from mountain pose (standing with arms stretched out at 11 and 1) to kissing her knees in one second. My journey is slower and accompanied by grunts. Halfway down I grab onto my knees and slowly walk my hands down my lower legs to the ground. This way my back doesn’t snap. It’s graceful as f*ck. By the time my hands reach the floor she’s already moved onto the next pose. But I keep going because one day soon, “I’ll feel healthier than I did ten years ago.”