As I go along my daily life, most moments are fairly calm and predictable. People say ugly things to and about me (I rarely pay any attention) and people say nice things to and about me (I give 100 reasons why they’re mistaken). In the struggle that is daily life, though, sometimes those negative things do get through and, along with other circumstances, put me on the ropes. The positive things lift me off them. Every great now and then, someone says something so nice to me that I am both lifted up and knocked for a loop.

My son did it once at age six.

The man who has grown into the godling Jaegar, son of Brodin, God of Swole, was once a little boy whose most hated thing in the world was to throw up. I mean, this kid would rather take a beating than vomit. It was a real issue with him. When riding in the car one day in Latrobe, from the backseat, I hear, “Mom, would you rather throw up or just feel like you were going to throw up?” I said I’d rather just do it and get it over with. He said, “Not me! I’d rather just feel like it.” Several seconds went by. Then he said, “Mom, if I had to to save you, I’d throw up for a whole year.”

Simultaneously the sweetest and grossest compliment I’ve ever gotten.

But, what I heard was, “I love you enough to face my most dreaded monster for you.” What an incredibly precious moment for me as a mother. I was knocked for a loop, speechless.

I had a similar moment last week at work. I greeted a bunch of young coworkers in my usual, goofy way when one of them said, “Miss Jon Anne, you make me wish that you were my mom.”

Wow.

What I heard was, “Of all the people I know that I could chose to be my personal protector and source of unconditional love, I would chose you.” What an incredibly humbling compliment! Again, I was knocked winding.

I know people who say that their goal is to become the person their dog already thinks they are. My dogs think I’m nuts and can’t decide whether their names are Trey and Ellie or Old Man and Pretty Girl or Dammit and Hush. I am the source of food and scratches, but I don’t believe they think I’m all that.

My son, this young woman and others during the course of my life have paid me compliments that I (knowing all too well my short-comings and failures) don’t believe I deserve. Those people and their beliefs in me make me try harder to be the person they think I am, not the small, petty person I often am in my heart. They make me want to treat others in a loving, respectful and accepting way, even when I want to scream and pinch their heads off.

Nah, it’s not my dogs that make me want to be a better person. It’s my son, it’s this young woman, my family, my friends and their convictions that I already am a better person. That’s what pulls me off the ropes, puts me back in the ring and keeps me slugging it out with my baser nature.

Their faith humbles me, sends me reeling but keeps me fighting – especially when it knocks me for a loop.

Before I get into what I really want to say, let me say this: for months, I published five pieces a week and loved doing it. However, writing that much is a lot of work and I just cannot do it these days. I don’t have the energy. Still, I love writing and (even more) love hearing from you all; so, I have decided to write weekly on Mondays and Thursdays. From time to time (like today) I’ll throw something else in just because it’s on my mind; but, I commit to writing at least on those two days of the week to give the site more predictability.

Now, on with the show……….

A few years ago, my dad and I were discussing age and what it feels like. I marveled that 40 just didn’t feel like I thought it would. He chuckled and said that neither did 72! He had expected to be in a rocker on the front porch yelling at neighborhood kids to get off the lawn. Instead, he was out fighting forest fires and slinging a chainsaw removing downed trees from roads.

Most of my coworkers are significantly younger than I am – in fact, I’m old enough to be the mother of many of them. However, because we perform the same job and because I don’t know them in any other age context (like a friend of my son), I forget that I am not their contemporary. I was reminded last night.

A credit to her mother, one coworker called me “ma’am” about five times in the space of as many minutes. I wanted to choke her. Finally, I said, “Call me “ma’am” one more time. I wantcha to.”  She laughed and said that she was just being respectful. I get that and, like I said, she’s a credit to her mother. However, with each iteration, I felt myself becoming more stooped and stiff. I’m pretty sure I even sprouted a few grey hairs. (Thank goodness for Miss Clairol! We are TIGHT, I tell ya.)

Another coworker was ragging on my elevated energy at having heard Lenny Kravitz’s “Are You Gonna Go My Way” just before exiting the car. “It was a good song, like, ten years ago,” he said. I guess that made the song classic rock and me an old fossil. Grrrr.

I thought I would be this Having It All Together Woman at this age, but I’m not. I don’t. And, honestly, I don’t think all that many of us do. I think that we do the best we can with what we have every single day. We hope that our decisions are right and we learn from them when they are not.

I think I have a clue as to why over 40s are reluctant to give their exact ages. If I say, “46” I’m afraid you hear, “nearly 50.” And there is a part of even me that still thinks of 50 as old even though I know it isn’t. My body, my mind and my emotions are certainly much different than they were when I was younger; however, in large part, my spirit still feels about 25. It dreams. It appreciates beauty. It laughs at the absurd. And it grieves when it feels hurt.

Age hasn’t changed my spirit the way I thought it would. Maybe, if they live long enough, these children will realize that, too. However, if they keep on with the “ma’ams” and ragging on Lenny, they may not make it.

Last week, I shared with you some of my thoughts on suicide from a fatigue point of view and from a mental illness point of view. As I was discussing the pieces with a coworker, I mentioned that I have been directly involved with or one person removed from more people who have committed suicide than I have who have died from car wrecks AND cancer. My coworker (and fellow Cat Person) said that, in contrast, he knew no one who had killed themselves. Huh. How about that?

I know that he believes what he told me; but, I think it’s really more a matter of how you define suicide.

If you go with the single, catastrophic act, then maybe he doesn’t know anyone who has committed self-murder; however, given the broader definition that we discussed back in August, I’ll bet he does.

In August, I shared some statistics with you on obesity in the United States and, frankly, the rates still blow my mind. In 1960, some 13% of us were obese (having a BMI of 30 – 34.99). Today, 35% of us are. That percentage hasn’t changed much in the past couple of years; but, before we get all excited and break out the celebratory sundaes, let’s look at morbid obesity rates (having a BMI of greater than 35). Those were at only 1.4% in 1980. Today, that rate is at 6.3%, a 350% increase. I’ve lumped the super-morbidly obese in with that same group. They were not unheard of 50 years ago, but we didn’t see them every day at the mall, either.

Health issues are the obverse of the obesity coin, just as they are for the tobacco coin. If you smoke, you’re more likely to get certain cancers, certain circulatory diseases, etc. If you are obese, the same things are true. The names of the cancers and circulatory diseases may be different, but the effect is the same – continue to smoke (chew, whatever) or remain obese and you’re more likely to die of a completely preventable disease.

If you willfully engage in an activity that will lead to your death – either immediately or in a few years – that’s suicide in my book.

Now, let me back up and remind you that I am a nicotine addict, non-smoking smoker. I smoked for the better part of 20 years and up to two packs a day. As I told another coworker last week when he remarked that I was “fat” in an old photo, I wasn’t “fat.” I was obese – likely morbidly obese, I’ve just never run the numbers. My purpose is not to condemn. I’ve been there, right on that ledge.

Many years ago, my friend Lance – who is as about as subtle as a Howitzer (one of the reasons I adore him) – told me that I was killing myself but that I was doing it the long way. He was right. I knew it at the time, but I was at a place in my life when passive suicide sounded like an okay idea to me, really. It doesn’t anymore.

So, my friend, I’m asking you to look at your feet. Are you standing on a ledge? If you are, good news! You’re still standing! That means you can take my hand and come back down. Let’s stay off the ledge together.

So, yesterday, we left off talking about fatigue, suicide and the play “‘night, Mother.” Today, we’re going to start with Greek myths. (It’s been awhile. You’d forgotten that I jump around like that, hadn’t you?)

I believe that I may have mentioned King Sisyphus before. His story is one of my favorites and one that I think is applicable across many circumstances.

There are a couple of different versions of the story; but, the main point is that Sisyphus pissed Zeus off and, as punishment, spent eternity pushing a huge boulder up a hill all day, every day only to have it roll back to the bottom every night. Sisyphus was condemned to an eternity of labor that he could never successfully complete. He was to spend all time fighting a battle that he could not win.

As I said, I don’t know the answers for all who make the tragic choice to end their lives; but, for those with chronic depression, I have an idea and I don’t think it has anything to do with cowardice. Even more than in Jessie’s case from yesterday, I think that it’s really more a question of the frustration of fighting a battle that can never be won and the sheer exhaustion of waging the battle at all.

Chronic depression is a monster that lives in the sufferer’s brain – all the time. It’s not situational. It’s not transient. It’s permanent. It’s constant. Modern medications can keep it on chain and under control – when they are working. If a depression trigger is flipped, the meds may not be as effective, loosening the chains, allowing the monster to move around a little bit, make a good bit of noise, throw the depressed off balance and give everyone a nice little scare. From time to time, however, meds may stop working completely or the sufferer may not be able to afford them. In those cases, the monster gets off chain and the true terror begins.

I’m sure that there are many who kill themselves at this point since perceptions are so skewed and horrifying. However, I believe that more danger comes not during the crisis, but just afterward, when the sufferer realizes that the monster will always be there. They can fight it (and they will have to) for the rest of their lives, but they will never win. The monster will always be there, waiting in the dark recesses, waiting for the chains to loosen, waiting to break free. Fighting it takes courage, sure. But, more than courage, it takes energy. The endeavor is Sisyphean in the extreme – ultimately useless effort and unending frustration. At some point, the sufferer may just become too tired.

From the outside, it may appear that the depressed should just “get busy living or get busy dying.” From the inside, it’s not that easy. The sufferer is, in many respects, trapped between the two states of truly living and actually dying.

The daily battle of the chronically depressed is more pervasive and braver than a non-sufferer can know. The choice to end that battle is not a cowardly one and has nothing to do with anyone other than the depressed. If someone dear to you has chronic depression of any kind – bipolar, unipolar, whatever-polar – love them, be there for them, watch them for signs of fatigue.

Don’t bother looking for cowardice. For, with the fight they wage every day, you’ll find none.

For another view, see Hyperbole and a Half: Depression, Part Two.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve seen these Bravelets on Facebook several times and, while I applaud the idea behind them and the many battles they signify, they strike me as being a little off the mark as far as suicide goes.

Let me say plainly – I applaud the idea behind the bracelets and this piece is in NO WAY intended as criticism or discouragement of any kind. The jewelry just made me start thinking and I now share those thoughts with you.

As I think I’ve mentioned before, I know personally and know of more people who have committed suicide than I know people who have died from both car wrecks and cancer combined. Maybe that says something about my demographic, I don’t know; but, I don’t think so. We have all these public service announcements about vehicular safety and we raise millions for cancer research. Where are the PSAs for suicide awareness? Where are the suicide awareness and prevention walks, marathons, and telethons? While there are more of them than there were even five years ago, there still aren’t many.

We don’t want to talk about self murder. So, we don’t. We stick our heads in the sand and pretend it’s not real. Unaddressed, the problem grows. We simply must have this conversation.

I’ll start.

There is surely no one cause for suicide – there is no one tipping point, no common “straw that broke the camel’s back,” no single thing that causes people to choose to end their own lives. Often, the decision is put down to weakness or cowardice. I think it’s insulting to the victims and their loved ones to suggest that it’s that simple.

As humans, we want reasons. We need Why. I’ve heard some suggestions, even, that we invented religion to satisfy our innate need for causality. (And, lemme make clear that the whole question of religion is a great big can of worms that we ain’t even gonna think about opening up here. Like, ever. I’m way too “live and let live” for that.) With respect to death in general, we often ask for a Why? In the case of what is perceived as premature death and certainly in the case of self-murder, we clamor for one.

In Marsha Norman’s play, “‘night, Mother,” the suicidal Jessie says:

“Mama, I know you used to ride the bus. Riding the bus and it’s hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don’t get off is it’s still 50 blocks from where you’re going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride 50 more years and get off then, it’s the same place when I step down to it. Whenever I feel like it, I can get off. As soon as I’ve had enough, it’s my stop. I’ve had enough. “

It’s not that Jessie’s life is so bad, it’s just that she doesn’t see it getting any better and she’s just tired of living it. She wants to get off. Her reason, her causality, her Why is plain, old, unglamorous fatigue. She’s just tired of living her life.

I didn’t see the play. In the late 80s, I saw the insanely powerful movie starring Sissy Spacek and Anne Bancroft. (If you can find it, watch it. It’s wonderfully done and those two women are brilliant.) Other than a general hopelessness that her life was ever going to improve, I don’t recall any other specific reason being given for her fatigue. For many with chronic depression, though, there is a very specific reason for it. We’ll talk about that tomorrow.

Last week, a reader mentioned to me that I haven’t written in awhile. I haven’t abandoned you or the Positive Thinking Blog Goddess. I now work third shift and, frankly, am so tired that I can barely see straight most days. However, the truth is that I write in my head most nights as I work. I just never get around to putting those thoughts down here.

I have learned a great deal over the past few months. I’ve learned a lot about myself – my strengths, weaknesses, prejudices and failings. I’ve learned to see and appreciate things differently. I question much more and, yet, I accept much more. I have much to share with you and many questions to ask. I hope that you will share with me, as well.

I will endeavor to share my thoughts more regularly. I don’t know that I will be Daily Doty; but, I miss you guys! I enjoy sharing my thoughts and getting your feedback in return. so, I will be certainly more than Sporadic Doty. Thanks for bearing with me and for showing up again.

I saw Mariska Hargitay on Katie Couric’s talk show recently. In addition to talking about her 14-year run as Olivia Benson on Law & Order: SVU, the actress talked about her organization – No More. Now that I’ve seen the logo, I often see it in the background on NBC’s long-running show.

I applaud Ms. Hargitay for creating this organization after receiving thousands of letters from victims of sexual assault and domestic violence. I also applaud NBC for promoting the organization so regularly, if subtly. It’s long past time that victims of abuse ceased to be victims of the system that is supposed to protect them.

In addition to watching the PSA embedded below, I urge you to see related No More, VAWA and Joyful Heart Foundation videos on YouTube.