This Ain't No Chips Ahoy!

When I look back on the official diagnosis of my depression, I can't help but wonder why no one ever saw the signs. Maybe they did and just didn't say anything. Maybe they too thought it was just a "phase" and I would "snap out of it." Maybe I was so good at hiding it that the thought didn't even cross their minds. Or maybe, it's just who I have always been.

When I was a baby/toddler, my mom had a nickname for me that was quite peculiar. Apparently, she called me cookie for a while because I was small, cute, and sweet(not so peculiar - wait for it!). But I was also a very serious baby, which lended itself to some cognitive dissonance. And then, as if by fate, a brand of sweets came out with a cookie called "Peekfreens" and their tag line was Peekfreens are a very serious cookie. Could there be a more perfect match? My mom couldn't think of one! And so began my long list of lifetime nicknames: Peekfreen.

I don't remember when my mom stopped calling me Peekfreen, but the mere fact that the first term of endearment to really stick was related to my austere nature as a child is, to me, quite telling. I recognize that some children are serious and can often grow into serious adults. I also recognize that seriousness is not always equal to depression. But I can't help but wonder: what if this was the first sign? What if my mom, in thinking she had found the perfect moniker, had actually stumbled upon the very definition of who I was to be?

Fast forward twenty-something years, and I am still (or so I am told) small, cute, sweet, and, well, serious. Nowadays, I'd probably slug someone if they tried to call me cookie, but the analogy is still quite apt. After all, what can you expect from a cookie that has been around that long? I would expect it to...crumble.

Happiness...or lack thereof.

I don't remember the first time I was depressed. I'm assuming I was very young and didn't really know what I was feeling. I do, however, remember the first time I could verbalize it. Not to anyone other than myself of course, but express it nonetheless.

I was a sophomore in college. I had been hanging out with some friends in their dorm room, and realizing the time, decided to walk back to my room. I had a general rule in college that I would not walk across campus alone once it was dark out, but for some reason I refused to let anyone walk with me that night. I stuck to the sidewalks and streetlamps, but still had a feeling of uneasiness. It wasn't the solitude, though. In fact, if anything, I'm glad I was alone.

I don't remember what was on my mind, or if I was thinking about anything at all, but for some reason, I introspectively asked myself if I was happy. And then it happened. For the first time in my life, I burst into spontaneous, uncontrollable tears. I didn't have to answer my own question, for my body language said it all.

As if being watched, I quickly stopped walking and tried to pull myself together. I wasn't anywhere near the point of asking myself why I wasn't happy or even trying to figure out how to change my state of unhappiness, but I did for the first time realize that something was wrong. Something made me ask the question, and something made me answer - well, cry.

While it wasn't the first time I had dried my own tears, it was the first time in my life I had an idea of why I was crying. I wasn't happy. In fact, I was definitively unhappy.

I walked back to my dorm and to be honest, have no recollection of the events that immediately or subsequently followed. I just remember that particular event: the first time I asked myself if I was happy and the first time I honestly answered myself. Unfortunetly, I would ask myself that question many times in the years following, and until only recently, have I been able to answer with anything other than "no."

Easter

Tomorrow is Easter. But you probably know that. I have a picture of my husband and me on my desk from the Easter before we got married. It looks like it came with the frame. He, being a foot taller, is holding me close and arching forward to kiss me. I, being a foot shorter, am craning upward to return the kiss, all-the-while smiling and making it a not-so-perfect smooch, but an almost perfect image of two people in love.

I often wonder if I could ever love anyone as much as as I love my husband. There are times when other people will discuss their relationships, married or not, and I will quietly think to myself that there's no way they feel the same love that he and I share. Other times, we will be out and about shopping or dining together, and overhear another couple. The content of the conversation if often irrelavent, but inevitably I will look into my husband's eyes and sincerely ask with all my heart if he thinks they have what we have. He often says he doesn't know - the more diplomatic of the common responses. But every once in a while, he will look back at me, equally searching the depths of my irises and say, "I doubt it."

I'm sure I'm selfish and arrogant to think that what we share is bigger and better than any other couple's love for one another, but that, in itself, is comforting. I hope others feel this way about their mate. I hope there are lovers who can not see beyond the cartoon stars and twitting birds that emerge when they touch or open their eyes to each other every morning. But I'm happy knowing that this is my life. I'm happy knowing that I am so overwhelmed by our love for one another that I can't adequately put it into words. And most of all, I'm happy that I have someone who feels the same way.

Seriously?

My father is in town. So far, we have eaten, eaten, and then eaten some more. Here is my favorite event/story thus far.

Background: My dad really likes a particular kind of french toast. Last summer, I baked homemade bread (sans machine) and sold it at a local farmer's market on the weekends. One of the types of bread I made was challah, pronounced Holla - like you're giving a shout-out. Anyway, challah is a traditional Jewish sweet bread, with a little saffron (or turmeric) so that it is a tad yellow in color. Very tasty. Traditionally, it is eaten on the Sabbath, so the leftovers are then prepared for breakfast as either toast or, in this case, french toast.

My dad loves challah, so I made an extra loaf one weekend while he was here last summer. We didn't do the whole sabbath meal, but I did make the accompanying breakfast. Apparently, my dad loved it so much, he went back home and has now gotten into the habit of buying challah and having my sister make french toast for him (he's not much of a cook).

Foreground: So my dad and I are having a casual discussion on Thursday night- catch-up if you will, and he mentions the challah french toast. I tell him, I'd be happy to make him some bread and we can have that on Sunday for breakfast. He quickly replies that he doesn't need it, he was just mentioning it.

On my way home from work on Friday, I call my husband to see what he and my dad are up to. He promptly tells me that they are on their way to the grocery story to pick up some challah. Are you kidding me? I comment to my hubby that I offered to make the bread for my dad, so I'm not really sure why he decided to go out and buy it. Hubby's response: my dad didn't want me to work, so he just figured he'd buy it and then all I have to do is make the french toast. My reply: Let me get this straight. He doesn't want me to work, so I don't need to bake the bread, just make the breakfast? Hubby: Yep.

Is there a definition of work out there with which I'm not familiar?