Anxiety – I Want My Happy Back

Dear Basketball and Kobe

Part 2

In my last entry, I wrote about basketball, Kobe Bryant, and memories of my son playing basketball. Nothing in the entry referenced the connection to my depression. This entry explains my heartache and anxiety associated with the sport.

When I realized the seriousness of Elliott, my son, wanting to play professionally, my biggest fear was that it wouldn’t happen. At 5’11, 180 lbs (all muscle), he was up for some pretty stiff competition. Although he is fast on his feet, driven with the Mamba Mentality of Kobe Bryant and extremely dedicated, I worried that his height and also the fact that he did not make the high school or university basketball team would be the most significant obstacles on or lacking on his resume.

Elliott trained so hard, on and off the court, to make basketball a career. His entire life has revolved around the game. Yet, I knew he was at a bit of a disadvantage because of his height. Height can significantly influence success in sports. According to the Complete Idiots Guide to Basketball (Walt Frazier and Alex Sachare, 1998), all players are often thought to have an advantage because their shots have less distance to travel to the basket, they start closer to the rebound, and their ability to reach higher in the air yields a better chance of blocking shorter players.

The average height of an NBA player is 6’7”. There is an 8-inch difference between this average and Elliott’s height. I became obsessed with height when Elliott began investing a lot of time, money, and energy into fulfilling his dream after college. I knew that mentally nothing was going to get in the way of Elliott’s success. Although there is nothing that I can do about his height, the only thing that was in my power was to give him 100% of my support. My son never mentions anything about his height. I have never heard him complain about it. Never. For me, it is a whole different scenario. In my head, lack of height is what I know will prevent him from moving forward. That really hurts my heart. I want him to succeed as badly as he does.

Although he is fine with where he is currently, there is nothing that would make his life more complete than playing overseas (or in the U.S.) professionally. As mentioned in my previous blog, Elliott is on a semi-pro team in Flordia, and had the opportunity to compete in China and has had a few leads since China. I want more for him. I want bigger and better for him (no pun intended).

There is nothing worse than someone with depression worrying about their child’s success in something they are so passionate about. It keeps me up at night. It makes me cry, each day, that he is not where he wants to be. And I can’t do a thing about it!

On to something else that has hurt my heart is Kobe Bryant’s death. I will never forget where I was when I heard about it. When I first read the breaking news, I thought it was a joke. I really thought TMZ was pulling a fast one. Over the next few hours, I realized it there was nothing more real.

I have never cried about the death of someone I don’t personally know. Celebrities have passed, and I felt terrible. I may play their music or watch their movies a few times, but none has sent me into such a depression. I saw all the mourners pouring onto the Staples Center, LA, and around the world, but I felt they didn’t admire him as much as I did. I don’t even think my son felt as horrible as I did. It put me into such a state of depression. I took time off from work. I couldn’t stop watching specials and interviews regarding Kobe Bryant’s legacy on and off the court. I bought every magazine with Kobe on the cover. I’ve saved them all. I cannot explain the severity of the mental anguish I went through.

It was just three days after Kobe’s death, that my son showed me that he understood what pain I may be going through. He never helps me with the depression side of things. Anxiety attacks, when he is around, he helps me get through, but I have never felt his compassion, empathy, or understanding of my diagnosis. On this particular day, Elliott sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers. They were all purple and yellow. He got me, finally! I don’t know why this is the only time in his life that he showed sympathy for my depression. It has bothered me every day since he was made aware of my depression, that he refuses to acknowledge or help me through my depression. He has no idea what that small gesture of sending flowers did for me. It helped me through an extremely difficult time. If I could feel that support from him more often, I think depression would be more bearable.

He has been aware of my diagnoses for at least twenty years and in those twenty years, I have been gifted his support once. It is this one gesture that made me realize, even more, how much I would appreciate his support. Granted, children are not supposed to take care of their Mom/Dad, but I know how much of a difference it made when I supported my Mom in her depressive episodes. Through my setting this example, one would think he would do the same. I have never asked him for help during a depressive crisis. I shouldn’t have to. I have asked him to educate himself on depression, but it seems he hasn’t. That hurts my heart. The flowers, although long gone, are my only source of his comfort as far as this disease is concerned. Sad. Am I expecting too much?

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Why? This question further made my depression worse. Why was I reacting to Kobe’s death in such a way? Why did I feel such a strong connection to him? My life in the following months became hazed over in purple and yellow.

The unnecessary tragedy. The loss of Kobe’s beautiful daughter. The beautiful love story between Vanessa (his wife) and their children. His dedication to helping others in need. Although Kobe retired years earlier, basketball lost a legend. The world lost a man who cared about the plight of others and made a difference in many people’s lives.

As I write this, more than six months after the passing of Kobe, his daughter, Gianna, and the other seven lives taken too soon, I cry.

This brings me to my final thought about basketball, Kobe, and my son. I have terrible anxiety over flying and driving. When my son told me about winning the U.S. tournament and would be competing in the China Jump 10 competition, my second thought is “He has to travel. Travel internationally!” I fretted over that prospect until the day he returned home – well over four months. I experienced four months of non-stop anxiety.

And then Kobe dies, less than six months later, dying a mere 26 minutes after take-off!

My take away: I want everything (and more) my son, Elliott, wants. I always need him to be safe. I idolized Kobe Bryant and didn’t even realize it until his death. Sympathetic gestures go a long way. I need emotional support from the one that matters most, my son.

God bless Elliott and Kobe, my basketball heroes.

Dear Bad Memories

I was brought up in a strict parental environment. Not much, as far as disrespectful behavior, was tolerated without automatic reprimand. Re-direction, sit-down talks, a chance for remorse/explanation, in my world, did not exist. There was no compassion or empathy for the child. I say “child,” but truthfully, I mean “me.” My parents’ understanding or even consideration, of why I did what I did, was lacking. Most times, it was merely “do and obey,” or you would not get the love and attention you were craving. The only time I seemed to get attention, despite the consequences, occurred when I acted out. It wasn’t the type of attention I was seeking; I hoped for compassion, empathy, trust, and love, but ultimately, I received physical or some form of negative punishment. I don’t even think I knew I was “seeking attention”.

I was adopted, along with my sister and brother in 1961, 1959, and 1954, respectively. I am so sure they should have stopped adopting at #2. I honestly believe it was too much for my mother, especially as a stay-at-home mom. I say this because I need to defend the actions of my parent(s). I do love(d) them. Love or not, they did hurt me in more ways than one and that I won’t defend.

That is not to say I didn’t experience love, grand adventures, travel abroad, perfect Christmases, and generosity from both immediate and extended family. But all this hinged on my behavior. The biggest faux-pas: Disrespect.

I had a small discussion with my immediate family concerning the punishment I experienced as a child. Unfortunately, I picked a horrible time to bring it up; during the days before my father’s death. We were gathered outside on the balcony at my parent’s place; my father was there too. He wasn’t able or perhaps did not want to participate in the conversation. I think the fact that he did not utter a word during this short talk was that he was too far gone. The subject I brought up revolved around being hit by the belt, and a yellow yard-stick. I never mentioned the “shoe incident.”

That shoe incident. It haunts me more and more the older I get. It was in the summertime on a Saturday. I don’t recall what I did. I think, no, I know, I subconsciously blanked out a lot of bad things from my childhood. Some events just stick. Despite that, I upset my mother that day. She grabbed a pretty turquoise thong sandal with a heel of about an inch. I loved those sandals. I used to play dress up in them. They had a pretty turquoise jewel right at the base of the foot. She chased me around the backyard with this shoe to punish me for what I had done/said. I lost my balance, running away from her and landed on my bum. I used the back of my heels, digging into the grass and pavement to propel myself backward as I tried furiously to get away from her attempted and successful/unsuccessful hits. I was yelling and screaming at the top of my lungs. After many blows, she finally bashed me in the back of my head with the heel of the shoe. I began to bleed. I vividly recall how sticky my black hair was as my hand covered the pained wound. I remember screaming that I was bleeding. Still, on my bum, in hysterics, I continued to be pursued by the shoe and my mom. Next thing I recall, I was in the car with my father and a towel on my head. We headed to the doctor. The whole way there, my father drilled in my head that I fell off the bike. I don’t know how many times I repeated that. I got stitches. Dad and I didn’t talk on the way home. I went straight to my room. The craziest parts of this whole ordeal: 1) I never got an apology 2) I got blamed for breaking my mother’s toe; this occurred during that messy pursuit while she was chasing me (she must have stubbed in on something). Because of that broken toe, I ruined a long-planned, expensive vacation that my parents went on days or weeks afterward. My mother had to be pushed around in a wheelchair (in Europe, I think)! How crazy is that??? I got all the guilt laid on me, and decades later, it’s still there. Even in their vacation picture albums………there’s the guilt in full color!

Here’s what hurts my soul: Where was Dad chasing Mom around the yard, making her stop hitting me? Where were my siblings fending her off of me? Where was someone protecting me?

My family adamantly denied events such as this occurred. I did not mention this particular incident during our discussion on the balcony that day. I spoke of the punishment I received as a child and a few light examples. My brother and sister berated me, yelled at me and called me disrespectful. Ultimately, I left their company. I will admit that I had awful timing, and it was entirely uncalled for. I feel horrible about the timing.

It pains me to know my siblings denied these punishments occurred. It hurts like hell my mother, to this day, has never admitted these cruel forms of punishment took place and that she was a participant. My family said I was lying about all this. I don’t know why or what I expected from this ill-timed conversation, but in retrospect, I did not expect them not to acknowledge that this had occurred.

I was locked in the basement, literally locked in a small room fondly referred to as the Wine Cellar. A narrow, cold room with no light (that I could reach) save for the sunlight that shone from a small window high up. The floor was unfinished. The room was not insulated. The only things in this room were rows of wine bottles. This form of punishment was common.

As a toddler, I had done something to upset my mother enough that she sent me outside on a cold, sunny, winter’s day. After a time, I had to pee. I remember yelling and crying through the door that I had to go. I ended up peeing my pants.

My parents sent me to Holland in the fifth grade to stay with my Grandmother. Their hopes were “I’d change.” They threatened me with military school or boarding school. Ultimately, for ninth grade, they shooed me off to a boarding school two hours away near Niagara Falls. One may think, “what a lucky girl”! Many of my parent’s friends and family said so. Not understanding the circumstances of ridding me away, they had no idea. I tried to make the best of both situations.

I got blamed for everything. I was punished for stupid stuff. Eating cookies that my mother had hidden so we wouldn’t eat them. Why buy them? Granted, they were hidden, so I knew I shouldn’t have looked for them, but, again, I’m a kid. I know the cookies are around. I have a sweet tooth, like most children. Most of the time, I was alone in the house when I was looking for them, so boredom was most likely a factor as well. As I write this, I am to blame for my punishment in this matter, but as a child, I did not see it justifying harsh punishment. As a parent myself, I think my mother should not have dangled the cookie in front of me so that the temptation was there or she could have set out a plate of cookies and milk so snooping and punishment would not have occurred.

I can’t continue. This hurts my insides. But I need to publish. I need to get this “out.” This was Child Abuse. I am saying it out loud for the first time. It’s so sad. I loved him. I love her. I want to let this emotional and physical trauma go, but I don’t know how.

Dear My Little Man

I have been thinking about you non-stop for the last 24 hours because I posted a blog about you yesterday. I was scared to hit the enter button because it was such a private matter between you and me, but I thought it would bring me some closure to your passing. So far, it hasn’t, it has brought me only more sorrow.

I miss you, little guy. I never realized what you brought to my life. I took you for granted and I’m sorry about that.

I know you loved me and I know you know I loved you.

You were a bit of a difficult dog, behavior wise, but I accepted that. Not many others did. There were many things we could not do because of your rambunctiousness, but we still had a good time. We made the best of the situation. I think you made me become an introvert when I had always been an extrovert. We did things where you could be outside, but where we wouldn’t encounter a lot of dogs or people. I was a bit scared you would hurt other dogs/people, yet you were so sweet, loving, and timid around me. When others would come to the house, you were a changed doggie: excited and uncooperative; same in public places. I blame myself for that because I did not have a lot of visitors, nor did we go out a lot, consistently. So, ultimately, I guess I didn’t give you proper socialization skills and training.

My Little Man, you brought me such peace in my life. You gave me love during my bouts of depression when no one else would. That’s a huge thing! I remember so many times I would be sitting on the couch, lying in bed, sitting in a chair outside or standing in the kitchen at the counter and out of no where I would be crying or have an anxiety attack, and you would walk up to my side and be there. If you could reach my face, you would lick away the tears. If I were standing at the counter, you would jump up, look at me with a tilt in your head suggesting a question of “what can I do”? Reminding me to “breathe”. Telling me you were there for me to take my mind off things and play football with you! THESE were the only times you stood up on the counter! Such a good man!

I miss you, buddy!

Until We Meet Again At The Rainbow Bridge

It feels like yesterday that I brought my rescue puppy to his fur-ever home. But it was eight years, three months ago. It feels like minutes ago when he passed, but it was months ago on May 30^th, 2019, at 7:48 a.m. That’s when my world turned upside-down and inside out. The grief was akin to a torrential downpour that came from nowhere; quite similar to Southwest Florida’s summer rains. The rain of utter despair didn’t end as quickly and flooded my entire being. Everything went quiet in my head except for the clouds of tears pelting down within my body, soul, and heart. I could not think The grief ruled me, just like a severe bout of depression.

His breathing was labored. I dressed hurriedly praying I could get to the animal clinic to get us more time. Not a minute later, I stood over him, in disbelief. I was frozen. Scared, hurting for him and feeling his pain in my gut, I knew this was it. It was evident that there wouldn’t be time to get help. I tried to get him up off the cool, tile floor, failing. I lifted his head less than ½” from the floor to connect the leash to his collar. The lead was Ioose in my hand, and as I got to the stand position, his head dropped to the floor. To this day, I can hear this happening in my head. It’s driving me crazy. I hear that sound, head to the floor, inside my head, daily and it sounds like a massive clap of thunder. It seemed inhumane. It certainly wasn’t intentional. I had no idea that in those few minutes how lifeless his head (and body) had become. I try and remind myself his head was less than a 1/2th inch from the floor and it couldn’t have possibly hurt, but convincing myself this is a whole different thing. The guilt will not go away as I am reminded of it every day, especially as I fall to sleep at night.

My Little Man (crazy name, right?) was too heavy for me to pick up and bring to the car. Sixty plus pounds of muscle, hair, and a huge heart, along with a monster inside, (stomach cancer) killing him! I succumbed to the inevitable, just like he was and lay down with him. Petting, and saying over and over and over, “I love you.” I stroked that soft, wavy hair between his ears. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to let him know it was okay. Okay to end the pain. Okay to cross over the Rainbow Bridge. “I’m here, my buddy, and I won’t leave your side.” (or rather, I can’t leave your side).

It’s odd, one hears about humans and their near-death experiences. Some say their whole life flashes before them. That is what happened to me in less than a moment. I saw our entire life together. I also had a million regrets that flashed by.

Just two days earlier, I had found out he had inoperable stomach cancer, which had spread all over his body. The vet said My Little Man, and I had time. In fact, he said we had a couple of weeks. We went home with a prescription of Tramadol (pain killer) and, per the vet’s recommendation, I bought CBD oil to help him through what time he had left. We took it easy for the rest of that day. I texted my son the horrible news, “Oh, Momma! I’m so sorry.”, he texts.

I texted my one and only friend. She writes: “Oh, my God…what can I do for you? “Oh, no…I am so sorry”. “I am here if you need to talk.”

Throughout the rest of that day, I made a bucket list for My Little Man’s last weeks. We would go to his favorite swimming spots: Bird Key Park, Ken Thompson Park, Bayfront Park. We would swim until his paws wrinkled. We would go to O’Leary’s, Arlington Park. I would allow him to eat anything he wanted. He would sleep in my bed – no matter how dirty or smelly he might be.

I only got the chance to do one: My best buddy slept in my bed. He couldn’t get up in it without help. We snuggled. I held his paw. I practically slept on top of him! He was always so warm and soft; this night was no different. His breathing always lulled me to sleep. This nights’ breathing was labored and lull me to sleep; it didn’t. One night in my bed! All the things on our bucket list and that’s all I got! One bluddy night!

At dusk the following evening, My Little Man had the best time in a very, very long time. Due to a bout of severe depression that had (and continues ) lasted months, I hadn’t been as attentive or active as I should have been with Little Man. But, this devoted guy showed me the real power of unconditional love, devotion, and the meaning of precious time. HE SHOWED ME! My Little Man gave me one last gift, and without realizing, I reciprocated. Despite the lethargy that comes along with depression and the increase of pain in my heart since he was diagnosed, I gave him every last bit of energy I had on this night.

The blue sky, free of clouds, comforted us in our pain. Strangely, it wasn’t sweltering hot outside like a usual May evening. The soft breeze energized our souls. My guy wanted to play. My Little Man spotted his favorite toy: a worn-out football with a rope at the end. It had been lying there for weeks without being disturbed by teeth, paw, or human hand. A sign I should have caught onto weeks before. He grabbed his toy between this teeth and attempted to make it squeak. He loved all things squeaky! Years ago it had lost is sound. He brought it over to where I was sitting, a few paw steps away, and gave me that “look.” The look that said, “let’s play.” Fearful of overexerting him, I gently threw it a couple of times at his feet. He slowly went for it and brought it back to me, but not before he gave it his customary shakey-shakey. I threw again, further this time. He ran, retrieved, and placed it in my hand. He seemed invigorated with each toss. So, I threw it as far as I could. Tail wagging, he burst off the deck and chased after it like there was no tomorrow (turns out there wasn’t much of a tomorrow for him). He flew back to me, tail wagging, the force of the wind blowing his long black hair back. I could see something in his eyes I hadn’t seen in a long time; complete joy. I had the same feeling inside. Again and again, I threw it as far as I could. He didn’t want to stop playing, and no matter how tired I became, I threw and threw and threw.

All good things come to an end. Little Man played with such vigor for well over twenty minutes, stopping to lap up ice water from his bowl with the same enthusiasm as fetching his ball. Finally, exhaustion took over him and “down” he went. He chose a spot that gave him a 180° view of his backyard kingdom and a glimpse of me. He calmy watched the butterflies nearby, followed the birds with his eyes — nature at its best. The mockingbirds were beginning to take over the silence, as the sun slowly made its descent. Every once in awhile, he would turn his head back to me (to see if I was still there?). His coat shone so brightly, lit up by the rays of the setting sun.

I grabbed my camera to take a picture of this majestic animal I so loved and appreciated. Just before I hit the button, he turned around to look at me, without a prompt from me. At that moment, I thought I had just taken the most beautiful picture of him. He turned away and looked out towards the yard, and the shutter clicked again. He looked as graceful and proud as a lion watching over his pride from his throne. I look back on these pictures with a heavy heart. I can see in his eyes his pain. I see sadness. They aren’t as wide-eyed and bright as they once were.

Had I looked in his eyes for signs of “something” before this night, I may have been able to save him. How long had the pain been there? When did it start to take a toll on him? Why hadn’t he cried, whimpered, or somehow let me know he was in pain? Most overwhelming for me, why didn’t I do something earlier? I could have. I saw a change in his eating habits, but I thought it was due to a change in food (which I immediately threw out). I saw a change in his energy level, and I did nothing. Does depression come with denial, ignorance, and selfishness too? No matter what the answer to my last question, I blame myself for his death. This is the most overwhelming feeling I have ever experienced. I don’t have words to explain how to overcome I am with my guilt of not taking care of him properly. No one knows how this whole thing transpired because I never told anyone of the subtle changes in My Little Man. I was too wrapped up with the hopelessness of my own life. I was so damned overcome from this bout of depression that the last few months was nothing but sleep, total exhaustion during waking hours, I didn’t see anything around me. Not even my best buddy was immune to my symptoms.

“I feel for you. I know it’s tough. He was a great pup. He grew on me the last couple of years.” “You’ll get through it Mom it’s the only option.” This was my son’s text.

I miss my friend.

Sidenote: This took me more than three months to write. Tears overwhelmed me, sentence after sentence, and I had to let the tears take over and leave my writing. Three months and I still think of our life together every day and night. My only comfort is that we will meet again at the Rainbow Bridge, and I literally cannot wait to wrap my soul around him again.