where the (expletive) is my depression light

Okay, I know that something is wrong with me when this level of anxiety arises because I cannot find my cheap attempt of happiness through a stupid Costco light -- which I haven't seen them stock in years, btw. Yet, after respites (which I am so incredibly grateful that I have), I return to the gray and it feels like it kills my soul. My energy drains out of my body and my mind goes to the darkest corners.

My biggest mistake, I realize now, was moving to California after grad school. First of all, it was San Francisco ultimately, but began through misguided advice in Walnut Creek, an amazing place if you are starting a family or retiring but as a twenty four year old woman -- well, thank god I got a job within a week and quickly took on a life of no boundaries and working sixty plus hours a week.

I eventually, out of dire necessity (roommate moving) and sanity sake, moved to SF proper. I loved it. I worked in the sunshine, disciplined myself -- which honestly will shock anyone who knows me now, to wake up at 5:30 in the morning in SF to avoid traffic on my drive south, run at a gym I joined just for this purpose, and returned to a cool evening in the city that allowed windows to be open without bugs. It truly was my version of heaven. I moved a few more times in the city, from the Haight to the Marina and eventually to Sausalito, but actually kept this routine. I ended up finding the most amazing career in Cupertino | Mountain View and again adapted my life to a commute. Sunshine during the day, cool nights. It honestly was my heaven.

Truth moment is that in the "winter" in Northern California, we had a rainy season, but I still commuted and for some reason it never seemed to weigh on me. We went to Tahoe on the weekends to ski and there was sun there, so all was good. I've never been bothered by cold -- I could take any temperature thrown at me as long as I could be fed with a consistent amount of Vitamin D sunshine.

I never recognized until much later, returning to SF after we had moved first to Chicago, then to Michigan, that when I went to California I could actually breathe. This realization was made due to the fact that I had always had allergies and grew up during a time that didn't really subscribe to allergy testing or shots. I was miserable growing up in Michigan -- despite loving it with my whole heart, but I couldn't actually breathe or sleep there. I thought maybe it was me escaping a strong, repressive influence from an environment that didn't fit with my own inner being. But no, I actually had terrible allergies and breathing, which I mistook as new found freedom in my early twenties, was actually impeded by the large amounts of mulch and amazing array of grasses and tree varieties in my beloved home state. Huh.

I also didn't understand how much the lack of sun affected me. When my husband and I moved to Chicago from San Francisco, I was incredibly sad. I love Chicago but the first summer was lonely and I watched the heat warning on the news with surprise and frustration. I tried to run but felt really tired and hot. A. would come home from work and the smell of his shoes would overwhelm me. I craved blueberries and lemonade and the spiciest Mexican food you could find. We went to a Cubs game and I was nauseous and couldn't drink a beer (a high alert for anyone who knows me). Turns out I was pregnant. Oy!

Chicago also was my time with my father. My parents divorced when I was in third grade and while my brother, mom and I returned to where my mom grew up, Western Michigan, my dad settled into a new job in Chicago. My weekends, for the majority of my entire childhood through college, were spent on the road to Chicago. I learned how to drive in Chicago. My dad made me parallel park in downtown Chicago.

An aside: My mother also taught me -- in a stick shift, back in Michigan. Unfortunately our first time out she brought a cup of coffee. I hadn't come close to mastering the subtleness needed with switching gears, the clutch, etc. It was unfortunate but c'mon -- nobody gets into a stick shift car with a totally new driver with hot coffee.

Anyway, to add to the emotion of leaving San Francisco, a career, my friends, I was returning to the only place I really knew my father, who had died so so young. Living in this place made me feel a loss that I couldn't have expected.

Our first daughter was born over three months early. I didn't have a life in Chicago, just having moved there, so I was fortunately able to spend every second in the NICU for three months, with my poor husband in a cardiology fellowship at another hospital. He would work the long hours there and then come to Northwestern to meet me by Maya's side. We played good cop, bad cop. I was sweet all day and then he would come in and mess with her oxygen levels (trying to prevent retinopathy of prematurity (ROP), which would get him yelled at by the nurses. This was our welcome back to the Midwest.

When we could finally bring Maya home from the hospital on a heart monitor, it was to gray weather. Not knowing the sex of the baby, we had painted her room a neutral green which soon became a claustraphobic gray. In a moment of despair -- that sounds dramatic but I don't know how to say it otherwise, I went to the paint store and bought the brightest yellow paint I could find. Andre came home to find me painting our daughter's room (don't worry -- she slept in a, oh gosh, what are those things called -- not crib but something in between, in our room).

And that is when I started to paint. I looked for art that fit the fighter of a daughter we had. This little ginger that came into the world weighing less than two pounds, beautiful red hair, eventual blue eyes, and feisty as hell. The art that I looked at for her room was completely inadequate for her personality. She was tenacious and needed something that was wickedly creative, ironic, and funny. I had never painted before in my life but finally just gave in to wanting to do something creative. I gave up on attempts to stay in web design/management since my connections in California were three hours behind and despite easily staying up until 3 a.m., with a newborn it didn't work well. So I shifted. In life, these forced shifts might be our best options.

I don't really have a good ending to this post . . . Just really wanted to vent and let a few things out.