10 Books that Stuck with Me

I love to read.  It is said that children are made readers on the knees of their parents.  I truly have my parents to thank for me being a reader today.  I have read hundreds (maybe thousands) of books, but, prompted by one of those Facebook things, I choose ten that "stuck" with me for some reason. 

Rain Makes Applesauce, Julian Scheer
(A children's book published in the 60s, it's just as silly as the title sounds.)

Though this children's book was published in 1964, I didn't read it until the 2000s as a teenager.  It was referenced several times in a teenage romance novel I read, so I decided to check it out.  The title is quite indicative of the book: pure silliness.  And honestly, I believe that someone who doesn't like the book is probably way too serious for their own good.  Scheer worked for NASA when he wrote the book, and according to the cover flap, "the play of a child's mind is even more marvelously far out than space-probing."
My favorite line is, "The wind blows backwards all night long and rain makes applesauce.  Oh, you're just talking silly talk."  This book is a refreshing reminder that we're all just talking silly talk in the end.

Rediscover Catholicism, Matthew Kelly
(From Amazon.com: "In this unique and timely book, [Kelly] proposes that Catholicism is not a lifeless set of rules and regulations , but a way of life designed by God to help each person reach his or her full potential. With remarkable insight, Kelly dispels dozens of myths that surround the rejection of Catholicism today and provides a profound and practical vision of what will lead the Catholic Church to thrive again in the future.)

Don't let Amazon's stupid, self-help-sounding blurp dishearten you.  This book was given to members of my parish in Louisiana, and it came to me at a crucial time.  I was at the lowest point of my decade-long battle with depression, and this book took my mind off of it.  I hated the prologue to this book (an unimaginable analogy full of flaws), but I was able to fall in love again with Catholicism via the rest of this book.  The section on the seven pillars of Catholic spirituality helped me grow in my faith, and this book reminded me why I love the Church.

Gone with the Wind, Margarett Mitchell
(Southern plantation before and during the Civil War fiction at its greatest.  Seriously, this book still ranks as one of the favorite books among Americans.  Scarlett O'Hara is too charming for her own good, and the novel portrays her growing into adult hood, breaking hearts and having her's broken, and coming to realize that she must only depend on herself.)

I don't know how many times I've read this book or seen the movie.  Without a doubt, if I catch it on television, I'll stop everything to watch it.  I read it for the first time in middle school and have been enthralled ever since.  It is far more than a story of romance (In fact, it's probably one of the most depressing romances ever.); it's a story of resilience, faith, and determination.  Definitely a better story than any romance I've read lately.

13 Reasons Why, Jay Asher
(Hannah Baker committed suicide.  According to a series of tape recordings, Clay Jensen is one of the thirteen reasons why she did it.)

This YA novel came out the year I graduated high school, and it perfectly summed up how awful high school can be.  The story is told by Clay Jensen about the thirteen reasons why his crush, Hannah Baker, committed suicide.  He's one of the reasons, and he spends an entire night following a map and listening to recordings she left about why she killed herself.  I cried a lot while reading this.  I've reread it a few times and cried then, too. 
I would love to be able to teach this book to a class of high school students.

The House of Dies Drear, VIrginia Hamilton
(Thomas Small and his family move into a house that once served as a stop on the Underground Railroad.  The caretaker, Mr. Pluto, is a strange man that the townsfolk call a devil, which Thomas begins to believe when strange and scary things begin to happen in the house.)

I actually got to teach this novel to a group of middle schoolers, but my first time reading it was in the fifth grade.  It touches on a lot of sticky topics: racism, classism, being an outsider.  But I didn't pick up on those until I taught it to my middle school kids.  I learned just as much as they did.  It moves quickly and offers a lot of mystery and suspense.  I love it, and I really enjoyed teaching it.  But I'm not sure why it stuck with me so much.

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
(A non-fiction, true crime "novel" that details the 1959 quadruple murder of the Clutter family of Kansas.  After reading about the murders, Capote and his good friend, Haper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird) traveled to Holcomb, Kansas to interview the townspeople.)
 
I hate horror stories, but I really enjoy true crime.  A lot of the time true crime stories cross the line with the gruesome as a way to hook readers.  In True Blood is perfection, though.  I've read it several times, and I never cease to be enthralled from the very beginning. 

The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
(Young, new-money Jay Gatsby is obsessed with old-money Daisy Buchanan (who you'll probably quickly hate).)

I think the fact that I want to have a labra-doodle named Fitzgerald (Fitzie for short) says a lot about how I feel about F. Scott.  Another book I've read time and time again, Gatsby is so relateable.  I don't know the number of times I've tried way too hard to impress people I shouldn't be impressing, only to have it all come crashing down. 

Postcards from No Man's Land, Aidan Chambers
(Two stories are told at once, one of Jacob Todd in Amsterdam in 1994, the second of Geertrui, a young girl who nursed Jacob's grandfather in 1944.)

This book makes me uncomfortable but in the best of ways.  Issues of euthanasia and sexual identity are addressed, but the most uncomfortable aspect of the book is that the protagonist, Jacob Todd, has his world totally rocked.  Jacob's idea of his grandfather is challenged when he meets the woman who nursed his wounded grandfather during World War II.  Bridging the past and present with two stories told simultaneously, Chambers manages to write the feelings we all have when we realize that our parents or grandparents are not always who we think they are.

A Separate Peace, John Knowles
(Gene and Finny live and study at a New England Prep School in the early 1940s.  Polar opposites, they become fast friends.  Ultimately, Finny helps Gene to find himself.  The story is told when Gene returns to the school twenty years later to visit two sites: a flight of marble stairs and a tree, both of which play major roles in the book.)

This is the third YA novel and second YA coming-of-age novel set (at least partially) during World War II on my list.  A Separate Peace is an American classic and for good reason.  It was published less than twenty years after WWII ended, so I feel like it's probably pretty telling of that generation.  But the best part about coming-of-age novels is that they're always relevant.  Knowles' story of one friend pushing another so far out of his comfort zone makes the reader uncomfortable at times.  But like Postcards, you're uncomfortable in the best of ways. 

The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien
(A collection of short stories about a platoon during the Vietnam War.  Fiction, though many of the characters are semi-biographical sharing similar characteristics of men from O'Brien's memoir.)

I've only read this book, cover to cover, twice.  But I've read various parts of it a hundred times.  This book is hard for me to read; it's so damned sad a lot of the time.  Its a war story in the broadest sense; it takes place during a war in the middle of combat and several of the short stories are about combat.  But I feel so drawn to it because of the relationships within it.  In the last story, "The Lives of the Dead," O'Brien admits that he keeps his lost loved ones alive by telling their stories.  The entire book is meant, not to show the ugliness of war, but to show the beauty of friendship. 

The D-Word

The time has always been now to discuss depression.  So let's just dive right on in and get dirty and uncomfortable.

I have poly-cystic ovary syndrome, and the community of suffers throws around the phrase "invisible disease" a lot.  We suffer the consequences of our imbalanced bodies with no outward signal that we're fighting a health battle.  We inwardly cringe at our attempts to politely explain why we don't have children, attempt to muster encouragement while battling insulin resistance and weight gain, and brave a smile while having four hours of blood work done.  There's not a 5K to support PCOS research or t-shirts that read 'I'm so classy even my ovaries wear a string of pearls'.  



(But seriously, I need that shirt!)

My battle with PCOS has given me some courage to discuss my other invisible disease: depression.

My last blog post was both fueled by depression and depressing to read.  But it was absolutely reality.  So I'll give you an concise history of my depression.

Age 14, diagnosed with and medicated for severe anxiety.  Felt like a zombie on medication and constantly conveniently forgot to take it.

Ages 15/16, lose best friend to stupid boy (yeah, I know.) and grandfather dies, dip into severe low phase and am officially diagnosed with the d-word.  Prescription dosage upped, constantly reminded to take meds.  Begin seeing a therapist weekly.

Age 17, break a boy's heart and my own, go on a roller coaster of high and low phases, still forgetting to take medication.  Still seeing a therapist weekly.

Ages 18/19/20, enter college, decide my life is awesome, completely stop taking medication and attending therapy, probably convince people I'm certifiable with my mood swings.  

Ages 21/22, senior year of college, stress over future, experience death of a dear friend, two grandfathers, and an uncle.  Fail at getting grown up job after graduation.  Get totally heartbroken and enter the absolute worst low phase of my life.  Back in the therapist's office, back on daily medication and a hardcore pill for "really sad days."

Age 23, begin teaching middle school in a poorly performing school and anxiety skyrockets.  

Age 24, move to Texas, fiance's job takes him out of state, severe loneliness and depression creeps in.

Present, dealing with a lot of what my therapist called "situational depression."  I have more good days than bad days.  Only take a fast-acting anti-anxiety medication when needed for panic and anxiety.

I've never shared all that, even the concise version, with anyone.  It's surprisingly exhilarating to get it all out there.  I guess the reason I've never shared it is because I've never really felt like I could accurately describe depression and what it is and does to me.  But a college friend of mine recently crept into my head and hammered out exactly what happens on a fairly regular basis.  So I've shared it below.

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Let's talk about depression, y'all.

You know that voice that sometimes pops up in your head when something goes wrong? The one that says "you fucked up" or "shouldn't have said that" or "maybe I should have handled that differently"?

Imagine that that voice doesn't just pop up when you actually mess something up.

Imagine that it is always there. Always. When you sleep and when you dream, while you wake and work, while you drink and eat and spend time with your loved ones. Imagine that you try to drown it out but it is always there, a drumbeat against the movement of your mind. Imagine that even in your happiest times, even when the music of life is at its sweetest - you hear it. Pounding pounding and drilling into the heart of you.

Sometimes it quiets for a while. Sometimes you can forget it, at least for a time, because life is lovely and in this moment with these people you are happy. But then the party ends, and we all go home; but the drumbeat stays. You know it will always be there. You know you'll wake up the next morning and it will thrum in your mind. You know that it will be there with you until the end. It is closer to you than a wife, a husband, a friend. It knows your weaknesses, it feeds on them. It chips away at your strengths until you can't tell that they're worth anything anymore. Imagine that the first voice you hear in the morning and the last voice you hear before you sleep are not the sweet tones of your loved ones, but the ruthless voice of an inquisitor. Questioning, judging, hating everything you've done, everything you are. And you've heard it for so long that, even though you know that YOU don't think these things, something inside you does. And it is strong and loud and implacable, and it will never, ever, leave you in peace.

Now imagine that there are times when that voice gets even stronger. You can't control it, you can't predict it. It is a storm out of a cloudless sky. But all of a sudden, your food tastes like ash and your friends speak all and say nothing, and always, ever, you hear that drumbeat. Thudding against your skull, pounding you until you have to drink or smoke or sleep to silence it. And even when it's quieted, you know it will return.

It will ALWAYS return. You will bear that hateful weight until the day you die. Something broke inside you long ago, and this is the price you pay. And you'll plead and cajole and pray to God or gods or devils, but the drumbeat is stronger than them all.

You'll blame others, or blame yourself. Neither will do you any good. Neither will it silence the demon that sings you into destruction. In all likelihood, it will only make it stronger.

Now imagine that this is your life. Every day. Every hour. At your highest points and your lowest - even if you sing another tune, you will still answer to the drums. And their song is Doom Doom Death and Ruin.

And imagine that you know there is no cure. Nothing will fix this. No medicine, no doctor, no therapy, no God, can fix what has been broken deep deep inside. So deep you don't even know what the wound was to begin with.

And imagine that you know there is no way out.

That is depression.

He goes on to respond to some comments left by readers:

Thanks guys. It's weird to see people talking about in public. Kinda heartening though.

I do want to make one postscript to the thing. My ending came off pessimistic, and to a certain extent that's fine, because there isn't a cure

But counseling, therapy, medications, give you tools to MANAGE depression. Won't cure you, won't fix you. But you will learn how to recognize when you're in a depressive phase, and you will get tools to manage it.

I know it's some silly ass GI Joe advice, but knowing is half the battle.

So if you even have a suspicion that you're dealing with depression, go talk to somebody and figure that shit out. If you're fighting a trench war against your own mind, it's not weak to call for reinforcements. It's the SMART thing to do.

And if you're suffering from depression, then I say don't you dare give up.

Don't you fucking DARE. 

(Thanks, Brendan Carrell, for being a part of the conversation.)

I've learned in my decade of dealing with my depression that really all you can do is deal with it.  I've been medicated and head-shrunk and prayed for.  And I'm sure that each of those has helped at one point of another.  But there is no cure.  Depression is an invisible disease, and unfortunately, it is often a silent one.    

When a tragedy occurs, like school shootings, mental illness is quickly blamed, and possibly rightfully so.  We recognize the problem.  But we don't talk about it.  We blame it for evil acts, but we don't contemplate what our society can do to remedy the mental illness epidemic sweeping across our country.  An estimated one in five American suffers from some mental illness.  Twenty percent of our country is in pain and we're shaming them for it!  We're sneering at them and blaming them for horrible tragedies instead of extending a hand and asking what we can do to help.

With the recent suicide of Robin Williams, I've seen lots of people calling for the depression discussion.  We need to start talking about it.  We need to normalize depression, discuss it, support the sufferers, encourage treatment, and most importantly, make treatment readily available.  

I shouldn't have to pay exuberant fees for therapy sessions because they're considered elective.     Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder shouldn't have to wait years for government assistance with therapy costs.  Mental health screenings should be part of basic health care.  Therapy should be considered basic health care.  PTSD suffers shouldn't be near the bottom of a list of patients to treat.  

Most importantly, those suffering with mental illness shouldn't be shamed.  It shouldn't take the tragic suicide of one of the most beloved men in America for us to reach out to the vast community of mental illness sufferers.  Let's start talking. 

MWF Seeking Friends

According to various sources on the Internet, Ernest Hemingway once said, "Write drunk, edit sober."

I don't really know what he'd say about writing sad, but I think being drunk and being sad typically end with the same result: truth.  (And honestly, after these two fingers of whiskey, I may be closer to drunk than sad at the end of this blog post.  I also have little plan to edit it, so there ya go.)

At the beginning of May, I wrote about being a stayer who was not where she wanted to stay.  I'm sad to report that not a whole lot has changed since then.

No middle school teaching job.  No new friends.

Matt and I did move into a fairly nice apartment.  And I did find a job teaching preschool.  And I turned twenty five.

Being twenty five has been kind of depressing, though.  Mainly because in the movies, twenty five years olds have it all figured out.  They're either raising adorable babies in beautifully decorated houses or they're wildly successful in a job they love.

I did all the right things, ya know.  I got married, but Matt and I aren't raising an adorable baby.  (That's a huge, emotional post for another time.)  And I went to college, wrote a thesis, graduated in four years, and did it all with really minimal student debt.  So where's my dream job?

I know there are lots of people who are twenty five and in the exact same boat.  I don't need the "you're not alone" pep talk.  I just need to not be alone in feeling this.  I need someone who also feels like they're sucking at being a grown up to be here in Austin with me. 

It would also be really super if someone could give me lessons on how to make friends.  Because really, what do married without children people (one who is a introvert, one who is an extrovert) do to make friends in a new city?  Are going to a bar or a really awkward Meet Up group the only options?