Digging Deep into My Coping Toolbox: Based on a Series of True Events

I experience Bipolar disorder II, its my latest psychiatric accomplishment. For the longest time I wore the label Major Depressive Disorder until recently when the periods of depression began to last longer than the periods of mania.

Being that I have years of experience with counselors and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Ive developed a coping toolbox. This is where I keep all my skills. On days that I feel my absolute lowest, on the days that it feels near impossible to get out of bed, I start pulling my coping skills out of the box, one by one, and send them flying over my shoulder until something works.

Its not a real toolbox, but rather a fictitious impression of what normal means to me. Its made up of mechanisms I know helped in the past. I have years of practice with failed attempts, and it has taken time and effort to accumulate the appropriate set of tools.

It always starts out the same. First I try writing, then cardio exercise with a mix of yoga and meditation, hot tub for relaxation, reading, emotional eating, binge watching New Girl, the support of friends and loved ones, hanging out with my cats, and changing my environment by leaving the house. When none of those work, when nothing has helped, I pull out the last resort. I pull out the mother of all mechanisms: the ability to transform myself into someone beautiful, in physical appearance anyway.

It had been a bad day. I was standing in front of my collection of prom dresses hanging in the closet in a color coordinated manner. Several years ago, at age 37, I began purchasing prom dresses in thrift stores and resale shops. I justified the need for them in an effort to resolve moments of crisis. What could possibly make a woman feel better than a frilly, lacy dress that flares out when she spins?

It was difficult to choose between the bright shades of yellow, calming shades of blue, sexy shades of red and peppy shades of pink. I pulled out a long bright pink dress with sparkling silver sequins. As I put the dress on, the tightness underneath by breast line made it more difficult to breathe with the already self-induced panic I was feeling, the panic that led me to my closet to begin with.

I zipped up the side, stood up tall and spun around as the skirt of the dress flared like the petals of a rosy pink flower. I grabbed a pair of shiny silver pumps from the closet floor, placed them on my feet, and headed into the master bath to top off my beautiful dress with hair and makeup.

I plugged the curling iron in to heat up as I watched myself apply foundation and powder in the mirror. I drew rich brown eyeliner from the inside of my eyelids to the corners of my eyes. I applied mascara and lipstick. I no longer had the dark shade of exhaustion underneath my eyes or the stress wrinkles that attract attention to the top of my brow line.

I wasnt beautiful just yet. I still needed to do something with my hair. My hair is thick, straggly straight, and sweeps the top of my shoulders. I was preparing the final touches of what would seal the deal from the weight of depression to the feel of timeless beauty. I imagined curls on the ends of my strands, pulled up and tucked neatly into a shimmering head band.

I opened the vanity drawer. What, where is my hairbrush?

Anyone that has children knows that you literally sacrifice everything you have, willingly or not. The leftovers in the refrigerator that you couldnt wait to get home to? Gone. The electric blanket you purchased on Amazon to keep you snuggly warm at night? Where did that thing go? In times of crisis when your last hope of pulling yourself together to sit down to dinner like a normal person? Who took my hairbrush? By the way, what is a normal person?

Take a deep breath, youve got this.

Js hairbrush was sitting on the counter top next to my makeup bag. It has a thick wooden handle and bristles made of I dont know what. Is that horse hair? Whatever, I havent much time. I start brushing my hair as I stepped right into the next worst possible scenario: static head. My hair starts to rise up in the air and float about effortlessly with every flinch.

This wont do. Oh God.

I head across the hall to the kids bathroom and start shuffling through all of the vanity drawers. Comb. No. Some weird looking curling hairbrush stuffed up with wads of neon purple hair. No. Um, why is there a fish net in the bathroom drawer, or a half drank Gatorade, or a pick for a guitar?

The mix of newly felt hopelessness with the anxiety I was already struggling to shake kicked my panic level up to a seven. I walked out into the open hallway and yelled for A.

Do you have my hairbrush? Which one? I only have one. The small black one that doesnt make my hair look like a Tesla experiment. Nope, havent seen it, she hollered from her bedroom.

Just then S approached the top of the stairs.

Have you seen my hairbrush? I asked him. By asking me that youre insinuating that I brush my hair. Noted, I responded with disappointment.

I walked back into my bedroom and closed the door as I burst into tears. I wasnt crying over the hairbrush. Its a hairbrush, who cares? I was crying because I just invested the majority of my day trying to snap out of a slump of depression only to end up here in this moment, still feeling the weight of depression. I threw myself down on the bed and pulled the covers up over my head. I laid there and continued to cry.

I heard Js footsteps approaching the bedroom door. Each of his steps forced against the hardwood creaked closer and closer to me. He came in and sat down on the bed.

Do you want to talk about it? No. Are you coming down for dinner? he asked. Were waiting for you. No Yes you are, he insisted.

He pulled the blankets down, grabbed my hand and pulled me up on to my feet.

What happened to you? I dont want to talk about it. Your makeup is smeared all over your face, your hair is all over the place and youre wearing a prom dress.

He pulled me in close to him and embraced me with the powerful safety of his arms.

Youre always beautiful. You dont need to play dress up. Yes, I do. I need to pretend that Im normal. I need something to make me appear normal. Your appearance doesnt make you normal, or who you are. I love you, even on the days you wear a prom dress.

It was then I realized the only thing that could make me feel more beautiful than a frilly, lacy dress that flares out when I spin, is my husband.

Well, him and my hair brush.