I can do this

I can do this, I thought to myself as I was getting ready for the day. The morning went on as usual, making breakfast for the kids, jumping into the shower, getting everyone dressed and The Preschooler ready for school, making sure a diaper bag was fully stocked because The Toddler was coming with me to our monthly MOMS Club meeting.

I can do this, I thought to myself as I started the car, driving down the street and pulling into the school parking lot, waving "Hi!" to other moms dropping of their 4 year old kids dressed in dinosaur t-shirts and wearing princess backpacks. The Preschooler safe in class and ready to learn about bugs, I made my way to the meeting.

I can do this, I thought to myself.

I walked into the meeting, putting my business side first, conducting the meeting as the chapter president. I completely turned off the side of my brain that was thinking about what was soon to happen. I went over the upcoming activities that were planned for our group, park days, ice cream shop tours, a craft that my boys and I would probably skip because I can't stand glitter and glue. I went over the service project details, one where we were working on raising money for a non-profit that helps single moms gain independence and survive without the help of welfare.

I can do this, I thought to myself as our guest speaker was introduced to the group.

A sweet woman dressed in a chic purple sweater and cute high heeled boots smiled nicely as she talked about her job as a Forensic Interviewer for the Child Advocacy Center. She explained that she would talk about ways to help prevent sexual assault and talk with our kids about their body parts and safety.

I can do this, I thought to myself.

She talked about statistics, ways to talk to our kids about privacy and what to do in situations like sleep-overs. She was humorous with an intense topic, easing the room into more difficult questions. The wall that I had built going in slowly started to wear as she described the steps that happened after an assault was reported. Pieces began to fall after she talked about children sitting with her in a therapy room video taping their accusations of abuse for evidence in court.

I can do this quickly turned into Why? and How?

While some moms struggled with ways they were going to talk to their kids about body parts, unable to utter the words "penis" and "vagina" due to unbelievably strict Catholic upbringing, I struggled with ways to keep the wall up as it crumbled inside of me. The words "forensic interview" and "video taped accusations" caused a complete earthquake inside my soul.

Keeping a thinly veiled appearance of stability, I had an uncontrollable urge to ask, why? and how?

After the speaker completed her presentation and lingering people had been satisfied with their private questions afterward, I had tunnel vision. Watching her pack up her things and begin to make her way out of the room, I brushed off people asking me about business details on for the service project and what to do about trivial little things that I had no interest in caring about at the moment. Ignoring them much like I do with my children when they have questions at inappropriate times, I made the b-line to ask, why? and how?

"What are the steps that happen after a child reports an incident of abuse? How does it exactly work after the forensic interview"?

She rambled off the steps as if she were reading the text from a human resources manual.

"Oh, Ok." I said quietly. "Because my perpetrator is still out there and was never jailed".

Her demeanor quickly softened as she asked questions. The wall completely destroyed, tears welled up in my eyes as that old pain of why? and how? came to the surface. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this", I apologized.

Excusing myself from the room, she followed to talk. I told her about my story, about my own forensic interview and how it never went to trial. How my perpetrator violated me without consequence, moving on to enjoy exotic vacations in Mexico and build a thriving business. Meanwhile, I spent years in therapy asking why didn't I have anyone to protect me? and how did he get away with this? and repeating to myself, I can do this. I can survive.

I wiped away tears as she sympathized shaking her head saying "It never ends. It's a roller coaster where sometimes you're fine and other times you're not". Indeed. I was fine before today, the happiest I'd ever been in my life with a wonderful husband and two great kids, a rewarding job and a full social schedule. Then, in a matter of 45 minutes, a crying mess with old wound ripping open again.

Handing her card to me, she said she would email me. I thanked her and put myself back together again. Quickly building that wall back up, I thought to myself, once again, I can do this, promptly ignoring the unanswerable why? and how?, the questions I realized for the one millionth time that I'd never get solid answers to. I walked back into the meeting room assuming the role of chapter president again, finishing up loose ends before having to run out the door to pick up The Preschooler from school. I can do this, I thought to myself.

For the rest of the day, emotionally exhausted while my kids needed me for things; for lunch, for entertainment, for love, I thought to myself, I can do this. I can survive.

On the other side of the fence

I have a long family history of depression. My grandparents on both sides suffered with serious cases of depression and one from each side were severe alcoholics. My parents suffered the same crippling depression as well as alcoholism and drug addiction. Aunts, uncles, cousins -all have some level of depression. My sisters have dealt with it as well, on top of anxiety disorders and eating disorders. Every single person in my family, including myself, have dealt with it one way or another.

My first experiences with depression were the years that I lived in absolute hell in an abusive home when I was a pre-teen. It resulted with me running away twice my freshman year of high school, where my mom called the police to drag me back home, and then two suicide attempts after that. I eventually moved out when I was 15 to live with cousins I'd never met before.

After I graduated high school, got married and lived with my husband, my depression seemed to disappear. I had cut-off my mom to never speak to her again and helped my sisters through early escapes of their own. My depression was situational rather than a chemical imbalance (unlike so many other people in my family), so if life was "normal" then I felt "normal". While life certainly had it's ups and downs, I was depression-free until I became a mom.

After my first pregnancy, I had a pretty bad case of (untreated) post-partum depression. The combination of post-pregnancy hormones and disrespectful in-laws lead me into months of pain. Pain that I hadn't felt since those early teen years; anxiety and deep sadness that is almost unexplainable. It felt as though my heart was literally breaking to pieces inside my chest and every cell in my body dripped aching tears. After my second pregnancy, the post-partum depression was less, but still fragile in complicated family interactions. I was able to manage it, over come post-traumatic stress disorder and have since become depression-free once again.

I felt like my many years of personal experience with depression made me an expert in some kind of way. Years of therapy, a few (unsuccessful) trials with medications, and a lot of introspective writing were all my weapons. It was a monster I fought and won. Which is why is was so shocked and caught off guard when my husband began battling his own fight with depression and I felt like a failure, completely unsure of how to help him.

His depression is the general type that most of us deal with. One day sitting on the couch he told me how he felt. He should be the happiest person in the world; he has a great job that pays more than the bills, a happy home and marriage - everything he could ever want. But he had an unexplainable sadness. I had no idea what to do other than hug him, listen and assure him that it would be alright. There were always reasons behind my bouts with depression and thus, there was always a way to "fix" it. I frantically searched my mind for ways to fix the problem and after realizing there was nothing to fix, I felt lost.

I didn't like being on the other side of the fence. It was actually easier for me to be dealing with depression than somebody else. I knew I was a strong person and could win the battle, but watching someone go through their own fight was unnerving. I love him more than any other person on the face of the Earth, which makes this voyeuristic position almost unbearable. At this point, I realized how lonely depression was on all sides, not just for the depressed.

He is overcoming that darkness that haunted me for years. With some tools of his own, he's not just sitting there suffering. But it is so incredibly uncomfortable for me to sit by and watch from the other side of the fence feeling helpless. Knowing that it's not a battle I can fight for him, grabbing a sword to get a few stabs in myself, all I can do is sit and listen. I don't feel like it's enough. I'd rather be the one fighting the fight.

Refusing to hide behind anonymity

I've been blogging/writing for years, starting with our family blog that began when I was pregnant with my first son over four years ago. From the beginning, I've always been an honest writer. I regularly wrote about my fears as a new mom, the horrible childhood I had growing up, the challenges I faced in dealing with my in-laws, and my evolution as a woman during motherhood. Nothing was off limits to me and I put it all out there for the world to read (tastefully, of course).

I continued that same controversial honesty on my personal training blog that I started, writing about fitness myths, useless supplements and time-wasting exercises. It was a natural progression when I began my restaurant review blog, keeping up the honesty about the quality of food we were being served, even if declaring the Best Breakfast Spot in town to be mediocre was blasphemous.

One thing I've noticed with all of my blogs is that some people don't like to hear the truth, whatever it may be. I've had my fair share of hate mail from my honest writing. After writing about my traumatic childhood and the issues with my in-laws, I had to install comment moderation on my family blog due to the hate mail calling me names and ripping my experiences apart. It got ugly from people who stood behind the title "Anonymous".

I kept comment moderation on my personal training blog, learning my lesson from my family blog. It was a good call when I started receiving hate mail from people after writing about my dislike for the time-wasting abductor/adductor machines in the gym (seriously!). I did not install comment moderation on my restaurant review blog and I've already had one restaurant owner send an e-newsletter to their customer base telling them to comment on my blog after my honest and less-than-glowing review of the salty sandwich I ate there. I've also had a name-calling heckler, leaving me insulting comments on a review that I wrote because they didn't share the same opinion.

I've learned to let these anonymous comments roll off my back (sort of), even if it took me years to do so. I've never understood why someone would hide behind their computer screen to tear someone apart, someone they've never met and only know from their writing. I've never been motivated to leave nasty remarks on someone elses writing, even if I didn't agree with it. What is it about truth and honesty in my own life that makes others so uncomfortable? Is it touching on a nerve? Does the truth hurt, no matter where it comes from and no matter who it's for?

Despite the hate mail I've received, I know I can never keep the truth from myself and my readers. It's a core issue for me after living many years reeling from the aftermath of the dishonesty of others. Being less honest, only telling half of the story, isn't how I roll. This is my life, as imperfect as it is. Pretending otherwise doesn't change it. I may get hate mail, I may lose friends or readers from it, but at least I won't lose myself.

Kristin Mastre