Sitting with my kiddos watching yet another episode of “Say Yes to the Dress” (I swear- there is some kind of drug subliminally laced into shows on TLC- I can’t take my eyes off of them!), and on the show, an interracial couple is planning their beautiful wedding. My very insightful and charismatic 7-year-old pipes up, “Mom, before Martin Luther King was born, this wouldn’t be allowed. Good thing he had his birthday yesterday!” I beamed with pride at my intelligent and tolerant child. How insane it is to me, that less than 45 years ago, it was illegal for a black person and a white person to be married. Even more insane to me, is that in 2012, in California of all places, that gay marriage is not recognized. How is that possible?

Although you would never know it from my very liberal, bartender, belly-dancing, hedonistic, sinful, pleasure-seeking persona, I was raised as a very strict and Southern Baptist, roll-around-in-the-aisle “Hallelujah”-singing choir girl. I was the goodiest of goody-two-shoes. The bouncy song lyrics,  “Don’t drink, don’t Smoke, what do you do…. you don’t drink don’t smoke, what do you do,” by Adam Ant, rings through my mind as I think of myself before the age of 16- that song must have been written for me.  But then, I became a heathen- destined to eternal life in burning hell, because I let my boyfriend get to “third base” in the parking lot of my high school, after the Junior prom. That night, as I gingerly hung up my teal green satin and sequin mermaid gown with the ginormous bow at the hip, and matching bolero jacket with puffed sleeves, and brushed the Aqua Net out of my 4-inch-high, ratted bangs, I sobbed myself to sleep. I had sinned by making-out with my boyfriend, and I was convinced that I would be struck by lightning by God himself, before I woke to see the light of day the next morning.

Since those very sheltered, narrow-minded days, I have gone to college in San Francisco, lived in Los Angeles, had gay friends, bisexual friends, transgender friends, been divorced, been remarried, and have committed quite a plethera of “sins” over the past two decades. Thankfully, my family has grown with me, loved me, respected me, and accepted me, regardless of the different paths in life that I have chosen. Isn’t that what we all deserve? Does God create anyone just to live their lives waiting for the proverbial lightning bolt to strike them? Absolutely not, I say.

In the words of MLK himself, “Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” I  couldn’t agree more. It is hatred, ignorance and stupidity that keeps us from allowing every single human being enjoy and exercise the rights that we as all human beings deserve. Who are we to say that a little boy that was born with the mind and the identity of a little girl, doesn’t deserve to join the Girl Scouts? Who are we to say that two people don’t have the right to experience marriage because they are of the same sex, yet  there are many “traditional” male/female couples that  defile and disgrace the vows of their marriages (including many appointed leaders and politicians) all the live-long day? Every time that I hear of someone judging another person, or their lifestyle choices, another very important and relevant quote comes to mind- this one’s by the Big J.C. himself, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” Enjoy finding your stones and your sins- I prefer to live life, and to love those living in it, and around it. Afterall, that is what the Bible told me so.

“But you always seem so happy and confident… you seem so together”, is the typical response that I get from someone when I confide in them that I have a long history of suffering from anxiety and panic disorder. There- the cat’s out of the bag. Even though it started back in my early 20′s (only a smidge more than a few years ago), with panic attacks and shortness of breath, I didn’t feel like I was on my way to becoming the mayor of Crazytown until about ten weeks after my first baby was born. Accompanying the usual roller coaster of postpartum hormones and emotions, I was steamrolled by grief over the death of my grandma, who held onto life by a string, just so she could meet her first great-grandbaby. She passed away when my daughter was only eight weeks old, and that is about when my world was started to turn askew.

I realize now that I was suffering from postpartum depression, but at the time, I was convinced that I would never be “normal” again. I would wake in the middle of the night in frozen terror, convinced that someone was conspiring to take my baby (who slept in a bassinet right next to my bed) or break into our home. I would get out of bed three and four times a night to make sure that the doors and windows were locked, in addition to the usual every-three-hour feedings that my daughter demanded. The combination resulted in my sleeping only a couple of hours nightly, for months at a time. I was so frayed and frazzled, like a rubber band that has been pulled so tightly, you can nearly predict the moment that it is going to snap.

At the end of a postpartum follow-up appointment, my wonderful and very attentive doctor must have noticed that my eyes were more hollow than usual, my under-eye circles a little darker, and my disposition more sallow. As we were saying good-bye, she gently put her hand on my shoulder, and asked me, “are you doing alright? I mean really doing okay?” I could feel the surging crack start to splinter the delicate “Supermom” veneer that I had so successfully hidden behind, and out of that crack, my tears and emotions poured. I told her about my grandma, and my fear, and how little I was sleeping, and I sobbed huge crocodile tears when I was describing my middle-of-the-night panic episodes where I thought that people were going to hurt me or my child. I thought for sure that she was going to order a straight-jacket for me right then and there, and held my breath as I waited to see how she would respond to my admissions. I will never forget the way she so reassuringly and softly said, “none of this is your fault, you are a wonderful mother, and you will not go crazy.” I so badly wanted to believe her. She sent me home with several different resources to learn about depression and anxiety, yoga, meditation and medication. After a week or so of trying the holistic remedies, I did my research on different medications for depression and anxiety, and decided that it was a route that I had to try.

Seven years later, I have been off and on, mixed and matched, increased and decreased on all different arrays and cocktails of medications for anxiety and depression. In hindsight, I wish that I had given the yoga and meditation more effort, but I truly think that I was so depleted and desperate at the time, that I needed the most aggressive form of treatment, that would work in the shortest amount of time. Within weeks of taking my first dose of Zoloft, I began to realize that I was sleeping better (or as good as one can with an infant), I was not as sensitive and fearful, and I was starting to feel a little more like myself.

What I didn’t realize, and what has taken me years to realize, is that I was becoming “flat”. The flame that sparked my fire, that lent me my creative edge, and fueled my entrepreneurial spirit, was slowly beginning to extinguish. It’s time to take off the cast, and see what I can do to heal those past wounds. Now is the time for me to learn other methods of coping with my anxiety, and I intend to keep trying until something works. It has been six days since I weaned myself off of Buproprion, and there have been several days where I have experienced some disconcerting side effects, like dizziness, nausea and headaches. But, I am determined to find a better way to live. I am not against psychological medications, and agree that people really do have chemical imbalances which  cause them to have to rely on these medications to live their lives. But for myself, personally, there must be a better answer. I want to unlock my potential, unleash my creativity, drop-kick my fear and anxiety, and find out what’s really under all of my layers. I will keep you posted on how this process plays out and the different skills and tactics that I pick up along the way that help get me to my goal of being more healthy on the inside. Don’t expect me to walk around chanting like a Buddhist monk, while contorting myself into poses likely seen on stage at Cirque Du Soleil, but  do look forward (a.k.a. you’ve been warned), to me getting a little bit of my spark back.

On the Sunday after New Year’s Eve, I was abundantly blessed by having 45 minutes to myself to run to the mall without my two little shadows. I had a couple of things to exchange, and a few gift certificates that were burning a hole in my wallet, and a very limited window of time, so I was on a very strategic mission. I had to park waaaaaay out in the Timbuktu parking lot, since the mall was sardine-packed with post-holiday shoppers and returners. As I lock my car and begin my trek, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the car that I parked next to has two small kids in it, and no parent in sight.

I briefly thought about minding my own business, especially since my kid-free time treasure was very limited. But, what if something happened, and I didn’t step in? What if it was one of those “What Would You Do” shows on Dateline, and I’m on camera just walking away flanked by my Victoria’s Secret shopping bags, putting yet another pair of overpriced flannel pajamas ahead of what could be a potentially dangerous situation? I had to do something, but what? I decided to nonchalantly sit in my car, where I could see the kids, to see if someone was close by- maybe it was a dad, and he was wandering around nearby with a Bluetooth in his ear, oblivious to how long he’d been on the phone organizing his Fantasy Baseball picks while his kids sat in the car within sight. I waited for ten minutes, no dad. Could it be a babysitter or older sister, who was two cars over making out with her much older and prohibited boyfriend while she was supposed to be “watching” the kids? I waited 15 more minutes- no babysitter or big sister.

This is how far from the store I was parked!

Several times, I thought to myself, “Am I overreacting?” Even though I don’t even leave my kids in the car to run up to hand cash to the attendant at the gas station, am I being overly worrisome about these kids locked in a car in a mall parking lot for a half hour? I decided that I was not overreacting, the kids looked only to be seven and nine, or younger. I needed to do something. I decided to call the mall security office, to tell them the situation, and they can take over from there.

I sat for about ten more minutes waiting for the white truck with the flashing orange lights to pull up, still no parent or anyone to claim these two kids, who are now starting to get restless, and are climbing all over the inside of the car. I was starting to become very irritated and thinking that maybe I should have just kept to myself, when zooming down the aisle of the parking lot is a mall cop on his Segway, wearing a bright orange safety vest. In a very “Here I come to save the daaaaaaay!” fashion, he parked his scooter behind the car with the kids, staunchly dismounted, hiked up his pants, and walked up to the car window. “I need for you kids to unlock this car,” he demanded. The kids just stared at him, and the older boy shook his head no. “I am an officer of the law, and I need you to unlock this window NOW.” He said sternly, and I was hoping he couldn’t hear me snickering from the car next to them. The little boy complied, and unlocked the door for the “officer”, who then asked him how old they were. “Seven and nine? Well that’s a little young to be all by yourself out here,” he stated. “Where is your mommy or daddy?”, he asked the older child. The little one quipped up, “She’s at Macy’s!” And the mall cop got on his radio, and started barking orders to the other mall cops to track down the missing mother, who apparently thought that a locked Toyota Prius at the back of a parking lot was sufficient enough supervision for her kids while she was returning whatever her husband bought her for Christmas.

I could only imagine the scene inside of Macy’s, as they announced on the loudspeaker, “Will the owner of a blue 2010 Toyota Prius, parked in lot C40 with two little kids locked in it please come to Customer Service, and we will be glad to remove your head from your ass?!” It probably didn’t go exactly like that, but you get the idea. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be present when the idiotic mother arrived, thinking that the mall cop could probably handle it from here. I did, however slip him my business card, and asked him to call my cell if he had any questions, or at least to update me on the situation. I never heard from the mall cop, and since I had run out of my own kid-free time, and it hadn’t occurred to me to just bring my kids, and lock them in my car in the parking lot while I was shopping, I had to head back home without finding out what transpired when the mom arrived.

I watched the news that night, to see if a mom was arrested for leaving her kids in a parked car while she was trying on 75% off Not Your Daughter’s Jeans skinny jeans in the Young Misses department. No news story. I’ve also been watching “Caught On Camera” to see if they air my heroic actions, they haven’t yet. I never did hear from my Segway Superhero, either. All I know at the end of the day, is that I did the right thing. I intervened in what I believe was a dangerous situation for those kids. If it were you, what would you have done? Would you wait for the mom to return, or would you have walked away to mind your own business? What age is too young to lock your kids in the car in a parking lot for 45 minutes? I can’t wait to hear your thoughts and opinions!