I Want Butter On My Crackers

When I was 3 years old, my dad captured one of my infamous meltdowns on a rented video camera. Throughout my childhood, he would rent a video camera from the local video store, to record those precious moments that we would never want to forget. Like the time my brother, at 2 years old, bit my mom's hand on Christmas morning because she would not let him dig his fingers into the new make-up kit Santa had brought me. Or the night before my first communion, where with curlers in my hair, I put on an epic couch rock concert with all of my original hits. The biggest and most memorable song, of course, being "Rock Sock", with the poetic line, "I am going to put rocks in your socks and you will be dancing like crazy."

The video I am the most in awe of though, was my "I want butter on my crackers" toddler crisis. I was three. I had a huge head with long blonde hair, and a very skinny but tall body. I looked like a bobble head. My mom was not home, my brother was not yet born, and my dad had the video camera in hand while I stormed around the living room dealing with the hardest thing I thought I was ever going to go through. I clearly needed a nap, and I was hungry. I wanted crackers with butter on them for a snack, and no one was making it for me. I was crying. I was whining. I was yelling. I was pacing the floors. I needed this. I needed it now. I was frustrated that my dad would not put down the camera to make this happen for me. (As an adult, I am so glad he didn't. Watching this video cracks me up every time). But my dad is so used to my epic meltdowns over the most inane things, that he knows better than to just indulge me with giving me what I want. Instead, he tried to encourage me to fix my snack myself.

In a very sweet, patient, and forced high-pitched voice, he tells me to go to the fridge and find the butter. I get very hopeful. I dry my tears, and I start smiling. I get excited and I skip to the fridge. I open it, and I can't find the butter. My dad very patiently tells me where it is, but makes me look for it. After a few seconds of not being able to find it, I freak the fuck out. He manages to calm me again, and gets me looking for it again. He is determined that I will work my own way out of this problem, with him cheering me on and supporting me from the sidelines. Then I hear the front door open. MOM IS HOME! I get very excited and happy! I run to the living room. As soon as I get there, I realize, I need to throw a fit again. I slow down, and I scream and cry, "I need butter on my crackers!"

My mom starts consoling me immediately. She tells me she will fix me my beloved snack. (A snack, where to this day, sounds absolutely disgusting to me. But apparently it was better than anything in the fucking world when I was three). Then my mom notices the camera in my dad's hand, and immediately chastises him and says "I don't want to be on camera". My dad replies, "I know, I am just getting her." We really don't have any home movies that go above my mom's knees. You get to know her calves very well, but she refused to be in any of his videos. Any time he tried to sneak a peek at her face, she immediately noticed, covered her face with her hands, and yelled at him. After she made sure she was not on camera, she admonished him for not fixing me the snack. He explained that he was trying to teach me how to do it by myself.

She makes me this disgusting snack, and I am happy. She even gives me a glass of juice to wash it down with. My dad films me as I eat my snack. It is worth mentioning here, that the way these old video cameras worked is, they would plug into the TV and you could watch yourself on TV as you were being taped. Since we all know what a camera whore I am, of course, I was OBSESSED with watching myself on the TV screen. As I am watching myself eating, my dad points out the huge red streak on my cheek, which is apparently Play-dough, and we laugh about the Play-dough on my face. I laugh. Then I get sad. I watch my face on the TV and I smile. Then I frown. I am literally playing out the mood swings of a manic-depressive over the course of this 15 minute video. My dad then says, "You're tired. You need a nap." To which I defiantly and obnoxiously said, "No I am not." Clearly, I was.

As I am getting happy again, things seem to be looking up. Getting food in my belly, washing it down with some juice. Life is good again. Then, the worst thing since the Civil War happens, my dog, Chipper, knocked over my mother fucking juice. And it didn't matter that there was more juice in the fridge, and that my mom would gladly pour me more. This was a personal attack. This was assault. And I freaked the fuck out. Through tears and anger I screamed, "CHIPPER SPILLED MY JUICE." My dad silently filmed as my life fell apart. My mom, immediately cleans up the juice, brings me another glass, and calms me and soothes me by saying, "Chipper didn't mean to spill your juice. She's just a dog. She didn't know any better." So I calmed down. I drank my juice, and I forgave Chipper.

Today, not much as changed. Except now, the "butter with crackers" is Zoloft, and "juice" is my therapist. And my mom making me a snack has turned into her visiting me in Chicago for 10 days while packing my breakfast and lunch for me all of those days before work. And my dad encouraging me from the sidelines has turned into constant emails and cards in the mail from him telling me how proud he is of me and saying supportive things to help me get through whatever stupid fit I am having. Pushing me to work through it and giving me strength.

I have kept it no secret from anyone that I struggle with anxiety and depression. Or that I see a therapist. Or that I take medication. I get on stage several nights a week and make jokes about the fact that I was divorced and bankrupt before I was 30. And that I struggle with weight gain and dieting. I confidently tell stories about my latest dating disaster and heartbreak. I share stories about sexual encounters gone awry. And it do it all very defiantly, while trying to refuse to let anyone help me with anything. As my brother puts it, "I put everything out there, and I don't let anything in." (This was the most profound and truest statement ever made about me, to me.)

I've also been pretty open about the side effects I had from Zoloft. Even though it was perfect for my mind, it was not perfect for my body. It caused me to gain a ton of weight. For a couple of reasons, 1 - apparently it just does that to some people. 2- it made me so god damned hungry that I never felt full and couldn't stop eating. It doesn't do this to everyone, but it can, and it did to me. I spent several months being very healthy and trying very hard to diet and get more exercise, to no avail. Every single time I stepped on the scale, I weighed more. No matter what I did. If there was a week where my weight stayed the same, it was a successful week. But more often than not, the number just kept going up. So of course, after some time dealing with this, I got depressed and gave up. Why try so hard to get absolutely no positive results? So off to McDonald's I went, in the middle of the night. Then writing more jokes about it.

Here is what I have kept a secret: After I found out weight gain was a side effect of Zoloft, I got on a new medicine that didn’t cause weight gain. But, that new medicine didn't work for my brain, and I went fucking crazy. Going to the bathroom at work every hour or so to cry uncontrollably for no apparent reason. Crying the entire car ride on the way home from work. Having panic attacks every single time I had to leave my house to go do a show. Panicking the entire time I was onstage. Feeling like I was bombing the entire time. Going home and crying myself to sleep because, "what the hell am I doing with my life?" Smiling on the outside at work; dying on the inside. Laughing on the outside at shows; freaking out on the inside. Pretending my eyes were watering and red, and that my nose was running because of allergies, and not because I had just cleaned myself up from a crying spell. Calling my old therapist, who was now in Florida, weekly, to freak out in my car while sitting in a parking lot. Telling her that, for the first time in my life, I am legitimately suicidal and have no idea what to do. Crying in my doctor's office as we try to adjust the medicine to see if a different amount or combination will work. Crying every time I get on the scale because I am still not losing weight. Panicking that I may have to choose between my mental health and my physical health and I am selfish for wanting both. Thinking how much easier things would be if I was dead. Looking at myself in the mirror and hating and not recognizing who I saw. Thinking that if I were to do it, the best way for me to go would be pills I think. Then being filled with such guilt because I would never be able to do that to my family and friends. Then getting even more depressed that the only reason I don't want to kill myself is because I feel guilty about what it would do to them, not because I felt I had anything to live for. Afraid to tell my parents what was going on, because I hate when they worry about me. Worrying about why the cooler comics in the Chicago comedy scene don't like me and treat me rudely. Worrying about anyone at work noticing how foggy my head was getting and that I couldn't concentrate on anything. Worrying about not having enough money left over after bills to buy deodorant. Worrying about how much I felt like I was sucking on stage. Worrying about if my latest Facebook post about trying to feel beautiful was going to cause some hateful follower to post rude and shitty comments to me. Worrying about if my latest Black Lives Matter Facebook post was going to cause another ignorant person from small town USA to delete me. Worrying about writing a new blog post and having to deal with comments from people with their judgments. Worrying about leaving my house. Worrying about worrying. Frustrated that I have no control over the worrying. So frustrated that I can't stop ever crying. Frustrated that the frustration makes me cry. The excitement about my raise at work, promptly forgotten and replaced with sadness that came from nowhere. Happiness that I was accepted into a comedy festival, almost immediately exchanged for uncontrollable tears. Great friends who reached out to try to make me feel better because they knew something was wrong. Amazing family. Awesome co-workers and great gigs and a beautiful apartment and more money rolling in and so much love from so many people and none of it seemed to matter whatsoever. I was uncontrollably depressed and anxious, and the uncontrollable depression and anxiety were causing insurmountable frustration because I couldn't control it. And this was feeding right back into the depression and anxiety.

If that paragraph was hard to read because it was intense, confusing, long, and messy - then times that by a million, and that is how my brain felt. And I am not exaggerating.

I called my old therapist in Florida, and she didn't know what else there was for me to do. She suggested I take medical leave from work and check myself into a psychiatric hospital. That was a big wake-up call for me. I did not want to go into a program. I don't think there is anything wrong with them, and I think they are very helpful. But I couldn't imagine having to take leave at work and cancel all of my plans and do that. I would be willing if I had to, because I know my health is more important than any of that, but I wasn't ready. So I called my parents, and I broke down. I told them how hard things were, and that my old therapist wanted me to check into a hospital. Just like ever since I was a kid, they rushed to my rescue. They did anything and everything they could to encourage me and give me strength and help me do what I needed to do.

Now, I have finally found a new local therapist. (Since my insurance doesn't cover the one that moved to Florida anymore). My new therapist is amazing, and I think it is the beginning of a beautiful patient/therapist relationship. She referred me to a new psychiatrist, one that knows what they are doing and actually takes the time to listen to me when I tell them that I cannot take a medicine that will cause me to gain weight, and who seems to genuinely care about my well-being. That new psychiatrist has put me on a new medicine that is actually new to the market. It doesn't cause weight gain and is supposed to be really good. It is called Pristiq. I have been on it a few weeks now, and could immediately feel myself getting better. I have also already lost 6 pounds. My mom came to visit me for 10 days, like I mentioned before, and took care of me. Helped me do my laundry, helped me clean, took me grocery shopping, made me food, packed my lunches, took me to the movies, and just sat with me and relaxed for 10 days. My dad sends me emails and cards almost daily, just encouraging and supporting me. Constantly giving me the tools and guidance I need to take care of business. I need both of them and both of their approaches. Their styles complement each other well, and have served me even more weller. (I know, that is not a saying or a word. Whatever.)

Sometimes I feel like a drama queen for getting so moody and emotional for no apparent reason. Sometimes I feel like a child because I can't take care of all of this on my own. I get down on myself for needing my parents at 33 years old. I get frustrated feeling like I am a 3-year old with Playdough and tears on my cheeks. Life, like Chipper, keeps knocking over my juice, and sometimes I fucking lose my shit because of it. But having my mom keep refilling my glass while my dad encourages me to fight through it from the sidelines has gotten me through some really tough shit. I guess I still need help from people, and I guess maybe it will always be that way. I'm not going to give up. I am going to keep wanting butter on my god-damn crackers, and sometimes I will be able to make that snack myself, and sometimes I will need someone to do it for me. I will wash it down with some juice, take a nap, and keep going with the love and help from my family and true friends. The struggle is far from over, but I am past the worst of it for now. I am getting better. I kept telling myself once I was over the hump, I would write about it. Hopefully, writing about it helps other people, and it definitely helps me. Now that I am done writing this, I am going to make myself a snack. Probably peanut butter toast. That is way less gross than saltines with Country Crock on them.