Permission to Prioritize MySelf

Last time I came out of a depressive episode, Russia invaded Ukraine and my dad died, which sent me spiraling back into the dark pit. This time around, I’m clawing my way out and finally have purchase when current events remind me why it may be fruitless. People gun each other down at school and on the street, because the right to bear arms means more than a person’s right to live without being scared of the next shooting. The Supreme Court takes away abortion rights, because embryos have more rights than the people carrying them. 

In response, I cling to silver linings that combat the injustices of the world. Ghislaine Maxwell is sentenced to 20 years in prison for helping Jeffrey Epstein sexually abuse girls. R. Kelly gets 30 years for sex trafficking. Josh Duggar receives 12 years for receiving child pornography. 

But it doesn’t erase the events that led to the convictions and prison sentences. Women and children are still being targeted and unprotected. Maybe not me or my kids, but who knows when that may change? In the meantime, I’m still intent on prioritizing my mental health. Things may be bleak for the world, which is no small thing, but I want to center my focus on what I can control. 

Lead By Example

So, I support my family’s wellbeing by prioritizing my own. It’s akin to the flight policy, “Put your oxygen mask on first.” If I take care of my own mental health, my sons will learn to protect their own.  They know I exercise daily to combat depression and anxiety, and also because it just feels good. I watched my mom exercise regularly while growing up; her example paved the way for the next generation. Sure, I carve out time to read for pleasure because I enjoy it. But I also want the boys to see me put myself first sometimes so they know it’s okay for them to do the same. 

Additionally, it’s important to me that they are able to handle failed expectations and pivot when need be, to find joy even when things don’t work out how they hoped. Which leads me to a proud moment Arthur and I had this week modeling such behavior for our sons. 

Forced Family Fun 

Last night, I had orchestrated what I call “Forced Family Fun.” It’s when I find an activity for us all to do outside the house that I think will be fun even though my family would rather stay home watching movies or playing Legos. Nine times out of ten, it’s a hit, which is why I keep doing it. Sometimes, though, it’s a miss.

I purchased tickets to the Immersive Monet exhibit as a fun way to introduce the boys to impressionist painting, which is my favorite. Arthur took off work early and we planned to make an evening of it. Our time slot was at 4:30, the first of the day, which granted us access up to 30 minutes earlier. So at 4:20, we giddily entered the exhibit ready to be enveloped by Monet, Degas, Renoir, et al.  

I envisioned a painting being cast on the wall for a short period of time, perhaps with some commentary streaming through speakers on what we’re seeing, before changing into the next piece. Something educational and beautiful and calming, which is what I feel when I admire impressionist art. 

Psychedelic Pivot Point

What we walked into was what I imagine an acid trip feels like. Discordant images were flashing intermittently with loud classical music bursting out of the speakers. People were sitting on benches entranced like they were watching a movie. Our youngest’s hands immediately flew up to protect his ear drums. I struggled to figure out if we were intended to sit and be accosted by the overwhelming display or walk around and find plaques explaining what was happening. We did a combination of both, supplying both boys with ear plugs courtesy of the exhibit’s employees. Arthur offered to take both boys out and explore nearby while I “enjoyed” the exhibit, but I didn’t want to be left alone in it. It would be like leaving Charlie Bucket alone on the boat ride in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. This Charli made the executive decision to leave all together, letting the experience be an expensive mistake we would laugh about over dinner. 

Sunk Cost

Which is exactly what we did. We exited the exhibit at 4:35 and didn’t look back. And while I recognize the amount of privilege our family has to eat the cost of the tickets, I hope our boys find value in being able to walk away from something when it makes you uncomfortable – no matter the literal or figurative cost of what it took to get you there. I don’t want the time, money, or effort invested in something that isn’t bringing the benefit expected to trap me or my family into a miserable experience. 

I’m not really sure how to tie this in to my climbing out of the depression pit. But I think there’s something to be said about focusing on what’s right for you in the moment. Even if it means tuning out the horribleness of the world. Or figuratively flushing money down the drain. I’m focusing on what brings me and my family the most joy right now and doing what I can when I can to help the greater good when I’m emotionally ready for it.