I Was Supposed to Review Therese Borchard's Utterly Fantastic New Book, Beyond Blue, Today, But a Funny Thing Happened (and a Few Serious Ones, Too) ...

I thought I would have an easy time reviewing Therese Borchard’s terrific new book, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression and Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes. You see, I already read an advance copy several months ago, so it wasn’t like I had to start from scratch. Just skim a few pages to refresh my memory, then get crackin’.

So I opened to:

There is a saint for every neurosis: St. Joseph takes care of those prone to panic attacks while traveling. For twitching, Bartholomew the Apostle is the dude. Those roaming the house in their sleep can call on Dymphna. The venerable Matt Talbot is the patron saint to those struggling with alcoholism and drug addiction. And, of course, St Jude covers the hopeless causes. ...

Dang, this is interesting. Flick to something boring. No, wait ...

11 Ways You Know You’re an Addict: 1. You can recite the Serenity Prayer in three different languages. ... 6. When you look up dysfunctional in the dictionary, you find a portrait of your family of origin. ... 8. You accidentally feed your sobriety chip into a vending machine. ...

Crap, this is like potato chips. Can’t stop:

“Pretend that I am an editor with Ladies Home Journal,” my therapist said. “I walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, Therese! Good to see you? What have you been up to?’ What will you say?

“Oh. Nothing much. Just hanging out in the community room of a psych ward with Allen, an eighty-five-year-old who has slept with ninety-six women and wants to make it ninety-seven.”

“Try again,” she said. "You are still tutoring at the college, right?”

“Until the dean discovers a whackjob is teaching tomorrow’s leaders.”

Stop reading! You’re supposed to be doing a book review. Wait, you’ll enjoy this:

30 Ways Motherhood is Like a Mental Illness ... 6. Both feel like you’re being pecked to death by a bird. ...

But Therese also has a deadly earnest no-joke zone to her persona:

When Liz encouraged me to train my mind without drugs - to reach inside myself for the strength and discipline to do it without the crutch of medication - she spoke with no understanding of what it’s like to have your survival instinct completely dead, to have 99 percent of your energy going toward not pursuing one of five ways to kill yourself.

And ...

How can you possibly explain severe clinical depression to a four-year-old boy who wants a stable, cheery mom - one that can take him to the park without breaking into tears behind a tree, or miss his great karate achievement because she had to bolt to the restroom and let her body shake with anxiety like a woman with severe Parkinson’s.

Okay, it’s pretty obvious I’m not going to get to reviewing Therese’s book today. I’m otherwise engaged, so don’t bother emailing or phoning me, not even if you’re Angela Jolie telling me you’ve broken up with Brad and are lonely. You see, I’m re-reading a truly outstanding book.

Win a copy of Therese Borchard’s Beyond Blue. See: Calling All Mental Health Grunts.

Purchase Beyond Blue from Amazon

Guest Blog: Therese Borchard, Confessions of a Holy Whackjob

My favorite blogger Therese Borchard has a terrific new book out, BEYOND BLUE: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes. The following excerpt is reprinted by permission of the publisher, Center Street, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc, NY. Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.

Some people are born with jagged edges—restless and discontent with volatile moods and intense emotions—explained author and professor Kay Redfield Jamison in an essay broadcast on NPR’s This I Believe series. And others emerged from their mothers’ wombs with smooth lines and unbroken skin, grounded and peaceful. These Mr. Rogers types find contentment in the smallest and simplest of things (a bowl of instant oatmeal, a green cardigan sweater, a goldfish swimming to the surface to eat crumbs), while the Michael Jacksons among us—the creative but combustible artists—sit down to a gourmet feast at a five-star restaurant, only to bolt to the restroom three minutes later in a panic attack as their food gets cold.

That would be me.

Hi. I’m Therese. I’m a manic-depressive, an alcoholic, and an adult child of an alcoholic; a codependent, a boundaries violator, and a stage-four people pleaser; an information hoarder or a clutter magnet, an Internet abuser, and an obsessive-compulsive or ritual performing weirdo; a sugar addict, a caffeine junkie, a reformed binge smoker, and an exercise fanatic; a hormonally imbalanced female, a PMS-prone time bomb, and a sexually dysfunctional or neutered creature; a workaholic, an HSP (highly sensitive person), and, of course, I’m Catholic. Which could possibly explain some of the above.

To most eyes I look normal, and I can behave normally, at least for two-hour intervals. No one would guess my insides to be so raw, or suspect that I was twice committed to a psych ward, was suicidal for close to two years, and considered electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) after the first twenty-two medication combinations failed. Then again, the more human beings I interview Barbara Walters–style, the more convinced I am that everyone struggles. There are just many layers, varieties, and degrees of strains inside the human psyche.

The difference between me and most of the civilized world is that they don’t publish their insecurities, irrational fears, personality flaws, and embarrassing moments online and in print for everyone, including their in-laws and neighbors, to read.

Why on earth would I do that?

It has something to do with the twelfth step of most 12-step support groups I’ve attended, which is nearly all of them: to share my experience, strength (if you can call it that), and hope with others in order to secure some sanity for myself. Or, to use the language of the existentialist Søren Kierkegaard, the twelfth step is about getting cozy with our true selves, becoming “transparent under God” and vulnerable before others in order to form a bond of communion with those persons experiencing similar struggles.

There’s nothing short of stripteasing that could get me more transparent under God and naked before readers, some of whom can be pretty mean—take the lady who called me a “bitter, complaining, self-serving, whiny white woman,” not that I memorized her words—than writing my blog, Beyond Blue. Every day I write, Full Monty style, about my very imperfect recovery from everything, I expose all sorts of moles and cellulite patches to the public.

And you better bet there are ample freak-outs behind the scenes. I obsess in the shower about what I should have left out. And I can’t press Send without at least one good round of second-guessing about the Beyond Blue post in which I disclosed an ugly memory or an unbecoming quality of mine . . . jealousy, hypocrisy, and rage come to mind.

But then I’ll get a note on the combox of a Beyond Blue post like this one from a reader named Wendi: “Thanks for being so open. I’m standing at the edge of the black hole, trying so hard not to fall in, and your courage and your vulnerability are inspiring me to keep going today.” And I know it was the right thing to do, even if I’m walking with my tail, or computer, between my legs. Her sentiment makes risking public rejection and ridicule worth it, and encourages me to put myself out there yet another day.

More on Therese's book in future blogs.

***

Are you a mental health grunt? The spark, the glue, that everyone depends on but nobody ever thanks? I have five copies of Therese’s terrific new book, Beyond Blue to give away, and it’s a no-brainer who they’re going to. Tell me your story. See Calling All Mental Health Grunts for details.

Purchase Beyond Blue from Amazon

Therese Borchard's Amazing New Book

I had the pleasure of reading an advance copy of Therese Borchard’s new book, BEYOND BLUE, which is title of her highly-acclaimed blog. (Long title of her book: "Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes"). Over the last year, Therese has become one of my favorite people. Here is the endorsement I sent to Therese’s publisher:

I don't know how Therese does it - a singularly unique woman who strikes a universal chord, a one-of-a-kind that we can all relate to. Let me count the contradictions: perfectionist-screw-up, brilliant-confused, depressed-hilarious ... Therese is a saint in pursuit of a masterpiece, and BEYOND BLUE is Exhibit A. This is The Book of Job as Art Buchwald might have written it, had he been as talented as Therese. Wise, compassionate, and funny beyond measure, Therese ultimately offers up healing. This is a book for the ages.

The publisher chopped this to a single sentence back cover blurb (to make room for the other rave endorsements, I might add).

The book goes on sale in January, but Amazon has it in stock right now. I have heard that Amazon orders heavily influence whether book stores will stock certain books or not, so I strongly urge all of you to order from Amazon now.

Any follower of Therese is well acquainted with her keen sense of humor. To give you a feel for her style, I rounded up these extracts (with her permission) from some of her funniest blog pieces. Enjoy ...

Fear of Fish

From a blog piece on competing in a triathalon:

You’d think the paranoia would end as soon as I could exit the sooty pond, but not for an OCDer.

As I sat on my bike seat, I heard a squishing sound.

"I heard the fish. I just squashed it! I knew it!"

"It’s probably the padding in your shorts. Chill out. And even if you managed to catch one, he’ll be dead by the time the ride is over."

"But I can’t ride 14.2 miles with a dead Nemo in my pants!"

Every time I shifted gears, I thought about Nemo, wondering how he was doing. In fact, no matter how hard I tried to direct my thoughts to something else, preferably the race I was participating in, I continued to freak out about the fish.

Like when I passed a chicken farm, about a half of a mile into the run.

"I smell it! It’s a whole family of fish, reproducing as I run! Nothing short of a fish school drying out could smell that bad!"

I finally crossed the finish line singing the tune from "The Little Mermaid": "Les poisons, les poisons, how I love les poisons!"

Which was fitting, because considering all the seaweed (but no fish!) that fell off of me in the shower afterward, you’d think I was "The Big Mermaid."

Trash Night

A year or so ago, I got fed up with my mate's constant begging for sex, so one night I asked him point blank, "What is the minimal number of times a week that you need sex in order to be satisfied?"

"Twice. Absolute minimum."

"Fine," I said. "You get Monday and Thursday. If you don't beg any other night."

It then occurred to me that Monday and Thursday evenings were trash night. We drag out all of our rubbish and recyclables from the last few days and leave the stuff on the curb ... to be picked up at 5 a.m. the next day, when the trash truck compressors will try to wake up our slumbering kids.

Yes, trash night is sex night in our household. Clearly a "Seinfeld" episode in the making.

This concept ... of a scheduled sex session ... was so intriguing to the other birthday guests that trash talk dominated the entire conversation for the rest of the evening.

"What about bulk pick up?" one asked.

"And what if you miss a day?" asked another.

"Eric's lucky," said the guy crossing his legs. "Our trash is only picked up once a month."

Schedule of a HSF (Highly Sensitive Family)

A typical Saturday morning in our highly-sensitive house looks like this:

2:00 a.m. HSH (highly sensitive husband) goes downstairs to sleep on the couch because he keeps getting awoken by the loud snoring of his HSW (highly sensitive wife), who is having anxiety dreams (she missed her final exam because she got carried away with the ice-cream machine at the dining hall--filling up 21 small paper ketchup containers with all the different flavors, all of which are too cold on her highly sensitive teeth).

2:10 a.m. HSH is back upstairs to get a softer pillow for his highly sensitive head.

5:15 a.m. The state of South Dakota on the HSB's (highly sensitive boy's) talking puzzle of the United States wakes up HSH again. He bangs it with his highly sensitive hand, but it won't stop saying "Pierre is the capital of South Dakota. Population, 14,000."

Finally, the miffed HSH goes into his highly sensitive woodshop (the garage) to get a screwdriver to dismantle the thing. As he yanks the IN (insensitive) AA Energizer batteries out of there, it finally shuts up. This reminds HSH of the time his HSW tossed a Winnie the Pooh keychain into the back yard when it got stuck playing the Winnie the Pooh theme song. (Her efforts with a hammer in the woodshop didn't succeed at rendering the thing mute ... So every time she opened the back door to let the dogs do their business for three days--until the AA Energizers finally surrendered--she heard the annoying tune.)

***

Lots more from Therese in future blogs. In the meantime, don’t delay: please order from Amazon now.