Editor’s Note: Everyone, meet Brett Grayson. Let’s give him a big “hello!” and hear what he has to say. Guest blog post and an excerpt from “What Could Go Wrong? My Mostly Comedic Journey through Marriage, Parenting and Depression” follows.
“Sawyer, stop looking at me like that.” Sawyer’s my dog. He doesn’t speak English. I wish he did. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t love me as unconditionally.
His small brain makes him loyal and willing to stay in bed until noon with me.
I have those mornings sometimes. I wake up with the kids and put on an Academy Award-winning performance until they leave for school. As soon as my wife Lauren leaves to drive them though, all the adrenaline gets sapped out of me and I crawl back into bed.
At some point, I then make eye contact with Sawyer and decide I’m disappointing him. But I’m not. No matter how poor a mood you’re in, irrespective of how you look, or smell (actually, they prefer if you smell bad), dogs are there for you.
It’s that other species that live in our houses and works with us and has the nerve to say hello while we’re minding our own business walking our dogs, that’s the problem. Humans expect from us and judge us and are disappointed in us, and all of that makes revealing our vulnerabilities to them that much harder.
I waited a long time to tell each person in my life that I struggle with anxiety and depression. There were practical reasons I kept it to myself – I didn’t want to burden others; I didn’t want it to affect me professionally; I haven’t picked up my cell phone since 2012 – but ultimately it came down to this: I was embarrassed by it. And the reason for embarrassment was different for each person in my life.
My parents know I take Prozac. But the flow of information to them pretty much ends right there. I have determined that the stress it puts on them outweighs any benefit of support they can offer me. Not to mention the fear of disappointing them, the concern they view it as an indictment of their parenting, and probably most prominently, the reality that they just have archaic views on mental health.
As for friends, until early this year when I put my website up with the word “depression” in the header image, no one knew. To a degree, you never stop feeling like you’re in high school and want other people to like you.
Although, Lauren and her friends are slightly better about opening up to each other about their problems. They confide in each other about their issues, and how each of their husbands is dealing with some sort of neuroses or addiction. It’s actually kind of funny when we get together because clearly the wives go back and tell their husbands what they discussed with their friends. So everyone knows how screwed up everyone else is, yet no one ever brings it up when we’re together. Instead, when we go out to restaurants, we sneak our Xanax under the table and pop it into our mouths when we think no one is looking.
Since my site went up, people have come out from under trailers practically to tell me they’ve struggled too (I’m not sure why I used “trailers,” as no one within 50 miles of me has a trailer). Some are internet friends whom I’ve never met. Some are actual people in my life. It’s both relieving and sad to hear from others about their struggles. Of course, this momentary connection doesn’t mean they want me calling them next Thursday to tell them I’m having a bad day.
And then there’s Lauren. For years while we were dating, I withheld my depression from her. My default setting was to portray myself as masculine and strong, as that was what I thought an attractive male was. Lauren now knows everything (well, almost everything. I’ll get to that in a minute). I’d like to say it’s because of the progress we’ve made to break gender stereotypes. Or even that I’ve determined she’ll love me “in sickness and in health.” In reality, it’s because you really don’t have a choice when you sleep in the same bed as someone. There’s just nowhere to hide from them (Well, technically there is if you fall asleep on the couch every night with a spoon of peanut butter in your mouth).
Sure, there are small things I still keep from her. For example, she’ll be annoyed to find out in this very sentence that I’ve been lying to her about hating the taste of Craisins, when in fact I don’t eat them because of some weird OCD reason I won’t even get into here.
And I’m not getting rid of my therapist so fast. We all need someone without a dog in the fight who we can reveal our most crazy thoughts to, and frankly, who we can complain about our spouses to. My marriage is ripe with complications like any good marriage is.
But you still need that person who isn’t peeking at the clock while you spill your guts out, and is available on weekends, and isn’t four-legged. You need someone who you can take your manhood or womanhood and put it aside and crumble before them. Without that person, you’re going to explode at some point.
For me, that person is my wife. Thank God I’m so handsome.
****
An excerpt from “What Could Go Wrong? My Mostly Comedic Journey through Marriage, Parenting and Depression” by Brett Grayson.
Urine Catching
“Honey, I didn’t get my period yet.”
“When were you supposed to?”
“Four days ago.”
“So you’re pregnant.”
“Stop. It’s not a joke.”
“I’m not joking. If you are, that’s great. We’ll deal with it.” (At least 40 percent of me is okay with this statement.)
“Maybe you should pick up a pregnancy test,” Lauren suggests.
“Should I just get one test or a few?”
“Get one. How hard can it be?”
Thirty minutes later, I have the test stick in my hand. I read the instructions: she needs to pee in a cup and we need to dip the stick in the cup. We then wait for either one or two lines to appear. If a second one appears, she’s pregnant.
I get a cup and come back upstairs.
“What are you doing?” Lauren asks.
“What?”
“You think I’m peeing in a ‘#1 GRANDMA’ mug?”
“I thought we had plastic cups. We don’t. This is the first thing I found. Why do you have it, anyway?”
“I forgot to give it to my Grandma for Mother’s Day. I’m not peeing in it, Brett. It’s disrespectful to her.”
“Are you kidding me? This is a much more important life for a mug than just holding coffee 100 times. This mug will confirm if she’s going to be a Great-Grandma for the first time.”
“Whatever. Just give me it.”
Lauren pees in it and we put the test down and discuss what we think it will be. After a few minutes, the second line is sort of starting to come in. But is it?
“Let’s bring it in the other room with better light,” Lauren suggests.
We walk into the other room.
“I think I see a second line,” I exclaim.
“You have the worst eyesight.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m freaking out.”
I go to the pharmacy again and buy three different tests. I take mild notice of how expensive it becomes—as much as you can notice when you’re on a mission.
At home, I’m looking at the pink lines from the first test again. It looks like it came in a bit more.
“The new test says ‘Pregnant’ or ‘Not Pregnant’.”
“Why didn’t you just buy that test in the first place?” Lauren asks.
“I don’t know. Leave me alone. I’m nervous.”
“YOU’RE nervous?”
This test requires you to pee on the actual test stick. She can’t pee, though. I get her water. Finally, she announces that she’s ready to pee.
“Brett, can you hold the stick while I pee on it?”
“I feel like that’s your department.”
“I don’t care whose department it is. There’s no way I’m doing it myself.”
“Fine.”
I hold the test stick under her while she takes what seems like nine hours to start peeing. Finally, pee comes flying out in all directions. I don’t think I ever concentrated on the flow of urine from a female before this moment. It is very different from a man’s flow and there are numerous variables. I am caught off-guard and the test stick may not be sufficiently saturated.
“Why didn’t you get it?” Lauren yells.
“You moved.”
“No, I didn’t.”
We put the test down and wait. The dogs are in their dog bed bored by our bickering.
“If it says ‘Not Pregnant’, are we taking another test?” Lauren asks.
“Yes, of course. That’s why I bought three tests … that second pink line from the first test really looks like it’s coming in … is it three minutes yet?” I ask impatiently.
“Why, did you stop looking at the watch?”
“What’s the difference? It will either pop up ‘Pregnant’ or ‘Not Pregnant’. It’s not going to change to ‘Maybe’.”
Lauren is staring at the test stick. “I see an hourglass.” She reads the instructions. “An hourglass means the test isn’t working.”
“I knew it,” I say. “There isn’t enough pee on it.”
We have two tests left. We take one out, but she can’t pee. Again, she drinks a glass of water and we run the faucet. Twenty minutes later, she’s ready.
“Brett, if you don’t catch the pee this time, I’m leaving you and I’m having this baby with a much older French businessman.”
“That’s very specific.”
Fortunately, I have improved my urine-catching skills and the stream flows on the stick for a few seconds. We wait. We look at the first test and the second pink line has gotten more pronounced.
The moment comes – “Pregnant”. We’re as prepared as a piece of sashimi. No turning back now.
From What Could Go Wrong? by Brett Grayson© 2018 by Brett Grayson
