Why I Want My Daughter To Curse

Posted on September 29, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

No. Not right now. She’s 2 1/2 years old, silly people! Right now I want to her to spout goofy things or get all serious like she did the other day when she said, “I love you, Daddy.” I’m not ready for her to go all Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy of George Carlin on me, though come to think of it it’d be pretty cool if Sienna started dissecting language the way the great Carlin did. No. I just don’t want her to become like me, a person so scared of being judged that he’s unable to say the four-letter words that comfortably fill the public lexicon.

I’m not ready for Sienna to have her mom’s sailor mouth, but eventually, when she’s a teen, I don’t want her to be afraid of speaking the language of her classmates (yes we’ll have the comedic swear jar) and once she reaches adulthood, I hope to be ready for her to speak such words in my presence as part of normal conversation because the reality is that cursing is ordinary and sometimes, often even, acts as a release for pent up stress.

I wish I had that release, but I’m terrified of what people will think of me if I curse – fear of judgment, just another aspect of suffering depression. I’ve been trying to figure out where this particular one comes from and I believe it’s from my father who in turn got it from his mother. My grandmother doesn’t curse at all and doesn’t believe either of her children, their spouses, any of her grandchildren or THEIR spouses use words like s–t or f–k…EVER. She lives in a perpetual dreamworld, a life of denial, because as far as I know, just about all of them curse. My sister dropped the F-bomb at least 4 times during a magazine interview about the prominent comedy club she runs and I can only imagine my grandmother’s face as those bombs exploded before her eyes. My late grandfather, teller of bawdy jokes, probably cursed, though never in front of my grandmother. My aunt, I’m not sure. My dad? I assume he did when he was younger in front of friends and while in the National Guard. I know he does at work sometimes. I heard him once when I temped at his office. But he seems uncomfortable with it, like my grandmother’s directly in his brain.

My dad never cursed in front of me when I was growing up and seemed terribly uneasy when my mom did. And I think I took that discomfort and internalized it to the point where I can’t curse in front of anyone…not even my wife. I think I feel that if I utter a f–king this or f–king that or call someone an a-hole, my dad will know and think less of me. To be honest I imagine everyone will think less of me. And that’s insane. It’s ludicrous. Why would anyone care? But just like with my anxiety it manifests physically, twisting my stomach, weighing on my chest, my veins feeling as if shot with cold radioactive dye. I even have trouble writing the words as you can see by my incessant use of hyphens.

I tried to change when I went to college. I went in there thinking that I’d start cussing like Al Swearington on Deadwood (ok, Deadwood wasn’t on yet, but you get my meaning). I wanted to create a new identity. I wanted to be normal. So I tried. Freshman year I said something about my roommate to my best friend, something like my roommate’s “getting off” on being a jerk and my best friend’s eyes widened to the point where I thought they’d burst.

“You’ve never said anything like that before!” he shouted. I know he was proud, but I took it as criticism – and I didn’t even really use a swear word! And that was it for me in college. I couldn’t curse after that. Freshman year became a pathetic war with hallmates trying to get me to utter obscenities.

I’ll never forget Chad, a tall, lanky, long-haired blonde fratboy who’d corner me daily.

“Say s–t,” he’d say, but I wouldn’t. “Come on. Just say it.”

And he’d laugh when I I couldn’t because at that point he’d win. They’d all win. I’d be cursing for them, not for me. And the pressure in my head built.

When alone, profanity swirls through my head and expletives spout from my mouth. If driving alone I’m not immune to deriding a bad driver with a “motherf–ker” or even give someone the middle finger. When I’m alone vulgarity comes easy, but my jaws clamp in front of others. “Friggin’” I’ll say. “Morons. Jerks. Idiots.” For the longest time I wouldn’t even say “hell” or “damn.”

18 years post-college and I’ve cried in front of my therapist about my inability to curse, tears streaming, face scrunched and reddened with embarrassment and anger.

“You’re safe here, she’ll say,” leaning towards me as twist myself into a pretzel. “Let go. Say f–k.”

I sputter like Fonzie trying to admit he’s wrong. “Fu…fu…fu…fu.” But that’s as far as I’ll get.

“I’ll leave the room,” she’ll say. “I won’t hear it. Just say it.”

And she’ll leave, the door clicking. I’ll sit there furious with myself, face blotchy, hands tightened into fists. The room dulled and quiet. Sometimes I’ll whisper it, sometimes not. It doesn’t matter. No one’s there to hear me so I’ve still failed. “F–k” and “s–t” and so many others remain missing from my daily speech.

I have, however, added some over the years. For some reason I can now say “hell” and “damn” and even “bastard” and “son of a bitch.” It took 30+ years for me to say those words out loud in front of people. I’m not sure if I say them in front of my dad. I KNOW I don’t say them in front of my grandmother. But I still feel so much internal pressure when it comes to swearing, like the world would stop, a collective gasp catching in everyone’s throats, fingers pointing, judging, always judging, if I dare utter the f-word in front of another person. And I don’t want that for Sienna. I never want that for her. The cycle that began with my grandmother, passed to my father and then to me seemingly by osmosis will end. I want my daughter to curse.

I look forward to having a swear jar and by the time Sienna’s old enough, I hope to be adding a few coins to it myself.

Could A Tire Blowout Cue The Dawn Of Positive Thinking?

Posted on September 12, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I was loving Utah’s 80 mph speed limit when our rear back tire blew and I mean BLEW, like a small explosion, our car suddenly lopsided and dragging. As I slowed down and pulled to the shoulder, we watched the full rubber ring roll by our window until it settled a ways away. We were 130+ miles away from Sandy, Utah, 130+ miles away from my friend, John Kinnear’s of Ask Your Dad Blog home, the place where most of our stuff remained. We had a flight the next morning. We wouldn’t be taking the Kinnears out for dinner tonight as thanks for letting us crash at their house as promised. Instead we sat at the side of the road, a bit stunned, but safe, in the middle of nowhere, Utah.

Elaine poses w/ our tire ring

Blowout

As I talked with our rental car company and discussed our options (the closest rental car place stood closed 100 miles away, and driving back to Sandy on a donut was out of the question, especially since we’d have to go 40-50 mph) and Elaine used her phone to figure out nearby places we could stay, a Good Samaritan stopped and put on our donut. He refused the $20 bill we offered and instead said, “Pay it forward.”

We drove 15 miles to Fillmore, Utah, where we found ourselves at a Best Western hotel/restaurant. And there we waited 2 1/2 hours for a taxi to come get us and then drive another 1 1/2 to John’s house.

As we sat in the restaurant waiting and waiting and waiting, Elaine expressed her worry that like usual, I’d internalize this maddening experience and let it sour things, allow it to damper our vacation to Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park. And it was at this mention that I, a heavily depressed and anxious person with warped views, an insane ability to take everything personally and a man whose glass remained perpetually empty, not even half empty, but barren, realized I’d somehow…grown? I registered that my first thoughts upon pulling to the side of the road were:

At least it happened AFTER we’d visited Bryce and Zion

At least it happened while the sun still shone

That’s not me. That’s never me. I’m the one who curls into a ball of anxiety at the slightest inconvenience. I’m the one who rails against the gods for raining on my parade without even considering anyone else. I’m the one battling a selfish, narcissistic disease. I don’t look on the bright side. But I did. Somehow I did. And somehow it came naturally and I can’t explain why.

Maybe it’s because Elaine and I had already done a 3 1/2 hour horseback ride through Bryce Canyon, one in which the cowboys seated me incorrectly leading to so much pain that I felt my knee would be wrenched off, one that caused the tops of my hamstrings to scream at the slightest touch or movement later that evening, but one that blew my mind and I’d do again in a heartbeat.

Horseback riding through Bryce Canyon

My beautiful wife on “Sweet Pea” with the famed Bryce Canyon Hoodoos in the background

Maybe it’s because we’d already hiked through Zion, one a sharp and steep incline that led to Weeping Rock, a beautiful rock face that naturally dripped water, another a 2 mile stretch through the darkness during which I got to give my “city girl” wife (born and raised in the Bronx, NY) the stars. At one point she lay down on the path and marveled at all the celestial bodies she’d never seen, at their infinite number and splendor. Was it because during that night hike I moved my headlamp to the right unwittingly illuminating a tarantula (A REAL, WILD TARANTULA) that stood waiting for its venom-filled prey – a large, black, still-flailing beetle – to fall still so it could feast? Was it because I witnessed a large fox cross our path in the night, it’s eyes aglow from our headlamps? Was it because I’d already seen this:

Native American petroglyphs at Zion National Park

Was it because Elaine convinced me to drive back through Zion which padded our return trip by a couple of hours but allowed us to see these:

A desert long-horned ram and mate at Zion National Park

Closeup of a desert long-horned ewe Zion National ParkWas

Was it witnessing and experiencing the majesty of nature I’d craved for so long that filled my glass? Was it sharing my love of these things with Elaine? Blowing her city-raised mind again and again?

Even when things went wrong during the trip, something seemed to go right. I wanted to give Elaine the stars at Bryce which has the darkest place in the continental U.S. I wanted to look through telescopes and see Jupiter and the Milky Way, but a rainstorm killed all of that. So we went to a local steakhouse, enjoyed a fine meal and a sinful Oreo cream pie despite the severe pain from our earlier horseback ride and then, there it was, right outside our window:

There was so much beauty on this trip. A picture everywhere you turned. It was exactly what I’d wished for. So how could I complain? How could I wail and moan after we’d been so lucky to see so much? My brain knew it…even the irrational part…and it naturally thought about the positives following the blowout instead of the negatives – possible costs, the hassle of the taxi, having to wait for hours. Normally I’d shake and quiver at having to arrange for service. I’d be lost. I’d let my wife take over. I’d call my parents. But instead I was so full of vigor from experiencing Bryce and Zion and so many amazing things that my depression and anxiety never reared their ugly heads.

None of this hit me until Elaine told me she was worried about my mental state and when she did I sat bewildered but strong. I talked to my therapist yesterday and she told me I now have a muscle to strengthen because I have proof that I can fill my glass. The water might evaporate over time if I let it and to be honest, I’ve been a bit sad since we returned. I’ve been afraid to look at Facebook. Would I be forgotten? Abandoned? I’ve been scared to write. But on the flip side I have all of these pictures and more so, I have life experience to conjure if I can. I lived through a blown tire in the middle of nowhere, Utah, and my reaction was one of humor, lightness and positivity, because nothing could take back what I’d already seen and done.

So is this the dawn of Lorne Jaffe, positive thinker? I don’t know. I might fall back into pits of depression as I return to the normality of life as a stay-at-home dad. I might suffer anxiety attacks over ridiculous things. My judgment might be clouded at times, my thoughts muddled, my self-loathing beastly.

What matters is that I fight through it all, that the dad blogger friends I’ve made around the world continue to support my battle, that my family and friends keep loving me, that I keep loving them, that I look at Sienna with wonder and joy. That I remember that just because this vacation is past, it doesn’t mean another one won’t be in my future. And I will fight. And I will remember.

Elaine and I at Zion National Park

I’m Featured in A “Today Parents” Article Re Parental Pressure & Mental Illness

Posted on August 19, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

Please check out this terrific article for which I was interviewed by Alice Gomstyn, contributor to Babble, ABCNews.com, and Babyzone, etc., that explores the correlation between societal parental pressures (such as seeing all those “perfect” pictures on Pintrest) and mental illnesses such as depression and anxiety. I’m always playing the comparison game and things like Pintrest & Facebook, all of the social media on which people post pics of the various activities they’re doing w/ their kids and meals they’ve cooked too often have me feeling like I’m failing my daughter. And I’m not the only one. Also interviewed were Katherine Stone, founder of Postpartum Progress, and Jennifer Marshall, the woman behind Bi-Polar Mom Life. I’m honored to be included.

You can find the article here.

Thanks for reading!

Depression is Not a Joke: Thoughts on Robin Williams’ Suicide From A Fellow Depressive

Posted on August 12, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I lay in bed, phone in hand, reading about Robin Williams’ severe depression, how the disease beat him down to the point where he found suicide the only option. It didn’t surprise me. I’d known Williams’ suffered from the same condition I’ve battled for 3 decades. He’d been in and out of rehab for drugs and alcohol. He’d spoken previously about the darkness that swarmed his brain just as his breakneck wit overwhelmed the world with laughter, though he never revealed its true depth.

The great Robin Williams lost his battle with depression on August 11, 2014.

I’ve been there, though not as close…not nearly as close. I’ve imagined the bottle of pills in my hand. I’ve pictured the heft of the gun, the barrel cold against my temple. I’ve felt the fictional sweet kiss of the razor slicing my wrists. But I’ve never done anything about it. Even at my most fatalistic, pre-Elaine, pre-Sienna, I couldn’t put thoughts to action. Too frightened. Too scared of judgment. Post wife and daughter, the thoughts still appear randomly like fleeting wisps in the night. They’ve been there this past week and a half as I’ve suffered through a deep depressive episode triggered by something I’ve yet to figure out. My therapist and I are working on it, trying to pull me out of this feeling that I’m in the blackest ocean abyss, chains constricting my legs like an anaconda, arms flailing upwards against the crushing weight of the sea and the heaviness in my legs. I’ve had days this past week+ when I didn’t want to get out of bed despite my 2-year-old daughter needing her daddy. Sometimes my mom would come and take Sienna for a few hours so I could sleep (my usual means of recovery). Elaine took care of Sienna one evening last week so I could go see Boyhood, a movie filmed over 12 years about a boy and his family as they grow. The movie just exacerbated my mood as I felt time slip away. Just as the finale of Six Feet Under destroyed me with a montage of each character’s lives and deaths go by quicker and quicker making me lose my tentative grasp on time and causing a tearful breakdown in the car in my wife’s presence, so too did Boyhood, though this time from a parent’s perspective. As I watched Mason (Ellar Coltrane) literally age from 6 to 18 in the span of 2 hours and 40 minutes, I again lost that elusive and impossible grip on time, feeling Sienna grow faster and faster and faster. She’s still not yet 2 and a half, but I saw her graduate high school and I heard Mason’s mom’s (Patricia Arquette’s) heartsick words echoing through my head: “I got my degree. I got a good job.I put you through college. What’s next? My funeral?” (paraphrased). I’m almost never affected by film or television or literature, but I was by Boyhood. Knowing the state I was in, I should have gone to see Guardians of the Galaxy. I’ve had panic attacks this past week+ because I haven’t blogged in so long and I’m afraid readers and fellow dad bloggers will abandon me. For some reason I’ve been unable to even scroll through Facebook as if touching the keys would burn my fingertips and seeing the happiness of others will blind me. I’m terrified that if I don’t share other people’s blogs, if I don’t comment, if don’t hit the “like” button, they’ll all leave me. So I’ve shared some things without reading them. I’ve hit “like” a few times. I’ve made a comment or two. I’ve even posted about this, my most recent fight with this damn disease, and caring people have responded, some have send PMs, but I’ve been unable to read them. I post and run. Post and run. I can’t scroll long. It hurts too much. And I don’t know why.

This isn’t my first battle as I’ve said. I was unofficially diagnosed at age 9, 31 years ago. I kept everything inside until 1996 when I had my first nervous breakdown and then went back to bottling it up until my second nervous breakdown in 2010. I’ve been on so many different medications I’ve lost count. I’ve seen 4 different therapists and 4 different psychiatrists with my most recent ones being the best. I can be fine for months and then something can trigger an episode, something seemingly innocuous that leads to irrational thought after irrational thought until my brain might as well be a Sharknado, turning and twisting and biting. Each waking second I feel like I’m up against a Mt. Everest of negativity, 31 years of incongruous thought processes and feelings – wrong thoughts and feelings as my therapist will be quick to point out.

Depression is a fiercely selfish disease. When you’re deep inside its clutches, you can’t see how you’re affecting others. My sister taught me that years ago when she lectured how the world walks on eggshells around me, how no one knows what will set me off. I keep that in mind as best as I can but I still succumb at times. I’m better than I was 18 years ago, 10 years ago, 4 years ago. My episodes don’t last as long. Suicidal ideation is rare and cursory. But the triggers, those bastards, still exist and often I don’t see them coming and need time to work through them. And that’s what I do. I work. Hard. Each and every day. And I’ll never commit suicide. I have a responsibility to those I love. I can’t ever hurt Elaine and Sienna like that.

Robin Williams’ decision to end his life wasn’t fair to his wife or his children, family, friends. But was it wrong? I can’t say that it was. He was tortured. Another tortured genius like Hemingway and Woolf who could no longer battle his demons. Depression, like most mental illnesses is a cancer of the mind. If the pain gets too intense, who am I or who is anyone to tell a person to keep going if there’s no fight left, if each breath, each second is a waking nightmare. If someone has cancer, is in unending pain, sees no light at the tunnel and wants to end it, isn’t it just as selfish of us to ask him/her to keep living and fighting because we want them in OUR lives? I wouldn’t kill myself, but I can’t say Robin Williams is wrong for taking that road. Who knows how deep his depression went? Who knows what he thought in his last moments? This is a man who covered his sickness as best as he could, who made millions laugh as his own brain probably screamed he was a failure. We were robbed of so many more laughs created by Robin Williams, but not by Robin Williams himself. We were robbed by Depression.

I couldn’t sleep last night after reading about Robin Williams. I kept envisioning his last agonized moments. And then I’d wonder if his death would push me over the unable-to-blog hump and I’d chastise myself for it. Then I started thinking about all of the bloggers that would beat me to the punch and/or write with a more poetic touch. And I felt so egotistical. So disgusted with myself. At 3-something in the morning I posted on Facebook about my insomnia, Robin Williams, and my warped warped thoughts and fears. I’ve yet to read any responses, though my mother said I received a ton of support. If I can I write this then I can read those responses. I’m proud of myself for writing. I think. I hope.

If there’s any positive in this tragic loss it’s that Robin Williams was such a high profile figure, such a supposedly kind and humble man in person, such a dynamo on film and stage, that maybe the light will finally shine on mental illness. Maybe more information about mental illness will be available to the masses. Maybe the government and insurance companies will do more for those of us who suffer either aloud or in silence. Maybe they’ll do more to create affordable therapies and medication. Most importantly, maybe we’ll all talk about it more. People will look to Robin Williams and no longer be afraid to speak up. I’ve found that talking about my disease with fellow sufferers has been a huge form of therapy. They get me. And there are millions of us.

It’s time to stop being afraid if you suffer from depression or any mental illness for that matter. It’s time to stop fearing judgment. Step into the light and talk about it. If you’re feeling suicidal, call someone. Call a hotline. Seek help. Because we’re in this together. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

As proven by the unfortunate loss of Robin Williams.

Depression Hits During A Father’s Day Week of Success, Envy, Pride and Guilt

Posted on June 11, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I held the book in my hands and turned to the table of contents. My name in black and white. Twice. “I’m published!” I thought. “I’m really published!” A little electric jolt awoke my stomach’s butterflies. But lurking beneath the jolt like a cancerous cell was envy and self-flagellation and the irrational side of my brain yelled, “So what? You’re not on The Today Show! You’re not on Good Morning America! This is nothing! You’re nothing! You’ll never reach that pinnacle!” What exactly is that pinnacle? I have no idea. But my depressive brain seems to know or at least claims to. The butterflies fell ill, calcified, settled in my chest and belly like stones.

It didn’t matter that the same day I saw my stories printed in Dads Behaving Dadly: 67 Truths, Tears and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood (available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble), I debuted on WhatToExpect.com with a paid story about the first time it hit me I was a dad and was listed on Mike Reynolds’ awesome site Puzzlingposts.com as an important dad blogger to read. It still wasn’t good enough because I still haven’t hit Huffington Post or appeared in a commercial or sat next to George Stephanopoulos on a talk show set.

I held my book and despaired and screamed at myself to “STOP!” I pinched myself hard enough to leave a welt.

This is such an important week. For the first time I can recall, fathers are being celebrated across the country in a way they never were before. Dove Men+Care debuted a tearjerker of a commercial showing dads as real, significant, beloved, responsible people:

Today Moms changed its name to Today Parents. My friends and fellow dad bloggers attended the first ever summit on working dads at the White House. Friends and fellow dad bloggers, people who have been so kind and supportive to me, have appeared and will continue to be featured on The Today Show and Good Morning America throughout the week. A great friend nabbed a job writing for Time.com. Friends and fellow dad bloggers took park in huge brand campaigns about the changing views on fatherhood. Andy Hinds wrote about how 2014 is the Year of the Dad. And I’m so happy for them. I’m so proud of them. And I feel so damn envious that I’m NOT them. And coupled with that envy is this corrosive guilt, something my therapist constantly reminds me serves no purpose except as ridiculous self-castigation.

I’ve been blogging for less than a year. In that time I’ve created some sort of presence in the dad blogger community that I don’t understand because I feel my work sucks. I’ve spoken at the 2014 Dad 2.0 Summit. I’ve seen my writing appear on The Good Men Project and at the National At-Home Dad Network. I’ve been on the Life of Dad podcast and the NYC Dads Group podcast. The NYC Dads Group blog has shared my blogs as well as original work for their site. And each time something happens I feel that jolt of pride and joy followed almost immediately by that acidic, destructive jealousy and shame.

My brain, my ludicrous, hateful, powerful brain refuses to let me enjoy these successes and realize that having near 290 Facebook likes just weeks after launching my Raising Sienna FB site and near 270 Twitter followers is enormous, that it took some dad bloggers years to reach those numbers, because I’m too busy comparing myself to those dad bloggers with 95k likes. I’m too busy measuring myself up against the “big boys,” the ones that have sweated and worked for 3, 5, 7, 10 years to reach the levels they’re at. I’m too busy telling myself I’m not good enough because I’m not them.

I become obsessed with symbols, be it getting on a big website or television show or having a former teacher promote my work on her site or be picked to participate in a big campaign. Right now that symbol is getting on Huffington Post. Nothing compares to getting my work on HuffPo. I’m desperate to get on the site and each time I see a friend of mine share one of their HuffPo pieces, I’m so proud of them and so so covetous. I’m also extremely thankful to my fellow dad bloggers for lobbying HuffPo to print my work and because I’m so jealous, I don’t think I’m deserving of their kindness. But regardless, the point is that should I somehow reach the HuffPo level, I’ll feel that similar jolt of excitement and then it will be buried by whatever becomes the next symbol. I’m as yet unable to enjoy the present, the gifts I’ve received, the things I’ve accomplished. That’s what depression can do. That’s how strong and insidious this disease is.

I’m working so hard to get out of this treacherous, sickening mindset. I scream at myself. I physically slap or pinch myself to bring me back to rationality, but so far the irrational side of my brain is as imposing as the 700 foot ice wall from Game of Thrones and seemingly just as punishing to conquer.

But I’m not giving up. I REFUSE to give up. I’ll continue to go to therapy. I’ll continue my regiment of meds. And one day I’ll climb that wall. One day I’ll be able to look back at all the things I’ve done as successes instead of thinking about all of the things I haven’t done. One day I’ll be able to hold my next book and enjoy it for more than a few minutes. I’ll bask in my triumphs for days, weeks, months, years. The present will hold deep meaning. And I’ll no longer covet my friends’ feats thus eliminating that horrible guilt from my life. I’ll virtually jump up and down with them and revel in their accomplishments. One day there will be no despair. Nothing but pride and happiness.

One day.

Now I’m off to go sign Dads Behaving Dadly for my parents.