I found this mug at it approached 9 pm in ATHENS, GA, on Hancock Avenue, after leaving Cine Theater. I only stopped and saw it because I stopped to text my friend Matthew. Seeing "Finders Keepers" made me curious. No money inside the envelope, but a heart-warming idea, and a solid mug. Thank you, themugexchange, for helping to restore my faith in the universe.
Life has been very hard for me the past 18 months. But I have endured. I want to share it with you, the reader. My marriage hit a crisis point after about a year or so of marriage. My wife Sabrina and I entered counseling, but she wanted a divorce. She later recanted, after a co-worker suggested we attend a couple's retreat. But life and marriage continued to be hard. I didn't know it yet, but my Crohn's Disease was getting worse. I was diagnosed when I was a teen and always thought my case wasn't very severe. I had a few cramps a year, fatigue, bloating, depression. I hadn't admitted to my depression, as I still had stigma towards admitting mental illness. I was functional enough, with a job, a wife, friends. Little did I know that the serotonin in my gut was affected by my disease, and the poor absorption of nutrients affected my energy and depression.
Then I found out that I was being laid off from my job, which I still have not recovered from over a year later. Then the health scare. Even though I'd been taking medicine for over 20 years to combat my Crohn's Disease, I encountered my first intestinal blockage. Crohn's is an auto-immune disease, and the scarring over the years built up to the point of an emergency. My intestine was closed up and needed steroids and antibiotics to open up, then surgery to remove about 10 inches of intestine. I missed my last 3 days of work because I was in the hospital. Then, a month later, surgery. My wife was supportive through this ordeal. We both have health issues, as she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2009. While I was recovering from the surgery, I contracted the C-Diff infection, which extended by recovery time. And 8 days after my surgery, my mother died unexpectedly. She was 66. Her name was Elaine Weissert Cramer. She fought valiantly against schizophrenia, diabetes and obesity in the last years of her life. She had a deep faith in God, and was deeply loved by her family and friends. She probably suffered a heart attack. I was in the hospital for another week, and the loss of my mother didn't hit me until I was released. I sobbed in my wife's bosom for a good while. My wife and I tried to continue life as normal.
Soon after we attended Mom's memorial service and spread her ashes in the Smoky Mountains as she had requested, Mom visited me in a dream. I rarely remember my dreams. Just a few a year. But, soon after returning home, I awoke with a clear memory. Mom was at peace; more peace than she'd ever been since I could remember. She was ok with her earthly life ending. And she had a message for me. "Stephen," she said. "I lived my life. Now you have to live your's." It was so real, it didn't seem like something that my sleeping brain could create. It gave me peace that she was ok on the other side. Mom was a born-again Christian, but I'd left the church as a teenager. I've always been spiritual, believing that kindness and goodness should always rule my decisions in life, but that I'll find out the universe's secrets after my earthly death. She also visited me in at least 2 more dreams: one in which she excitedly declared "I'm going to Africa!" which makes me think that she was about to catch some easterly winds across the ocean, and the other where she sang a love song to me. Yeah, of course I cried when I awoke from each dream. I'm a human man, not a robot.
My recovery would be 6-12 months while I tried to gain strength and put my life back together: health, career, marriage, everything. I wish I'd sought help sooner, but for more than 7 more months, I suffered from deep depression. I tried to get back on track, but I was never fully back on the rails of life. The disconnect from my wife grew. I reached a mental health crisis in late June 2013, when I admitted to my wife and our counselor that I had been having suicidal thoughts. Just thoughts, no actions, but I was so overwhelmed and didn't see a light at the end of the tunnel. I went to Nuci's Space, a non-profit group in Athens, Georgia that helps connect locals with mental and emotional health resources. I made an appointment with a psychiatrist, but it was two weeks away. The next day, my wife said she couldn't be at work thinking that I may hurt myself. She had been at her wit's end with my depression, suggesting mediation and exercise. But my illness needed medication.
A few weeks before Mom's death, her psychiatrist/therapist asked her to speak to students at Wayne State University in Detroit about the stigma of mental illness. I needed to take her stance to heart: depression needs to be battled like any illness, and the stigma that stops us from being open about it needs to fuck itself and die. I now hate stigma in all forms. Depression doesn't need to be "toughened out". I couldn't have survived appendicitis or Crohn's Disease without modern medicine. It was time to accept the wealth of research that psychiatry has compiled in the last 100+ years. My wife insisted that I go to the emergency room, and I agreed. Sabrina said I was too much myself while I was being questioned. I was funny, personable, thoughtful. But I was honest about the dark cloud that was following me when I was alone and the curtains were drawn. I was overwhelmed by the trajectory my life had taken. I was prescribed Prozac, and saw the psychiatrist a few weeks later. He was much more openly caring than I thought he would be. I thought he would be clinical and cold. My depressed brain felt love and concern for the first time in ages, from my wife, strangers, and friends that I began to confide in.
Sadly, though, my wife decided on August 12, 2013 that she wanted a divorce. The trials of our marriage and of her life required her to make a clean break. We did and do still love each other. Our 7 year partnership made me evolve more than words can say. I'm tearing up while writing this, but I now know it's for the best. I had hope we could have waited until I was well to make any big decisions about our future. But my timeline was not her timeline. I respect her decision to take care of herself. The divorce will happen soon and it will be amicable. And I believe that our lives will each be beautiful and productive. We will be allies and friends again soon. The intensity of depression can be alleviated with medicine, healthy living, healthy communication and relationships, and by seeking help. None of us are alone in this universe, despite what the dark angel of depression says. We need each other, and we need to not be isolated. Therapy and psychiatry are definitely tools that I wish I'd sought out before I was 38/39 years old. But better late than never, right?
I just want to share with anyone reading this that is struggling with ailments, depression, relationship problems, or any other challenge: it does get better. My therapist reminded me that whenever my pain feels unbearable, when it's at its worst, to remember the ebb and flow of life.
I spent my first hour with my new favorite mug watching my Detroit Tigers play the Minnesota Twins, drinking cola and peach moonshine, contemplating, and writing this to the universe. I always wanted to be paid for writing. Payment in kindness and mugness is very appreciated. Thank you for making me feel connected. Thank you, Mr. Mug, for being the impetus of this spiritual writing exercise. And thank you, stranger, for reading. Here's to today, tomorrow, and you. Cheers.
