Notes from the Blue House

In 1986, I lusted after a doll named Cricket. I begged, I pleaded, I whined. This doll was the shit. You put a cassette tape into her back, and she would talk. Her lips moved, her eyes rolled around in their sockets and her face was permanently cheery. I know now that my parents debated, agonized over the purchase of the doll as it was a hefty $98 and by 1986 standards that was certainly an investment for a child's toy. Roll forward to Christmas 1986 and I unwrap THE gift, a brand-spanking new Cricket doll of my very own, dressed in a striped sweater. She was perfection, until she was out of the box. Once the cassette tape clicked into her back and she began to talk, 5 year old me realized, in a fraction of a second, that she was terrifying. She was creepy as hell and I instantly thought that Santa must not know me after all. Or maybe he was hammered. My parents beamed at me, thrilled to see me finally holding Cricket on my lap. Of course, I can't recall my exact reaction but

This one isn't easy to talk about. It's not funny, it's not charming or endearing but there's a chance that you'll get it and then you'll know you're not the only one....and so will I. I've known for many years that mental health issues have reared their ugly heads in my family history. I've known that depression, anxiety and addictions have laced their way through generations of my family but that knowledge has always been something I kept at arms length. "Oh, that's a sad history, good thing it's not my personal story. Good thing that won't happen to me." Aside from spending a week under the duvet after a high school boyfriend dumped me, I have enjoyed a pretty stable and resilient mind. All through my 20's, I navigated all the joy and stresses that a new marriage, new home, new career and new found motherhood brought me without falling apart. I never saw it coming, that black blanket that would wrap itself over my sho