The Hair Intervention.

I have padded sock-footed on the edges of groups all my life, not so much disallowed from their embrace as disallowing myself, peering through their windows Little Match Girl-style, drawn by their golden circle of lamplight spilling onto the sidewalk.

Exception: Scotch in hand, I’d rush headlong into their fray, entering stage right, casting myself in the lead, hollering round for the others to hurry up, let’s shoot darts, let’s play “Electric Youth” on the video jukebox over and over, oblivious to the glares of the regulars, sloshing my drink on the table, wondering where my friends were when the music stopped, finding out they’d all gone bowling without me. Later, alone in my apartment, wearing a frayed gray comforter and a face mask I’d concocted from a recipe in Glamour, I struggled to position the rabbit ears on my UHF-only television to stabilize the picture for “Quantum Leap.” Snow on the screen, tears in my eyes.

Taxi-cab privacy screen locked in place, I have held myself at arm’s length from former classmates, coworkers, and even my own family, situating interstates and time zones between us. Through the magic of Facebook, I can still peer through the window, seeing law school classmates celebrating 25 years of friendship – why there they all are at the lake again this summer! Their babies now old enough to captain the boats and me, a mountain range and a lifetime away, having never gotten the hang of water skiing anyway, remembering them yelling from the dock Lean back! Lean back! as I dropped the line again and again, turning blue from cold, red from shame, pale white because I refused to wear shorts ever – hating my legs – an all-American loser in the land of 10,000 lakes.

I could say it all started with the hair intervention in seventh grade but that would be a lie. In photos from three, four years old, I’m all white-haired silkiness, my flyaway ends curling up to complete a smile my mouth refused to form, giving me away: Loner. Then ten, eleven years old: there are pixie cuts and darkening and coarsening and a horrible perm and mall haircuts, always – never at the good place that cost $18 where the girls on the tennis team went. I had no right to attempt the Dorothy Hamill wedge, disastrous as it grew out, widening, never lengthening, me yanking it down, willing it to straighten so no one would notice.

Oh, but they noticed. Four or five of them approaching in the hall at school as friends, maybe? Hi! We want to talk to you! Me thinking this would be a big moment, plans would be made, something that perhaps would not include water skiing but instead studying, and I was good at studying. But wait, what were they saying? We need to talk about your hair, you just can’t wear it like that, have you tried a curling iron, you can use mine, here – thrusting it into my hand and pointing me toward the bathrooms – no, I’ll go alone, I say, gosh thanks for letting me borrow this.

But I had no business curling my hair in the junior high bathroom. They might as well have handed me a circular saw and sent me to shop class to build shelving for all I knew about how curling irons worked. My sisters were grown, in college, and there was a curling iron at home, yes, caked with years of hairspray, but I had no idea how to operate it other than to turn it on and watch the red dot turn slowly to black, signifying danger, not beauty.

touch and curl curling iron

Alone in the bathroom, I made a valiant hair styling effort. I maneuvered the foreign instrument to the right side of my head, some confidence in my dominant hand, attempting the little sausage curls that seemed to be in style, so effortless on other girls. Then panic: What of the left side? I’d surely burn myself, the tool backward and inside out and me, already confused by viewing my mirror image – for god’s sake how was I supposed to get the left side?

So I didn’t. I waited for the iron to cool, had missed nearly all of lunch hour by this point, marched back out, overgrown wedge brushing the door on the left, failed sausage curls sagging on the right and there they were, still in a group, waiting for me. Gape-mouthed: What have you done? Why didn’t you do the left side? YOU JUST TURN IT UPSIDE DOWN TO GET THE OTHER SIDE! Laughter, me heading back into the bathroom, tears now, stepping on the floor pedal for the sinks, a waterfall springing up around me, Vegas style – those were the sinks we had, communal dancing waters so all the junior high girls could wash up at once, this considered beneficial somehow by the designers – cupping and filling my hands and wetting my hair over and over, curls on the right disappearing, unruly thicket on the left unmoved by the flood of water dripping onto my plaid blouse with the peter pan collar and the red grosgrain ribbon tied sweetly in a bow at my neck. Now attempting to squeeze the water out with the cloth towels that went round and round in the dispenser, but which, apparently, had no absorptive qualities whatsoever, because there was no disguising it: I was drenched.

And of course they were still waiting, now shouting: You didn’t have to get it wet! You shouldn’t have slicked it down! The bell ringing, fifth hour was it? Counting: three classes and a long bus ride home ahead of me. Their circle of light disappearing and me again on the other side of the window, shivering, no more matches to strike, as I parked myself behind my desk in Mrs. Maruska’s English class, intent on my notebook, my eyes seeing nothing.

Posted in Uncategorized | 24 Comments

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Following My Dream

A year and a half ago, I made the decision to leap. To jump off the expected track and quit a day job that paid well but caused me enormous stress and ate into nearly all my family time. I had no job waiting.

I’d been cramming my beloved writing into the tiny pockets of time left over after I finished work and the kids went to bed. Now, I’d power forward, new life plan in hand, and “be a writer.”

A funny thing happened on the way to following my dream. I quit my day job, lost my words, and had a nervous breakdown. I wrote about it here. And here.

Things don’t always go as we plan, do they? Instead of implementing a ten-step business launch, I struggled to put sentences together. Instead of networking, I holed up in my house, isolated. Instead of writing, I hit rock bottom.

This past summer, I eased back into life. I practiced just being a person again. I hung out with my kids. I took up swimming. I started eating clean, or at least clean-ish.

And, little by little, I started writing again.

I’ve got my words back now, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at the home page of The Reedster Speaks. I haven’t been using this medium much to transmit them. Because you know what I found out?


So now? I’ve set up a proper shop over at And finally, I’m doing all of the things. Check me out:

I’m teaching. I opened up a Storyteller’s Studio this summer and loved every minute of ushering my students from first to final draft of a kickass 750-word personal essay.

So I’m doing it all again.

Join me for my fall creative nonfiction boot camp and learn how to harness the power of personal storytelling to write your best blog post ever. We’ll be slicing and dicing the ingredients of the personal essay, spinning them in a blender, and pouring them onto the page. We’ll cover literary conflict, narrative structure, authentic voice, and more. In 30 days. Click here for all the details and to register.


I’m speaking. I’m so excited to be speaking at my favorite blog conference! Join me at Type A Parent Conference this October 8-10 in Atlanta, where I’ll be presenting on storytelling for bloggers. Type A is the con where people actually want to go to all the sessions because the material is always spot on useful for your blog. Hurry! It always sells out. Register here.*

Type-A Parent Conferences, the premier events for mom and dad bloggers

I’m blogging. I’m not quitting you, Reedster Speaks, but I am seeing another blog on the side. I’ve started The Storyteller | A Blog About Writing, as a space to share tips and insights into the craft of creative nonfiction and the business of writing professionally. You can read my first post here – the story of my journey to becoming a writer – and sign up for my weekly newsletter here.

I’m writing. Here are some posts I wrote for other sites that you may have missed:

The NeverEnding Period at In The Powder Room
“Day after day, my period flowed, like the pages of The NeverEnding Story. Only instead of stepping into an epic fantasy world, I’d stepped into a world where you just have your period forever and it never stops and menopause never comes.”

Why I’m OVER Redefining Beauty at Vibrant Nation
“Do we really need to redefine what is beautiful so that every woman is included? Or should we instead redefine what’s valued in a woman so that beauty isn’t the sole measure of her worth?”

How I Got Over My Fear of Weight Training and Hit the Gym at Vibrant Nation
“I scanned the gym’s offering of classes, looking for the easy ones. You know, anything with a title that included ‘silver,’ ‘101,’ ‘gentle,’ hell, even ‘prenatal.’”

Ten Tips for Mind Over Mood Productivity at Vibrant Nation
“Depression kept me away from the keyboard for months. Here’s how I’m finding joy in working again.”

Now We Are 50: Generation X Hits the Half Century Mark at Vibrant Nation
“We came of age under Reagan, survived the early 1990s recession, and claimed MTV as our own. Does reality still bite as the original cool kids go up and over the 50 year hump?”

I’m dreaming. Dreams don’t always work out the first time, do they? Luckily, we get second chances. And third and fifth ones too. This summer was a great big do-over on my whole ‘starting a freelance writing business’ idea. I hope you’ll stick around for the ride.

I’ve got even bigger dreams and plans ahead.

*Disclosure: That Type A link in the post? That’s an affiliate link. If you purchase using that link, I’ll get a commission. 

Posted in Round Up. It's not just for killing the water table., Self Improvement, shut up and write already | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments

Swimming Laps with Helen Mirren and Santa.

Helen Mirren tugs her white Lycra swim cap over her sleek silver bob, then pops on her pink swim goggles. She smooths her swim skirt and eases herself into the water.

Santa is already here. Santa is always swimming laps before I arrive and he is always still going strong after I leave. Santa’s belly is not akin to a bowl full of jelly, but he is white-bearded and has a kindly smile. He puts me in mind of a right jolly old elf. Santa favors the breast stroke at a slow but steady pace.

I’m pretty sure Alanis Morissette was at the pool two nights ago too, in an ill-fitting one piece that she’d obviously given up hand washing and run through the spin cycle on high a few too many times. Alanis, of course, gives no fucks about the swim cap, letting her trademark long brown mane trail wildly behind her in the water. You look at her and think, “That is so Alanis.

These are the people who swim laps after the people who really swim laps are done for the day.

For the past week, I have been one of their number.

I like to arrive just as the pool staff is taking in the lane markers after the official adult swim time is over. One lane stays reserved for lap swimmers and that’s where you’ll find Santa. Helen Mirren likes to split the lane with him. They have a system.

I don’t know how to use the lanes. I swim next to the marked lane, though I occasionally have to dodge guests from the resort that shares the pool.

I’m new to pool etiquette. I’m new to belonging to any kind of athletic facility. I’m new to lap swimming. Last night was my fourth trip.

It’s the perfect pool for me. The “laps” are some random length unrelated to any regulation pool. But they are my laps, damn it, and if I want to say I swam six laps – or three, or ten – then I will. My daughter lets me count a lap each time I touch a wall, so when she swims with me I get to double the number.

When she’s not with me, I watch the clock. A half hour, that’s my goal.

I am winded at the end of each length and I have to take breaks. I hang on the edge of the pool as Santa keeps his metronomic pace. Helen Mirren takes breaks too, but mostly to change up her equipment. She likes to use props, which makes me feel more comfortable with my fledgling attempts. Sometimes she’ll breast stroke with a pool noodle tucked under her elbows or clutch a kickboard in lieu of a full on crawl.

Maybe I am supposed to be doing that. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.

I swim, each stroke a moving meditation. You can’t not focus on your breath because of the whole drowning thing. So I follow my breath. Sometimes it is gasping, sometimes my timing is off and I swallow water, sometimes one breath barely gives me the energy I need to make it to the next.

I breathe and stroke, breathe and stroke, avoiding the kids jumping in the shallow end, wondering if I’ll ever have the guts to split a lane like Helen Mirren and Santa do. When my half hour runs out, I lie prone on the cement pool deck, unable to move.

No one seems to notice, so maybe the post-swim collapse is a common occurrence amongst the people who swim laps after the people who really swim laps go home.

I stagger to the locker room. I am so tired it is probably dangerous for me to drive the two miles home.

But I am swimming towards 50, and I think I am going to make it.

ckr swim

Want to write a kickass story this summer? I’m teaching a 30 day online creative nonfiction writing class this July, and I’d love to have you join me to learn the fundamentals of great storytelling. Learn more and register at CindyReed.Me.

Posted in Self Improvement | 17 Comments

I’m back.

Hey there. Last time we spoke, I was off, like, getting my brain shocked and stuff.

I did that ten times. I’m thrilled to be home.

People have been asking me how I feel and if I think electroconvulsive therapy worked for my treatment resistant bipolar disorder. I have mixed feelings about the process.

On one hand, I wasn’t thrilled at the level of support from the facility I used. I felt very much like a brain on the ECT assembly line as they shocked eight to ten patients each morning. Not exactly a “whole patient” approach. I used an out-of-town hospital, so I was away from my family for a month, which made the experience more isolating.

I underestimated the physical trauma of undergoing general anesthesia three times a week. Yes, ECT is safe and effective, but that doesn’t mean it’s an insignificant procedure. I suffered from nausea, headaches, and extreme fatigue on the days of treatment, with little time to recover on the off days.

My anxiety rose to panic levels. I’d have dreams that I was permanently damaging my brain or that I couldn’t wake up from anesthesia. I’ve gained a tendency toward migraines on the right side of my head, where the electrodes were attached.

Doctors sometimes recommend maintenance ECT as a follow-up. I don’t think that’s for me.

On the other hand? I think it worked.

(How’s that for burying the lede?)

Once the overwhelming sensory experience of reentering a house full of dogs and children and activities and expectations subsided, the panic eased as well. I’ve been able to work. I’ve got a mind over mood mentality that seems to be enduring. I’ve gone off some of my medications.

Life seems clearer. I’m not trying to just get through each day so that I can fall into bed at night and read. I’m relishing the things that actually make up daily life. Like, making lunches isn’t a reason to be anxious. “Making lunches” might just be shorthand for what it’s all about.

I’m doubling down on lifestyle changes – focusing on the food I eat, practicing mindfulness, and working with my therapist on cognitive behavioral changes so my new habits stick.

I can’t thank you enough for your support and positive feedback. My friends and family who texted, emailed, called. My sisters and mom who sent care packages to me and my kids. My dad and his girlfriend who drove hours out of their way to visit. My very real online friends, who were there for me before and after each treatment, ready to post a picture of their staticky hair in solidarity.

My in-laws, who housed me during the entire process, drove me to each treatment, and brought me home for visits.

My kids, who were rock stars during a confusing and scary time.

My husband, who has always been my solid Buddha, unflappable in crisis, for keeping the family going and never giving up on me.

*  *   *   *   *   *   *   *  *

I’ve always been open about my struggles with mental illness, but after I posted the piece disclosing my treatment, I wanted to take it back. Hide. Not have people know I was getting ECT. I worried about what people would think, if other parents would still let me drive their kids or allow them to sleep over, if editors would still want to work with me, if people would wonder if I was going to fall apart.

So I want to say this:

I’m asking for your trust.

I’m ready to work. To write. To teach. To raise my voice and tell my stories and to help other writers do the same thing.

I want to be a part of my community again. To be present for my family.

I’m back.

reedster ECT collage

(l to r) before my first ECT treatment, after my first treatment, end of treatment

Posted in ECT | 49 Comments

I was terrified of electroshock therapy, until I wasn’t.

In less than 12 hours, an anesthesiologist will place me under IV sedation. A doctor will attach an electrode near my temple. He will turn the dial on a machine and intentionally flood my head with enough electrical current to raise my brain above its seizure level. I will be allowed to seize for about 30 seconds. The electrodes will be detached, I’ll recover from the anesthesia, and leave.

I’ll do this twelve times over the next four weeks.

It’s called electroconvulsive therapy or ECT. You might know it better as electroshock treatment.

I’ve been depressed, anxious, or bipolar for as long as I can remember. My first encounter with the mental health system came in junior high, when my parents brought me to a local therapist to help with my anxiety. He prescribed the self-help book The Assertive Woman. I was twelve.

Since then I’ve tried talk therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, dialectical behavioral therapy, and EMDR. I spent ten years misdiagnosed with major depression until a prescription for Paxil threw me into a rapid cycling bipolar state. I’ve struggled to find the magic combination of drug and talk therapy that can keep me at or near the mood levels normal people apparently experience without woe. In this quest, I have been on the following psych meds, alone or in various cocktails:

  • Abililfy
  • Buspar
  • Celexa
  • Depakote
  • Desepramine
  • Effexor
  • Eskalith
  • Klonopin
  • Lamictal
  • Latuda
  • Lexapro
  • Librium
  • Lithium
  • Luvox
  • Neurontin
  • Paxil
  • Prozac
  • Remeron
  • Risperdal
  • Seroquel
  • Serzone
  • Trazodone
  • Trileptal
  • Valium
  • Wellbutrin
  • Xanax
  • Zoloft
  • Zyprexa

For most of the 2000s, I was relatively stable. But bipolar women often find that during perimenopause their hormonal changes suddenly render their carefully crafted medical cocktails ineffective. This has been my struggle since late 2013. After a nervous breakdown last fall and mounting interventions since, I failed a structured outpatient program last winter. I say “failed” because the program confirmed what I’ve long suspected: My bipolar disorder is treatment-resistant. There are no drugs left to try.

So what’s left? ECT and other brain stimulation techniques – the scary stuff – turn out not to be so scary when the alternative is to live with the pain. [Or not. The suicide rate for people with bipolar disorder is as high as 20%.]

Electroconvulsive therapy, they tell me, is not the electroshock treatment of old – the Jack Nicholson “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” cultural touchstone that strikes fear into the very patients who could most benefit from it. Psychiatry tried to pretty up the name, but I’m not sure whether focusing on what my body will be doing (convulsing) versus what the doctor will be doing to me (shocking) makes it any more palatable. With anesthesia and muscle relaxants, there are no broken bones, no emotional trauma. You sleep. Maybe your foot twitches, or you grimace. It’s not Academy Award-worthy.

And so I’ve gone from being terrified of ECT, to being resigned to it, to being hopeful. ECT is now considered a first line treatment for bipolar depression and is particularly useful for the bipolar “mixed state” – a combination of manic symptoms like extreme anxiety and agitation together with major depression – that I suffer from. Memory loss, ECT’s primary side effect, is much less severe now than it had been with older, cruder forms of the treatment. Its efficacy rate of 70-90% is as or more impressive than talk and drug therapy. Side effects include confusion, headaches, fatigue, and nausea, as much from the anesthesia as the ECT.

Nice statistics aren’t much comfort tonight, though, as I flop sweat my way through the final hours before treatment. But I’ll take healthy nervousness over empty hopelessness.

See, I’m clinging to hope. A hope that years from now I’ll look back and see a dividing line. A time before, when I had to keep telling my kids “Mom is having a hard morning.” A time before, when the days clattered and collapsed around me, the world all elbows and angles. A time before, when the road contained more bumps than pavement, and I stalled out.

And a time after, when the days’ edges softened and, at last, I could glide.

image by Saad Faruque CC/BY

Posted in ECT | 40 Comments