Having Election Anxiety? Therapists Report Trump Trauma

If you’re finding that your emotional well-being is being challenged by this presidential election, you are not alone. The Washington Post writes, “Psychologists and massage therapists are reporting ‘Trump anxiety’ among clients.” According to the Post, what seems to be anxiety producing is, “How can Trump be so divisive AND popular at the same time?”

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

My own case of Trump Trauma started shortly after the Republican candidate called Mexicans “rapists.” Like many, I thought, “Well, that will end his campaign.” But that didn’t happen. His rallies grew and so did my anxiety level.   

His insults continued. He mocked the disabled and people of color, and he body-shamed women. We then saw tapes of him bragging about sexually assaulting women while proclaiming, “No one is more respectful of women than me.”

And yet, Republicans didn’t get out of endorsing him while I was having a hard time getting out of bed. Seeing women wave “Women Support Trump” signs, I took to having a cocktail – maybe two -- after the evening news.

There was no 12-step program or halfway house to get over the mania. Going “Trump Free” was impossible as he was on every iPhone news feed, the subject of every Facebook conversation, and even sleep provided no escape as he appeared in my dreams to tell me I was not a 10.  Still, I heard him saying, “You’re fat, you’re old, I’m going to grab you by your pussy, and you can’t stop me!”

In that dream, Trump’s face was replaced by my father’s. Although there was little resemblance between his family and mine, in therapy, the connections surfaced. Both Trump and my father had an undue sense of privilege. In the 1950’s, men were thought of as princes. When nights became violent, my mother made sure that by morning everything looked perfect. The man leaving our home, in a coat and tie, was off to work, providing for his family and a dutiful wife who took care of the house. Those who knew the truth about what was going on in our family – my mother, some neighbors, even the police – did nothing to try to stop it. Men were given a pass.

Trump revealed by his own words that he was a sexual predator. My father didn’t have a videotape with Billy Bush, but he kept a meticulous journal of all his conquests. When I found it after he died, I saw that my mother wasn’t his only victim. If he were alive today, I can imagine my father putting a Trump spin on it, “That never happened. Believe me, she was ugly and flat chested.”

And the women – Melania, my mother, and others – lack the courage to stand up to the monsters sleeping next to them or giving them a pass by chalking it up to "Boy talk."

But, understanding the roots of my Trump Trauma and writing this blog, my anxiety has lessened. Also helping has been the polls showing that others are crossing political lines making a statement that this behavior is not acceptable.

Unfortunately, there will always be men like Trump and my father. But if anything productive comes from this election, I hope there will be more honest conversations about them, and we will unite to help women protect themselves and their children from these men.

12 Tips to Remedy Seasonal Depression

Fall Starts with National Suicide Prevention Month

Seasonal depression is a real thing as I just got an email that September is National Suicide Prevention Month. Wow! Summer over already? In Southern California, the weather doesn’t alert you to the change of seasons. The leaves on palm trees don’t change color. Actually, the drought has all but done away with trees. It’s 78 degrees and there is no obvious difference so we desperately look for a sign that we are approaching winter, things such as: 

• Angelenos are starting to lose their tan.
• With all the kids back in school, the ocean water smells better as there is less pee in it.
• Weight Watcher meetings are less populated with swimsuit season over. 
• The slight coolness in the air whips up sad feelings of loved ones who have fallen from us. We mourn for what was, who we once were, who we’d hoped to be and never will.

You’re probably thinking, “Hey, Judy, you’re supposed to end with a joke.” I know, that last bullet was sad.  And that’s why September makes sense for a Suicide Prevention Month.

But, as someone who sometimes falls into seasonal depression, I look to turn messes to successes. It’s a way of making them hurt less. Some of you prone to seasonal depression understand what I’m talking about. So, I’m sharing my list of things to do when you fall backwards. I keep it on my iPhone in my “Notes” always available to turn to. That helps cope with the urge to have yet another Whiskey Sour, order Chinese food delivery AFTER dinner, or I find myself wondering if middle age is too late for a second career as a prostitute. 

Carter’s Combat Depression List:

Break into in case of emergency

Hug your dog.

1. MOVE: Go to another room. Go in the yard. Go to the store. Go anywhere other than where you are.
2. GET A MASSAGE. People who get paid to touch us generally do a better job than the ones in bed with us. 
3. SHOP ON AMAZON. You can always return the stuff when you feel better.
4. WALK YOURSELF OR YOUR DOG TO A NEW PLACE. Get away from the usual routine. The vibes of a different place, with different people is invigorating and healing. 
5. WRITE AN APPRECIATIVE FACEBOOK POST, SEND A TEXT OR EMAIL. Tell someone how and why you appreciate them. Helping another person is a terrific spirit lifter.
6. PLAY A VIDEO GAME. Shooting the bad guy is a great way to express your anger and lift the fog.
7. SING. Even if no one else will, your dog will listen.
8. MAKE A LIST. Count the times you felt happy and try to recreate that state of mind.
9. GIVE AWAY MONEY. But not to the wrong candidate. Kiva.com is a great site that loans money to impoverished small business owners who repay them. It’s the gift that truly keeps on giving.
10. GO ON MEET.UP.COM You’ll get to know strangers who are worse off than you. Maybe others who’ve read this list. That will help put things in perspective.
11. PAINT BY NUMBERS. When I write my books, I always do paint by numbers. You can’t go wrong. It’s easier than staying in the lines in a coloring book. There are no choices and it’s guaranteed to look like the picture on the box it came in. 
12. LABEL THINGS. Get an DYMO labeler and go to work. It makes a satisfying sound as it spits out labels such as “Ground Cumin” “2015 Taxes” and “Love Letters Circa 1985.” You will feel productive. But, if you over do it and start labeling you cats, “Cat” call your therapist ASAP.

What are your tips to fighting Fall Funk?

Getting Depression to Move Out and You Move On

Part 4 in a 4 part series on Depression

View others in this series:
Part 1: "Are Comedians More Depressed?"
Part 2: "When Depression Visits and Stays"
Part 3: "Do We Have Any Control Over Depression?"

Mr. D. was firmly planted in my being, but I was determined to unseat him.

Since I started writing about depression I’ve been inundated with well-wishers giving me solutions, including: meditation, MDMA, exercise, various TED talks, and moving to join a cult. I do appreciate the intent behind all my readers, and since exercise didn’t involve packing for a trip to be in a cult, I put on my Target tights, gathered my dogs and went out for a jog, moving slowly enough so that someone on crutches could whiz past me. I kept going, waiting for a runner’s high. It never came. But, something else happened that changed everything.

I ran past a man walking his dog and my dog’s leash got tangled around his leg. He bellowed at me, “God damn it!”

The force of his anger shocked me. It was excessive. All that was going on was two leashes getting involved. I quickly untangled mine, apologizing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over again.
Glaring at me with hateful eyes, he kept yelling, “God damn you!”

I hadn’t run more than half a block before I ducked into an alley and collapsed in a puddle of tears. We all have our limits. Both the external world and my inner world were conspiring and yelling at me. But, this time, I recognized those angry eyes. I also noted the voice was familiar. It belonged to my father, drunk and screaming at 6-year-old me for spilling milk at the dinner table, “God damn it! You are worthless, worthless.” In that moment, I found out who Mr. D was.

Sobbing, I continued to sit in the alley. This was no movie star cry. It was ugly and heaving. I thought about my father, about all the angry old people, and that horrible angry man. As a child, I wasn’t allowed to cry. Now I could let it all out. I comforted myself by wrapping my arms around my torso. My dogs caught on and licked my face. Somehow I felt lighter when I got up. I was feeling again.
I continued my jog around the golf course. In the distance, I saw the angry man walking towards me. My inclination was to go another way, but an inner voice challenged that, asking, “Why change where you are going?” It was a voice I hadn’t heard in a long time. Kind. Strong. Reasonable. It was the voice I heard when doing standup comedy, the one I used to make sure that the hecklers in the audience didn’t have the final say. It was the voice that had my back, the one I could count on now to deal with the angry man.

With my head held high, I looked directly at him and said, “Have a good day.” Saying this simple positive phrase was a triumph. I didn’t let him turn me angry. I realized that his anger had nothing to do with me, and my sadness had nothing to do with him. And in that moment, the course of my personal emotional history shifted. People do and can trigger the past, but it has nothing to do with who I truly am in the present. And today, in this this expression of positivity, another angry person didn’t get to have the final word.

That night, I woke up while it was still dark, stunned to discover the voice that had been telling me I didn’t deserve to live was gone. Mr. D had left the building, replaced by the voice of quiet. I could hear and enjoy the quiet snoring of my beloved dogs. The birds welcoming the dawn. And I was pleased to again feel a sense of peace, something that had been eluding me for a long time.

It’s now my 3-month anniversary of celebrating life. My energy has returned. Mr. D has come back, but it’s temporary lodging and he no longer hangs around for long. I uploaded an app that tracks moods that helps keep Mr D at bay. I’ve stopped being ashamed of depression because I understand how much it has given me. Depression has escalated my power of empathy. It’s magnified my inner strength. It’s made me accept that life is not a series happy events, but rather it’s a series of disappointments where we learn how to transform messes to successes. Happiness is not delivered free of charge, but realized.

Regardless of which voice is in my head at any moment, I’m grateful that I am again able to feel something. Anything – sadness, anger, fatigue and joy. Mostly, I appreciate feeling love: the love coming from my friends, family, my dogs, and you, the readers who write me with your own stories.

Do We Have Any Control Over Depression?

When doing good deeds for others makes you feel even worse...

Part 3 in a 4 part series on Depression. View others in this series:

Part 1: Are Comedians More Depressed?

Part 2: When Depression Visits and Stays

Are we able to control depression? 
My readers might have noticed the huge gap between Part 2 and 3 of this series on my “winning the fight against depression.” After all, I had my happy ending totally mapped out when writing about it, which triggered a return visit from Dr. D. Maybe because I live in California, I likened it to the aftershock that inevitably happens shortly after you’ve returned all your tchotchkes to the shelf when you’re convinced an earthquake has ended. Or, as they like to say in Hollywood, I had a sequel.

I thought I was done writing about it, but when I was speaking at a Toastmaster event in Las Vegas, a woman came over and let me know how surprised she was that someone she perceived as being successful and funny dealt with the same condition she had. She thanked me and said, “Because you wrote about yours, I’m stopped being secretive about mine. And that’s helped.”




That made me think I might be on to something. Is this the new “coming out?” It might be harder to



admit to being depressed than being gay. Depression hasn’t acquired any cache. There are gay role models, stars, musicians. Gays get parades. There are no Zoloft-sponsored Depressed Pride Days.

Some of you have suggested I look into childhood trauma to see if there’s a connection. I want to let you know: I have had therapy, EMDR, primal scream, exercised and cut out sugar. I took Landmark training, Quested, did Burning Man, took drugs and stopped taking them. When all that failed, I wondered if I was too self-absorbed and considered doing charity work. Maybe Mr. D would leave me alone if I were more of a do-gooder. I pictured how my new friends would create a ripple effect of happiness in my life as they gushed with gratitude. When my energy returned, I might even be able to write a book titled, “Curing Depression by Giving.”

I rushed to volunteer to deliver meals to those who couldn’t get to 7-Eleven. I got my schedule, loaded up the car with meals that looked like the bottom of a shoe with runny baby poop on top. No matter, these poor, elderly people, living on meager funds in a tiny apartment were pleased to have company, regardless of the quality of the food. I would be the person to change their lives.

On my first delivery I double checked the address as I couldn’t possibly be delivering meals to this luxury high rise, right on the beach in Santa Monica. I buzzed the video intercom and was escorted by a security guard through marble floored hallways, past the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, the exercise room with a TV on every treadmill, to the apartment on the 14th floor. When I knocked on the door, I heard a man yell, “God damn it, who is there?”

“It’s your meal delivery,” I said, trying to keep my voice cheery.

“God damn it, just open the door!”

Opening the door, I saw the most exquisite view of the Santa Monica Bay. But that was overshadowed by a ghastly stench and a disturbing amount of clutter, so much that the door opened only part way as it was blocked by stacks of newspapers, magazines, and take-out containers. A disembodied voice from the next room screamed, “Just leave the food in the tray and leave, God damn it.”

Nervous, I put the meal on top of a magazine with Nixon on the cover, and closed the door. OK… no cookies. No WWII stories. The next place would be better. In a Venice home, a long haired, Baby Boomer in tie-dyed screamed at me for not having a plastic bag to put the meal into. As he slammed the door in my face, I was the one apologizing.

My third stop was to a woman also living in squalor, but she seemed nice. There was no yelling. I tried to start a conversation and she said she was about to watch a TV show. On the screen I saw the DirecTV logo bouncing about. “Do you want me to turn it to a program?” I offered.

“No, I like watching this,” she replied.

I returned home even more depressed. From what I saw, getting older is like pouring Miracle Grow on one’s defects. Was this a glimpse into my own future? When does saving stuff turn into hoarding?

I found the answer and it is in the final blog of this series. Stay tuned and please post your dealings with Mr. D in the comments.

Sign up for Judy’s online free comedy workshops here.

Depression: When Depression Visits and Stays

This is Part 2 in a 3 part series on Depression

Read part 1 here: Are Comedians more Depressed?

If you’re like me, you may have met someone on vacation and said, “If you are ever in my town, you must stay with me.” Then, this person shows up on your doorstep and you regret it. You’re stuck with them. At breakfast. At dinner. Hanging out in your space. You have an intruder sucking your energy, occupying your time, and making you listen to their unending disapproval.

That was how I experienced depression. Mr. D entered my life and, like an unwelcomed guest, wouldn’t leave. I lived with him in misery for three months until the day his sorry ass left. My energy returned and I’m no longer exhausting my resources dealing with an alien who’d taken over my life.

I became aware that he had left when I woke up in the middle of the night, and the voice that would tell me various ways of killing myself was silenced. I didn’t have to hear about whether hanging or jumping was a better way to go. It was quiet. The change was profound. It was as if the angriest family member had just packed up and taken off.

With depression gone, I was able to feel. Whether sad, angry or happy, I’m grateful to be feeling again. I can read in the newspaper about people being murdered and feel sad, but that’s different from depressed. I feel happy about the small stuff, even just finding my keys. I have extreme joy hearing birds sing, walking the Venice Canals with my dogs, and I don’t fall apart if I say “Hi” to someone and get no response. That doesn’t go into the column of “Reasons not to Live.” My thrust is to live and to make a difference. Mr. D had been heckling me for three months and I’m glad he’s gone.

When depressed, it was exhausting to try to appear normal. I had to outshout the voice telling me that everything I was doing was wrong. Adding to the mess was my sense that everyone I encountered knew I was depressed and was judging me. The maid I passed in a hotel hallway knew. Audience members listing to my jokes knew. The DMV clerk knew.

When I forced myself to go out with friends, like a battered woman not wanting others to see my internal bruises, I was acting. I pretended that I wasn’t suffering from Mr. D, my own abusive man. I would try to follow their jokes and laugh when it was appropriate even though it was a chore. Laughing and smiling had become strenuous, aerobic exercises. Faking joy – when I didn’t have a molecule of it - was grueling.

One of the hard aspects of being depressed is having people ask, “What happened?” I caught on that it was better not to admit it, but before that I’d make up a fake reason.

“Well, you know I got divorced… last year.” That satisfied them. But the answer could also have been, “It’s March, it’s sunny, it’s rainy.” Depression sometimes just arrives without a reason.

In addition to being exhausting, Mr. D provoked guilt. I believed I was responsible for inviting him in. And I felt shame that I was not strong enough to evict him.

One month into rooming with Mr. D, my therapist suggested sending me to a psychiatrist to put me on meds. I know they help a lot of people, but they felt wrong for me. I don’t like meds. I worried how they might affect the one gift God has given me - creativity – and I didn’t want to take any chances. So, I asked my therapist for time for me to try to get Mr. D. to leave, promising to try harder to make it happen.

Reading that exercise and music help, I jogged while listening to upbeat music. Jogging when depressed is like running as the TinMan, with lead as feet carrying a boulder on your back. I ran 5Ks, got home and waited for that so-called runner’s high with an inner voice congratulating me, “You did it!” But, no Nike ad ending. Mr. D was still in my head, saying that I hadn’t run far enough.

Next step was my idea to hang with people who were more depressed than I was. This was a different take on the assumption that hanging out with people who were fatter than I was would make me look thinner. I’m here to tell you that none of these works.

Things got worse before they got better.

Final Part of this series next week.