I remember the dinner conversation the night of November 4, 1980:
“Please pass the corn.”
Five minutes later: “Pass the salt.”
My mom voted for Carter. My dad voted for Reagan. I headed to the bathroom.
That’s how I deal with conflict.
I can tell by the shade of Eric’s cheeks when something I don’t want to hear is about to escape. It’s uncanny, the way my bladder fills on cue.
“I’ll be right back.”
That’s where I’ve been hiding out the last few days–when the Beyond Blue debates (biological vs. spiritual, meds vs. no meds, dark night vs. clinical depression) got a tad testy (on the message boards of “College Depression” and “The Dark Night and Clinical Depression“)—I’ve been in the bathroom.

Thanks to loyal readers like Babs, who, ever so politely, asked both sides to please take their meds/vitamins/Chinese herbs/Xanax and remember their manners.
On the message board of “The Dark Night and Clinical Depression,” Babs wrote this:

The badgering, combative tone this blog has taken is something that I am sad to see develop. A little restraint would be much appreciated. Conversation is not what is happening now — preaching and prosletizing have taken its place. The “in your face” tone in these letters isn’t going to convince anyone of anything.
There are a lot of people who write this blog to have someone to listen to them. They don’t need know-it-all problem solvers whose only interest is their own agenda. Some people use medication — some don’t. Get over it!
Start a blog and see how many want to read your rants about the drug conspiracies and bi-polar Jesus. Having a provocative point-of-view is fine with me, but the shouting and repetition is a huge turn-off.

I’m glad that she reminded me that Beyond Blue is a safe place for many to come to share their stories, somewhere they can be vulnerable enough to voice their beliefs, fears, insights, suspicions–a corner of cyberspace where others will honor that, even if they disagree.
If Beyond Blue was just my personal blog, I’d say, “Go at it boys!” because the feisty disputes decrease my work load. All I have to do is set up the train wreck and then sit back and let it happen, like a juicy Jerry Springer show. But this isn’t Jerry Springer (thank God), or even Dr. Phil, or a reality show (however, I must confess that I did collaborate once with a Hollywood producer on a show I dreamed up called “The Playgroup,” where you vote a mom and her kid off every week …. tasteless, I know, but I was desperate for cash), or a form of entertainment along those lines.
This is, as Babs rightfully pointed out, a community of support, after all. And as its people-pleasing, codependent, mentally ill (did I miss anything?) moderator, I have the responsibility of doing what David’s Kindergarten teacher does when her boys eat too many Twinkies and get creative with their weapon use: she takes down their angels for fifteen minutes, during which time they put the scissors, pencils, and rulers back in their appropriate drawers.
Some of your angels are in the bathroom right now. They don’t like confrontation either.
So just a gentle reminder to please remember your manners. Because I’d like to come out of the bathroom, too, and eat the rest of my dinner ?