Like a Record, Baby

Every day, for years now, I’ve been waking up feeling lost, a wide painful chasm in my chest that I continue to fill and refill with the huge lead task of trying to figure out why I am here.  At the same time, I believe that there is no reason why we are here, I believe if there is to be any reason, we bring it.  This is a bit like trying to comprehend the vastness of the universe or the void of nonexistence altogether, but much less inclined to inspire wonder and awe.  Since my human mind has no capacity to comprehend the dissonance, it spins in an infinite feedback loop.  My brain works like a skipping record and if I could only pick up the needle the insanity would stop, then I could enjoy the moments of existence.  I could sigh, dream, and hold the hands of those I love.  I do get some sweet moments, when I’m riding horses, doing yoga, laughing with friends, writing, or kissing my dog that the skipping stops.  These brief interludes of bliss comfort me during the times that the skipping record is turned up so loudly I sometimes fear relief will never return.

Although this is neither the first nor last time I've experienced cognitive dissonance in my belief system, I think there is currently one major reason my mind record keeps skipping.  I’ve been resisting, in my own way, something about myself for a very long time.  I suppose, like many people with depression, anxiety, and other mental illness, resisting aspects of myself goes along with the general belief that something is “wrong” with me.  That, however, is a post for another day.  This post is for a specific aspect of myself, one that when nurtured makes me fulfilled and healthy in mind and body, but one which I continue to resist or ignore as unimportant or “wrong”.  Why do I do this, even though this exact quality has been shown by research to make people live longer, happier lives?  Yes, there are data from Harvard, who has the longest running study on happiness and health to date (you can read about the study here.).  The data have shown time and time again that the key to long, healthy, happy lives is in our relationships- specifically our closest relationships and our sense of community and belonging. 

Despite knowing that I value more than anything my relationships and my sense of belonging and community, I continue to resist it, blast it as unimportant, claim that this can’t be IT, that is just too easy for me.  In my low moments I ask myself, “Why can’t I do anything MORE.  Why am I not DOING anything meaningful?  What about my career?  Seriously Ashley, what the hell are you doing with your life?  All these other people are…” blah, blah, blah… skip, skip, skip…

I continue to waste so much energy and time looking for that “thing” or those “things” that I’m “supposed” to be doing when I could be investing that energy into the people I love.  Don’t get me wrong, I DO dedicate a lot of energy to my relationships, in fact I think more than most people, but why can’t I let who I am be enough?  The people in my life, creating a sense of belonging are and have always been the key to my happiness and health.  Yet despite my efforts to tell myself that I am enough the way I am, I still wish, that I had a different mind; a mind more organized, more innovative, more intelligent, more business savvy, more driven, more gifted, more of society's definition of success.

We are bombed with information everywhere in our society telling us that success means we need to be rich, famous, powerful, innovative, pretty, glamorous, thin, and driven.  I’ve known for years that deep down I do not want that to be my definition of success, but since I have not yet come up with a specific alternative definition, I don't have another record to play, my brain continues to abide by the old definition, spinning and skipping away. I need a new defintion of success.  Sure, I want to "have close relationships" be a “good person” and I want to be “happy” but what does THAT even mean?  

It makes me sick, causes my depression and anxiety to skyrocket, when I try to follow society's definition of success.  I am happiest when I prioritize my relationships, my sense of belonging, but AT THE SAME TIME I don't see that as a valuable trait for one to have in this world.  Therefore, my record is continues to skip.  I’m ready to set myself up to feel good, to play a better goddamn record.

So please tell me, how do you define, or WANT to define, success?  What are the things that bring you bliss, and are you truly valuing them?  Do you think those qualities are important in society, and why?  Where are you placing most of your physical, mental, and emotional energy?  Where is your record skipping and when does it play smoothly?  In short, what the hell does your record sound like?

Every Badass Needs a Crossbow

I’m so tired of being afraid.  Or rather, letting my fear control my brain the way it has been.

Indulge me for a moment so I can review.  Most of my childhood and early adulthood was not ruled by fear at all.  I wasn’t a particularly fearful child, if I wanted to do something, for the most part, I did it.  When I felt fear I always thought, “Will I regret not doing this?” and made a decision based on that.  Of course, I didn’t know enough to be afraid of many things I probably should have been afraid of, but that’s part of the beauty of being young.  I rode horses- did pretty dangerous things on horses, mind you- with my best friend.  I played rugby against women twice my size.  I travelled alone, I tried new things, I went cliff diving, I went white water rafting, and I moved to new places.  I made choices that made me happy.

In 2011, when I moved to Wales, of course I was scared.  Again however, it didn’t rule my thoughts or my decisions.  When I returned from Wales however, the way my brain had been working seemed to change.  If you’ve ever seen that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, when her friends bring her back from heaven after she dies, that’s how I felt.  I had changed, and everyone and everything seemed to be the same.  It wasn’t a bad thing that they were the same, it was just that I didn’t know how everything fit into my life anymore.  I didn’t know what I wanted and I felt like I lost who I was and I was terrified.  I was lost.  This feeling has continued and is still continuing today.

When Andy and I started seeing each other at the very end of 2013, I began a life-long process of “dealing with my shit”.  There was no more analyzing from a safe distance why I picked the relationships I picked. I wasn’t going to make excuses for myself any longer or pretend that my fear of intimacy and commitment were out of my control.  I began to do the scariest thing I have ever done.  I’ve EVER done.  Ever.

I let someone in to see everything about me.  When you do this, life offers you a marvelous chance to grow… and it is fucking hard.  Every.  Single.  Day.  I had so many fears triggered in such intensity that I almost couldn’t manage anything but going to work and dealing with my fear.  In the past, that would have in the past sent me running for life, but instead I let them bubble up.  These things are the fears that I’d never really looked at before.  The fear of being truly seen, the fear of abandonment, of not being good enough, fear of verbal abuse, fear of manipulation, fear of pain and hurt, fear of death, shame, etc.  These things came up time after time, and they still do.  All of the fears that I never allowed myself to recognize were finally able to scream at me, and I was forced to listen because I wasn’t willing to walk away from this amazing man.  I also knew very deep down that I deserved to get to the other side, I deserved love and intimacy even if I didn’t see a way through the fear and the pain.  I sat through hours of ugly crying on my bed, clinging to my dog, and saying over and over “I’m so scared.”  I looked at it and I sat with it.  I still look at it and I still sit with it.

But lately something has changed.  The fear has sort of taken over a bit.  I’ve let it bubble up for the past two years because it needed to come out, I needed to look at these things so that I could be in a healthy relationship with someone.  But now, it seems like it’s been running rampant in my brain for awhile.  

I’m so not okay with that.

Today, as I was driving in my car, the thought popped up, “I’m really fucking tired of being scared.  I’m DONE.”  I felt my inner Lara Croft taking over again.  She is a badass and she is a part of me that I need right now.

I’m DONE letting fear tell me that I can’t start my own business.  I’m DONE letting fear tell me that Andy’s going to leave me.  I’m DONE thinking that I’m not good enough.  If I want to do something, I will figure out how to do it.  I want to write and bounce business ideas off my friends.  If I don’t know something that I need to know, I will learn, I will take classes, I will ask questions.  I want to kickbox again, so that I can physically feel like I’m strong and brave on the outside again.

And I want a goddamn crossbow.  

When I was young and I was afraid, I just didn’t look at it and instead protected myself from dealing with fear by avoiding intimacy and love.  Recently, I’ve looked at all that fear I was ignoring and built a solid foundation with Andy, but I have also been letting the fear rule me.  Those approaches, although they served me well at the time, are not serving me anymore.  So, I’m doing what I always do:  adapt.  I’m going to look at my fear and I’m going to hear it out for a moment because fear is just trying to protect me.  I’m righting this down to remind myself of this feeling, this mindset.  Not everything fear says is true, but maybe the fear has a point.  I can hear it out in order to help minimize risk, but I’m NOT letting it be the sole decision-maker.  It will get a voice, but it won’t be the voice. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going crossbow shopping.  Every badass needs a crossbow.

There Be Dragons

You know what's really hard about both getting what you want or not getting what you want?  The results are basically the same.  There is disappointment if you thought that’s what would make you happy. 

If you did get what you want, it makes you no happier than you were before getting it.  If you didn’t, you’re heartbroken.

Oh but then, dear friends, you get to go through the grueling process of figuring out what to do with that, now that you know this life truth.  The process happens slowly for some and quickly for others, and others still will never know this process even exists.  If you’re lucky, you’ll get disappointed and heartbroken enough in your life to begin the process of discovering real joy.  

First, you feel the quakes of heartbreak and the emotional vertigo of disappointment.  You begin to analyze the moments of the past that lead you here, and wonder how on earth you’re going to navigate your way back to solid ground because between where you are now and where you want to be, there be dragons.

Slowly, you realize that your ruby slippers took you to happiness time after time, but you were so busy thinking about how you don't yet have what you thought you wanted, that you didn't notice all of the beautiful, perfect, tiny moments of laughter and love.  

When your heart was broken, you didn’t acknowledge that the hole in your heart made room for the friendships that pour in.  Those moments when your dear friend was holding your hand, catching your tears, and calling you beautiful, something incredible and gentle was happening that couldn't happen if you instead chose to cry alone.  You let your friend see you, really see you, and she didn’t recoil, she didn’t run, she didn’t let that hole in your heart scare her away.  

At the time, you weren’t looking at the incredible beauty in those moments.  You were trudging down the path of a mediocre present so focused on an imagined future glory and fulfillment that you walked right past, without noticing, the generosity of the human heart, the bravery of friendship, the ways in which love can keep expanding infinitely.

But you can do that now.  You can recognize that joy happens in these terrible and terrifying moments.  You can see that, whilst going after goals is important, the happiness you think is at the end of the road is actually with you step after step, if you’re willing to open yourself up and look.  You can be both brave and gentle in friendship, knowing that the other is uncovering her many layers along with you.  You share your shame and she can hold it gently between her fingers like a dandelion and together you can let the seeds of shame float away in the breeze.  You can also witness the strength and resilience that you inspire as you in return help set her shame free.  

It's true, heartbreak and disappointment bring pain, but they also can bring incredible joy.  If you chose this path to solid ground you will traverse unfamiliar and dragon-ridden lands to experience this kind of joy, but that’s where the really good wine is anyway.

Hug Your Fear (It Wants You To Live)

This week I have been grateful to feel my depression lifting.  As I type this, it’s becoming easier to breathe with each passing minute.  When I listen to the birds singing, I actually hear them singing again.  

I had therapy last Friday, my second session with the adorable and very bright woman, and I wasn’t nervous, I was hopeful.  I still felt the prickles of shame bounce throughout my body as I walked into the entrance, but I was also proud of myself.  

I am proud of myself not only for showing up today to therapy but also for preventing a downward spiral that could have occurred for a number of reasons.  I received news this week of another person I know committing suicide, another very well-loved man.  (I have another post in the works about this, but that’s for another day.)  When I saw on Facebook of this man’s passing, I instinctively knew he committed suicide.  I scoured the Facebook page, sifting through family and friends expressions of love and prayer looking for proof.  I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what happened, how everyone was feeling, what his kids were doing, etc.  I felt the fear creep in that this is what my brain could do to me too.

I explained this to my therapist who said, “I am not worried about you.  Do you know why?  You wouldn’t be afraid of this, if you didn’t want to live.  Your fear means that you want to live.”  She said this in a light, cheery voice that indicated her full confidence.  I felt a gust of comprehension that made me shake my head and I felt my eyes pop open in revelation.  I suddenly wanted to hug my fear, grateful for its presence and its proof that my body ultimately wants to live in the most primal of ways.  I have never wanted to hug my fear before today.

This goes for fear about anything.  I am terrified to post on this blog, but I’m doing it anyway.  I’m terrified that you’ll all judge me, shame me, completely ignore me, or think, “who does she think she is!”  But I’ve figured out what I fear the most about this blog.  It’s not judgement for my depression or my vulnerability, it’s not fear that you won’t accept me (although these fears are present too), what frightens me the most is that you’ll judge my writing.  I’m afraid that you hate it and I’m afraid that you will love it.  I am still exploring this, but in the meantime I need to write this:

There are some days that the writing just flows and I can create some of the most beautiful pieces of writing that I’m proud to call mine.  Other days, it’s difficult getting a sentence out, let alone a decent one.  This is part of the creative process.  Not every post is going to be as beautiful as Temporary Stop or Reflections and Rice Cakes.  If I’m going to continue to post, I need to be okay with this.  But I’m also very vulnerable.  I’m writing this here, now, to remind myself that it’s okay.  It’s all okay!  I’m writing and I’m creating and I’m putting it out there.  My fear is just trying to protect me, but that doesn't mean that it needs to control what I do.  I'm familiar with this.  I mean, I didn't quit my job, go to graduate school at 30, or move to another country without fear.  I've never gone out solo-traveling completely without fear, I just don't let the fear make decisions for me.  I'm not letting it make decisions for me now.

If you, like me, want to create something, anything, and you’re looking for permission.  This is it!  Some of what you create will be beautiful, other times it will not be as great.  This is how creativity works… really, it's how life works.  

Now, go play!

xx

Interview with a Phone Vampire.

I had a phone interview this morning for a job I’d be very good at and a situation that seems ideal for this time in my life.  The phone interview did not go very well, I’m rubbish on the phone and always feel much better in person.  In addition, one of the interviewers was, well, a bit of an ass.  He started sucking the confidence out of me throughout the phone call like a weird phone vampire.

Now, I’m fighting a downward spiral into depression that has been slowly lifting.  I've been asking myself today why.  How did this guy, and this interview, have such an effect on my confidence?  Logically, I know that I am really adaptable and can just get a job somewhere else, so what’s with this spiral?  Yes, it’s normal to be sad, disappointed, even to grieve a little, but there’s a difference between those emotions and spiraling down into depression.  So, when I start to spiral downward, like I started to today, I’ve started asking myself, “What am I making this mean?”  In this case:

I’m dumb.

I’m worthless.

I’m awkward.

I don’t deserve good things.

I always fuck it up.

Etc…

There is a big difference between worrying about things happening that are out of your control, and worrying about things happening that are out of your control and THEN making them MEAN that you’re worthless.

So, if I start making a bad interview mean that I’m worthless, then I start making up scenarios of my worthlessness.  

I can’t ever get a job anywhere.

Andy will think I’m dumb and leave me.

My friends think I’m lazy and useless.

I end up homeless and crazy. 

And on... 

Pain doesn’t come from the fear of the unknown nor from the failure itself, it comes from what I make those things mean about myself.  

I now recognize that I don’t get nervous for things I really want.  I get passionate and animated for things I really want.  I get nervous for things my ego needs in order to feel good.  My ego wants this job because it looks good, because it works well for me, because I think Andy would be proud of me, etc, but truthfully, my heart doesn’t really care!  My heart would rather not be bothered by nerves at all, because my heart wants to play.  My heart wants to write, connect with friends, connect with strangers, travel, walk my dog, dance, sing, cuddle, play play play!  I can play with data.  I can play with computers and projects and basically anything.  If it’s all play, and I don’t make anything that happens MEAN anything about who I am, there is absolutely no reason to be nervous.  

It’s understandable to get nervous, after all, things change so quickly in this world.  Our sense of security, much like our happiness, cannot be dependent on anything external.  But trust me on this: if you have the ability to imagine, usually on the fly, of hundreds of ways in which things could go wrong, you also have the creative ability to pull up a plan of action if and when things do go wrong.  This is where your sense of security lies, in your ability to adapt, to formulate a new plan of action, to creatively step into life unfolding.  If you have the ability to worry about it, you also have brains to handle whatever is thrown at you.  Believe this about yourself and you will find your sense of security within you.

All this to say, I’m really proud of how I turned my thinking around today.  I stabbed that confidence vampire with a wooden stake.  Well, not literally.

Temporary stop

This morning, like almost every morning these days, I hear Katherine’s voice in my head.


You can do it, baby. Put your feet on the floor. Yes! I’m so proud of you!


Katherine messaged me these words a few months ago when I had another bout of really bad depression. I had called in sick, again, because I couldn’t face the world, couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t feed myself, and because I was thinking about that bottle of muscle relaxers. I threw them into the garbage as Katherine messaged me. We message each other on Viber every day. It was easier for me to admit to her how bad it had gotten because she doesn’t judge, she is safe. It also helps to reveal these things over message when a face-to-face conversation with anyone seems daunting and exhausting.


I told her I hadn’t showered in four, or was it five, days. I couldn’t imagine mustering up the energy and motivation to shower. I knew I had to go to work the next day or I would sink so far down this dark hole, I would need serious help or…I don’t know.


Katherine’s messages, her voice, saves me. When I think about harming myself, I always think, I couldn’t do that to Katherine, or my dog, or my mom, or… breathe… Andy. But I also can’t go another day like this. I swallow hard to conjure courage and determination.


Katherine messages me to stand up and walk to the bathroom, to message her when I get undressed. I do.


You’re doing so gooooood! She messages me. I feel a tiny bubble of pride. I start thinking of myself as a small, sick child. She tells me to get in the shower, just get in it, and to message her as soon as I’m out. I start taking everything one tiny task at a time. Turn on the water. Breathe. Stand under the water. You’re doing good. I get out and dry my hands and immediately text her. She is so proud of me. She knows how hard that was and thinks I’m so brave. She encourages me without being patronizing somehow, gently, lovingly, and firmly.

She is the voice I need in my own head because the only voice I can hear right now is trying to kill me. 

She tells me to text her as soon as I wake up in the morning, to give her updates on everything I am doing, and to imagine her cheering me on. She is two hours behind me in time, so I don’t expect her to be awake when I text her shortly after six the next morning. However, she responds shortly after with more words of encouragement, more hand holding. Tears of gratitude and relief that I am not alone fill my eyes.


I still haven’t fed myself. When I think about feeding myself, I realize that nothing sounds appealing, and the actual act of finding food in the kitchen and feeding myself is so overwhelming, I give up. It sounds insane. It feels insane.


But soon, Katherine’s voice helps me do that. Slowly, Katherine’s voice is turning into a part of my own. I am able to get myself up the next day and make it into work, one small task at time. I am doing so goooooood!


I still echo Katherine’s voice every single day.


Yesterday, I went to the community health clinic for those of us with low or no income because I know I need more help, yet I’m jobless and insurance-less after moving to Indiana to be close to Andy. I know I need a medication adjustment, and I need to find a therapist here. I don’t want to go. I am scared, isolated. I feel like I will be walking into a building with people like me, yet I also want to scream that I am nothing like them. This is a temporary stop for me. I close my eyes to try to separate myself from the trickling thoughts of panic and flight. I open my eyes and realize that safety precautions are taken everywhere: all doors are locked, employees are kept safe behind inaccessible desks, “absolutely no weapons” is posted everywhere. This only encourages the feeling of panic. I remind myself that I feel crazier than I am. I know I am privileged. I’m currently living off of my savings account, I have a masters degree, a friendly personality, I’m quick and adaptable, and I have various skills that will certainly provide me with job opportunities. This is a temporary stop for me.


I turn my head to see various sorts of people in the waiting room and wonder why they’re here too. I suddenly actually feel crazy. I look down at my hands resting on top of the clipboard and think how absurdly small they look. I’m wiggling my fingers nervously when a blonde woman calls my name and leads me to a locked door. She unlocks it with a quick twist of her wrist and tells me to sit. She uses the same voice I use to tell my dog to sit when she’s on the verge of getting in trouble. I feel my eyebrows raise and then scowl as I tuck my chin slightly. She walks around to the side through another locked door and hurries to sit behind the desk that keeps the patient blocked between door and desk. It’s claustrophobic and I begin to sweat as I feel the lump in my throat grow. My chest hurts and breathing becomes painful and shallow. The woman is cute and looks painfully naive. She looks about seventeen years old. I glance at her left hand. She is married. I wonder how she got this job. I wonder what it takes to receive mental health patients with little or no income every single day.


She asks me smile-less questions about my income, my past, if I’m homeless, what’s my address, if I’m here for mental health or substance abuse, if I’m looking for work, my level of education, questions about my health and my mental history.


She asks me if I would like to give permission to release any of my information to anyone else. I give her Andy’s information and say, “yeah, in case anything happens.” I suddenly choke back a sob and swallow it. I’m certainly not planning on harming myself, but I’m at the point where my own brain scares me so much sometimes, I almost feel as though it could harm me without me agreeing to any of it.


I answer the questions but my voice sounds small and hoarse. I make a joke in my head about sounding like a pony. I make jokes in awkward and uncomfortable situations, usually out loud. It helps me. This time, I can’t joke out loud because I’m afraid the young girl will think I’m even more insane than I already feel. I feel weak. My knees are numb and I’m already afraid of the end of the interview when I have to stand, I envision my legs giving out and me dropping me to the floor, only to be carried off in an ambulance, my arms and legs strapped to a gurney. I feel a little dizzy, maybe because I haven’t eaten since…? I continue to answer her questions automatically. The answers come from a part of my brain that I’m so grateful seems to be able to communicate with the rest of the world, to function without much of my conscious effort. It’s as though someone is stepping in and carrying me through the interview. I’m so grateful. Good job.


I sign papers, and then it all ends abruptly with the child saying, “you can go.” I feel foolish. I feel crazy and small and alone. I choke back another sob as I leave the room. Swallow it. Get out. I think as I shuffle, dazed, through the waiting area. Not a single person looks up in the room of ten or so people. I think I might be invisible, which makes me feel both extremely alone and also safe again.


I open the door to the outside world slowly, the handle feels cold and the door is heavy as I lean back to open it, tugging on it with my weight. I step outside, and the sun is resting somewhere behind the clouds, like my happiness, I think. I glance up and down the sidewalk and feel the lump in my throat sink all the way to my navel. I have a hard time holding my head up and I want to hide my face. I pull my hood up over my head and stare down at the sidewalk as I pick up the pace toward home. My entire body is filled with a numbing sort of tingle, like when novocaine starts to wear off. My cheeks are hot. I know this feeling. The lead in my navel, the need to hide, the numbness, the heat in my face, and the distinct awareness of the space my entire body takes up in this world. It is shame. My body feels as though it’s not my body anymore but a foggy, fuzzy, tangled grey mass of shame.


I’m sharing this now because I am tired of feeling this shame around my depression. I’m tired of feeling like I need to hide my face and avoid eye contact when I talk about how I really feel. I don’t want anyone else suffering anywhere to feel ashamed either. I’m not sharing this for advice. It’s not intended as a neatly wrapped package of “this is what I learned” nor is it meant for a conclusion. It’s just the raw story of today I needed to share. And to remind myself, this is a temporary stop for me.

The Wicked Witch

I called in sick today.

I dread when I go back into work.   Not because of the emails waiting for me, or the pile of work, or even the daily drama of the place, but because of the question, “what was wrong?”  What am I supposed to say?

“I have Depression.  Some days, I can’t get out of bed.  It was one my dark days.”  No.  I can’t say that.  Mental illness is either taken not seriously enough by minimizing one’s experience, or way too seriously in the form of whispers and rumors behind the ill one’s back. 

“Oh, some days I don’t want to get out of bed either!  Mondays, right?”

“I heard she is depressed.  She doesn’t seem depressed.  She missed work for it?  Eesh.”

“You just need to change the way you think.  You just need to think positively.  You just need to take better care of yourself.  You just need to find something you love.” 

Depression is like a mold that latches on to the soft spots in my self-esteem and begins eating away at all my healthy parts until it feels like there isn’t much left of myself. 

It’s physical. 

It sinks onto my chest, pressing down on my lungs until the moment swells enough to slide its way into my belly, making food unappetizing at best.  It makes my arms and legs feel heavy and watery.  It makes the line between me and the rest of the world stark and harsh.   In the throes of Depression, I feel like I’m in the world, but not part of it.  It seems like I am travelling the world encased in a glass box.  I can see everything, but nothing really gets through to me.  My own thoughts echo in the glass chamber and drown out any attempt to connect to the outside world.  And the words of other people become my own thoughts and I find it harder and harder to find my own voice.

“You just need… You just need… You just need…”

It’s isolating, it’s painful, and it feels permanent.

The loving people close to me try to help by asking things like, “What triggered it this time?”  Hormones, overwhelm, not enough rest, too much thinking, alcohol, bad memories, sickness, death, the change of season, summer’s oppressive heat, Big Life Changes… the list could go on.  The truth is, I’m not really sure how much I buy into the whole “trigger” thing.

The human brain is inundated with information from the external world and internal world.  The brain filters through this information, looking for patterns.  In a “healthy” brain, the brain can take unpleasant, obsessive, socially inappropriate, and useless information and basically ignore it so that one can consciously pay attention to important patterns of information.  This happens mostly unconsciously.  In an “unhealthy” brain, unpleasant, obsessive, socially inappropriate information doesn’t get filtered the same way, if at all in severe illnesses.  Sometimes, especially when I get tired, overwhelmed, exercise too little, have a change in hormones, or basically do anything that results in that filter getting “tired”, I get Depressed and/or Obsessive.  Some days I need to rest so my brain filter can sort through the crap and catch up.  It’s as though my brain’s immune system is run down.  So, when I call in sick for Depression, yes I’m really sick.  The mold has latched on and I need time and rest to be able to save the good bits of myself, to pick off the mold growing on my self-esteem and to heal the raw and newly exposed pieces of myself.   Yes, I have simplified this by breaking it down, but make no mistake, episodes of Depression (and Obsession) are complicated and engrained.

I’m not sharing this because I want sympathy.  This is not a cry for help.  If I’m being honest, most attempt at sympathy from someone who doesn’t experience any form of mental illness tends to feel patronizing (though probably through no fault of one’s own).

I am not weak.

I don’t “just need to” do anything.

Don’t minimize my experience and please don’t ignore it.

I have a lot of shame around this.  I have shame around my dark days, around my medication, around me calling in sick because, even though now as an adult I know how to best take care of myself, there is the part of me speaking VERY LOUDLY that tells me that I don’t deserve to be taking care of myself.  I’m shining a light on that shame right now by writing this. 

I see you, shame.  And now so does everyone else who reads this.

As Glinda says to the Wicked Witch of the West, “You have no power here, be gone… before somebody drops a house on you, too.”

It doesn’t get rid of the Depression.  Actually, over the years I have begun to regard my Depression as a misguided but well-meaning mold creature who is trying to point my attention toward something.  What is really more painful is the shame around it.  That shame keeps me from being fully authentic, and that gives the Depression mold a little more food. 

I hope that by writing this, the shame surrounding it has a little less power over me.

I’m sharing this because I feel like maybe the only way I can make my own situation better is to share it.  Maybe I’ll go to work tomorrow and maybe I’ll say, “I have Depression.  I had my first diagnosis when I was sixteen years old.  Some days are really dark.” 

There it is.  Some days are really dark.