Depressing, Hard Day

      Today I decided it was too much to get out of bed.  So I didn't.  When I finally did at 5pm, I ran into a friend in the parking lot who told me that his brother had just shot himself and was still alive but unlikely to make it.  Then I went to an early dinner with a friend who told me she had just been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.  Then I got home and my friend texted me that his brother had just passed away.  And my heart broke.  So I went back to bed for a few hours.  Because it was a hard day before all the suffering.  It was a hard day on which I accomplished absolutely nothing I needed to do (which always makes hard days harder).  I don't even know why it was a hard day (before all the bad- I know why it was hard after that).  I have a lot to do and I've been stressed, but I still need to get out of bed.  Oh wait...  I have depression.  That's right.  Even when I'm feeling mostly awesome, I have bad days.  That is a fact of my life.  It's mostly fine.  I'm mostly fine.  Today was just mostly suck.  Until I finally peeled myself out of bed again to spend some time with a wonderful guy.  That was good.  Because I didn't want to get out of bed at all, but I did anyways.  And I felt a LOT better for awhile.  Now that I'm home again, my brain is feeling disjointed, much like this post.  But it's ok.  I think I'll be able to get out of bed tomorrow. 

RIP Luke.  My prayers are with you and your family.

Breaking?

            I can feel it happening.  I can feel myself breaking*.  And I find myself wondering- What sort of a break are we in for this time?  How bad will it be?  How long will it last?  How deep will it go?  How much of me will crumble in around the sharply defined cracked edges?  Can Humpty Dumpty be put back together again?  And then my mind wanders off in another direction.  Is it better to try and hold the edges together as I’m breaking?  To try to minimize the damage?  Or is it just better to let it go and save my effort for the putting it back together process?  Because let’s face it- I have a finite amount of effort in this imperfect body of mine, and when it’s spent, it’s over.  I’m done.  

*I may not actually be breaking.  I may just be getting over being sick and be terrified out of my mind that I won't be able to get back into the swing of life.  Honestly, whether or not I make it to school tomorrow will be a big determining factor in whether or not I break.  I've missed a week, though.  So I'm scared.

Depression- Things are Looking Up.

            Sometimes once you’ve stepped out into the light and your eyes have become accustomed to the brightness, it’s easy to forget just how dark it was back in the tunnel.  But this time, I want to remember.  This time I want to hold on.  Not enough to drag me back there.  Not enough that I can’t venture too far from the mouth of the cave.  Just enough that I can hold onto the compassion I’ve developed for my fellow sufferers.  I want to remember that it is dark and scary and painful almost beyond imagination.  And I want to stand as a beacon, shining out the message that you can move on beyond the tunnel of endless hell and depression.  You can be happy again. 

            Of all the people I know who have depression, and there are a lot of them, I think I may have it the worst.  Or if not the worst, then certainly in the worst five percent.  What I’m trying to say is that I have a pretty good grasp of how appallingly unpleasant depression is.  I get it.  I’m not one of those people who gets a little sad from time to time.  I am one of those people for whom depression becomes my world.  I lose the ability to maintain friendships.  I lose the ability to get out of bed and go to school.  I lose the ability to think clearly.  But it always ends.

            Inevitably, after a long period of depression (the most recent lasting well over a year), I work my tail off in therapy and I keep meeting with my psychiatrist and eventually things level out again.  Eventually we find the magic combination of meds.  Eventually I find happy again.  And when I find it, sometimes it’s even a little too happy for a while.  Because my brain has been so programmed to accept the suck that when the suck is gone, it gets a little over-zealous in its production of feel-good and everything is hilarious and wonderful.  It’s not like a bipolar kind of wonderful, it’s just a little more wonderful than is strictly necessary.  And frankly, I’ll take it. 

            Things will level out again.  I will be “normal” again.  And so will you.  Keep fighting.  It’s worth it.  Life is worth it.

End of an era... Or a world...

Well, tomorrow the world ends.  That has never really been a problem for me.  I say, “Finally!  Bring it on!”  Because as I have discussed, suicide is not the answer for me, but I’ve always thought a timely, truly accidental death would suit me just fine.  It would get me out of here.  So if tomorrow is the end of the world, I’m ok with that.  But as I was thinking about that tonight, I realized that I’m also ok if tomorrow isn’t the end of the world.  And that is unusual thinking for me.  After the year (year and a few months, really)I’ve had –the year from hell-, my hope is finally starting to trail back in.  I’m more somber.  I might even go so far as to say I’m a little less fun.  But I’m a better me.  A more grounded, hopeful me.  A me who isn’t completely terrified of the future.  And so I say, “Bring it on, Mayans.  Either way is fine by me.”

Hiding

I've been thinking a lot about love lately.  The romantic kind.  I think it's something I want in my life.  But I'm terrified.  So I wrote a poem about it.  It's called "Hiding."

I'm hiding.
I've always been the best at hide and seek.
Always better at hiding than seeking.
I'm good at it.
But I think I want to be found now.
I think I'm done playing.
But I'm scared.
I might not know what to do with found.
I might even hide again.
Deep in here in my darkest corners.
Hiding where I shouldn't be.
Hiding when I shouldn't be.
Hiding in plain sight.
Staying hidden long after everyone gives up the seek.
Can you come find me?
Please?

We all deserve a medal.

I'm depressed and anxious this week, so I'm kind of phoning it in.

I've been reading a lot of Carrie Fisher lately.  She's insane.  And I love it.  Today I finished the book "Wishful Drinking" and found this gem at the end in the author's note:

 "One of the things that baffles me (and there are quite a few) is how there can be so much lingering stigma with regards to mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder. In my opinion, living with manic depression takes a tremendous amount of balls. Not unlike a tour of duty in Afghanistan (though the bombs and bullets, in this case, come from the inside). At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you're living with this illness and functioning at all, it's something to be proud of, not ashamed of. They should issue medals along with the steady stream of medications one has to ingest."

There.  There's your medal.  Wear it Proudly.

And so I posted that on facebook.  I hope mental illness doesn't start to dominate my li...  Hahahahahahahaha!  It's already taken over in here, I'm just letting it spill out now.  I wonder how many will unfriend me as I get more and more obnoxious...  Because of course that's where my brain goes.  I will lose all my friends and be alone.  Forever.  I'm breaking a little this week...

One of those days.

          Do you ever have one of those days where you've been doing so well for so long and then you crack a little and try to hold it in and keep pretending everything's Lifesavers and M&M's but the crack keeps getting bigger until you finally have to admit you're not invincible?  Me neither.