Depressed? Inevitably.

Inevitability from: Inevitable-  unable to be avoided, evaded, or escaped; certain; necessary: an inevitable conclusion.

That’s how depression is.  It doesn’t go away.  You don’t “get better.”  You don’t “get over it.”  At least not if you’re me.  So when I feel good for a while- when I’m not continually weighed down by depression- it feels completely normal to return to this state- to depression.  Luckily lately it only lasts for a few hours at a time.  But man, it hurts.  It’s a painful place to be.  It is all I can do to drag myself across campus to my next class.  And then, *poof* it’s gone again.  But it inevitably comes back. 

For the love of all that is holy, VOTE!

          We (ok, I'm from the USA- that's the we I mean) are privileged to live in a republic where we can elect our leaders.  Today is that day.  Research your choice carefully.  Understand what they stand for.  And then get out there and VOTE!  If you don't vote, you have no room to complain about the outcome.

"NyQuil" or "Why I would be a great alcoholic."

          Do you ever feel like you're just 100% fed up with being awake?  I did last night.  Starting at around 7:00pm.  I kept it at bay until 8 or so when I finally went to bed.  For the record, I am a night owl- midnight is a fairly early bedtime for me.  Unfortunately I have a loud roommate with an unpleasant voice who woke me at nine. So I took some NyQuil and read for awhile.  Then I took some more NyQuil and finally fell asleep.  I tried to tell myself that NyQuil only lasts for 11 or 12 hours in my system and that I'd have no problem getting up in time for class.  Fifteen.  It lasts for fifteen hours in my system.  When I noticeably staggered on my way to the bathroom after my alarm went off, I decided I would not actually be going to class.  I made it out of bed in time to go to therapy at three pm.  And now I'm tired again.  Luckily.  Because it sure was nice when everything went away and all that was left was the NyQuil.  I wouldn't mind doing that more often.  Which is precisely why I can't.

Suck it, Insomnia.

Dear Insomnia,

                I see what you’re planning here, and it’s not going to work.  You and depression are teaming up.  Actually, you, depression, and anxiety are teaming up.  Might I refer you to this letter?  You. Will. Not. Win.  You will not break me.  You may think that 3:42 AM is a victory for you.  I assure you, it’s not.  Remember that time you kept me up for 26 hours straight not too long ago?  Remember how I slept for three or four hours and was fine?  I can do it again if needs be.  Yes, I am exhausted right now.  And I’ve only been up for 19 hours.  And yes I feel completely wired at the same time.  But guess what?  You’re still not going to win.  I’m going to keep living my life whether you like it or not.  So suck it, Insomnia.

-Me

A Scene From My Childhood.

Scene 1

Setting:  A Sunday drive through the beautiful mountains of northwest Wyoming.  Dad is driving, Mom is in the passenger seat, I am sitting in the middle.

Characters:  Mom (crying), Dad (upset), two year old me

Conflict:  Who knows? 

Two year old me:  Turning to hug my crying mother Mommy, it’s ok.  I’m here for you.  I’ll always be here for you.

            Not the responsibility of a two year old, yet something I’ve had to shoulder all these years- I’ve felt responsible for my parents’ happiness.  Or rather, for their unhappiness.  I've never felt like I caused it, but I've always felt responsible for fixing it.  How does a child fix her parents’ broken marriage?

NaNoWriMo?- UPDATED x2

UPDATE:  You know what?  Ignore it.  Ignore this whole post.  I'm clearly incapable of writing every single day.  I have written more than usual, and that's good.  I have started a lot of posts that still need to be finished, and that's good, too.  But I can't write every day.  So sue me.

          So, I've always wanted to write a book.  But the books I really like are fantasy and science fiction.  I have yet to come up with even a semi-original plot for either of those genres.  Also, my roommate is doing NaNoWriMo this year (writing an entire novel in the month of November), so that made me want to try.  But I KNOW I don't have time this year, and I would get mad at myself for not finishing and blah blah blah blah.  But I DO have a lot of ideas for blog posts and a lot of half written posts.  So I decided that I will honor this super cool idea by writing a blog post every single day this month.  With any luck, it will improve my writing skills and my concentration so I can officially join NaNoWriMo next year.  So to any of you who are officially doing NaNoWriMo, props.  And enjoy the verbal vomit that will be the month of November!

UPDATE:  It's the 11th of November and I clearly haven't posted every single day.  But I'm mentally ill.  So deal with it.

Dreaming Through the Depression

                 Dreams stretch and grow and fade and change as we do.  When I was four, I was certain I was going to be a graceful ballerina.  Ballet lessons quickly cured me of that dream.  When I was nine, I was going to own a horse ranch.  I soon realized that I’d rather just love my own horses than deal with other people and their horses.  When I was fourteen, I wanted to act on Broadway.  Having given up on dancing, however, that dream eventually shifted to acting in film.  But when I’m honest with myself, I understand that in a day where physical perfection is paramount, the hundreds of scars that weave across my body will probably prevent that dream from being realized.  So what’s left for me? 

I realize I’m being melodramatic.  There are thousands of other professions in the world.  But I’m not particularly capable of doing something I’m not passionate about.  And I’m hardly even capable of that.  I am limited.  My brain chemistry is such that I have severe limitations.  Such as… getting out of bed.  That can be hard.  I often dream of changing the world for those of us who suffer from mental illnesses.  But I can’t even change my own world.

                So what is my dream now?  I really don’t know.  I really. Don’t. Know.  My emotional… limitations… prevent me from even excelling at my undergraduate studies the way I know someone who possesses my intellect should.  So what do I do?  Do I reassess my expectations of myself?  Do I settle for less?  I don’t know.  I’ll get back to you.  For now, I’m trying to re-learn how to dream.