An Open Letter To The Pained

Dear Pained Ones,

The first thing I want to say is the first thing they tell you not to say when someone is depressed and has thoughts of killing themselves, but: “I know how you feel.” My pain, probably like yours, is so stabbing and poignant at times that I don’t know what other emotions could possibly exist, nor can I recall what feelings I’ve ever had before, or what feelings I could potentially summon in the future. When I feel emotional pain, it is like being in a dark tunnel, with thick, tall concrete walls around me that extend as far as the eye can see.

The death of Robin Williams stirs up a lot of pain within me. Like most of you, I never personally met Mr. Williams. He lived in my VHSes and DVDs, on Netflix and in the comedy sketches I downloaded from iTunes. Someone once pointed out his neighborhood to me when I lived in San Francisco, and we’d walk around speculating which mansion was his. Now, I can’t help but picture him in one of those houses, pacing around on hard wood floors, clenching his army knife in his pocket, testing the durability of his belt buckle, and facing the limit of his hopelessness. I know my life compared to his is dramatically different, but I’m familiar with how he must have felt then.

Depression is a monster in no shortage of ways. The word itself is ugly and evokes disgusting opinions and speculations and stigmas. When you experience depression, it’s not only like being in a tunnel, it is like being the tunnel itself – cold, hard, dripping, and empty.  The sensation can come on unexpectedly and totally consume you for weeks and months; the onset and endurance of this pain can be coupled with confusion and a sense of brain damage as you recognize how horrible and illogical your thoughts are, and how trapped you feel in the chamber of your emotions. Having self-awareness of the mental illness can make it even worse. On top of feeling isolated and lifeless, you become microscopically aware of the damage your mind is doing to other people, particularly your loved ones, but also to your coworkers, neighbors, acquaintances, and even the names you see as you scroll through Facebook. The pain you feel towards yourself turns into guilt and shame for not being a better sister, daughter, friend, partner, and employee. The shame morphs into sadness, then fear. The fear becomes anger that you point inward; you may start to resent yourself, and this feeds right back into the depression. The illness is a vicious cycle that kicks up more and more dust until you can’t see beyond it at all.

When I hear of anyone taking their life, I can feel my heart sink and flood with my own muscle memories of depression. My blood pressure slows on instinct and I feel weak; my cheeks and eyebrows grow heavy and my emotions are frozen on sadness. I recall the too many times I’ve been hopeless – the times I cried for days beyond what I thought physically possible, the times I could not shed a tear but could wail and moan unconsciously for days and nights without rest, the times I could not bring myself to get out of bed or put on fresh underwear, and the times I behaved like such a zombie that I’d find myself at work or the grocery store, and have no idea how I even got there. You can get trapped in these states for so long that you are convinced there never was a different reality and there never will be. It is, I believe without a doubt, the horrible reality people live in until they resolve to commit suicide.

What pains me now is thinking about the ways I’ve eventually overcome these periods of despair. Whether I needed a silly distraction by listening to comedy or watching Mrs. Doubtfire or Hook, or a sense of compassion and empathy through Dead Poet’s Society or Good Will Hunting, more often than not, Robin Williams was involved. It’s only been a short time since his death, but I can’t imagine when I will be able to see his face or hear his voice, expecting to be lift up, without feeling this deep sadness and loss instead.

Still, I know that when I find myself in or as that dark, enduring tunnel, it will not last forever. For as eternal as it seems at the time, I have to remind myself that my thoughts can be dysfunctional. Even when I’m content, I make it a practice to reflect on my emotions, and remember that thoughts and feelings are not permanent. Nothing in this world really is. As such, hopelessness will eventually break.

I have known for a long time that Robin Williams suffered from depression and other illnesses. I wonder, yet have no idea, if he had confidants to depend on like I have been fortunate to have. I have no clue what his treatment for depression entailed, or if he received any support for it at all. I really don’t know what he was thinking, feeling, or experiencing when he chose to take his last breath, and even if I did, I’m sure it would have been quite difficult for me to change his course of action. Still, I wonder.

I wonder if more people understood depression, and the insufferable throes one with the mental illness goes through, how that would change and help our society. I wonder what would happen if more people who suffer in these ways knew that there are millions of others in this country alone who have experienced the same thoughts and emotions. I wonder if those who are in especially intense pain and hopelessness right now could trust – just for the sake of trusting – that things can truly get better one day. I also wonder how many lives could be saved if we opened up more to the people we know in pain to listen, ask questions, and embrace.

To you who is hurting, you are not alone. We may have never met, but I care about you, and I believe your life is precious. It can be painful and unnerving, it’s true. But even when you are suffering, the world is a better place for having your spirit and energy. The pain will eventually pass, I promise. Until then, know that there is someone, at least one person, who is looking forward to seeing you get through your temporary pain and see what a thoughtful, beautifully complex, and enigmatic person you are alive to be. No matter how dark it seems, you are wanted in this life. You do not have to suffer alone. You can survive. I urge you to survive.

In loving memory of Robin Williams. 1951-2014.

Detour to Bliss

Listening to the echo of my last blog, I decided it'd be good for me to face a bit more uncertainty, so I moved... not across the street, across the town, or across the Bay Bridge, as I had so many times previously; no, I undertook the most daring adventure I could ponder, at least within the continental US: I moved to Texas.

TEXAS?! The proverbial gasp precedes you.

Yes, Texas.

Why TEXAS?!

Dare you give me one reason I should not have moved here? Okay, other than the conflicting, overly enthusiastic political persuasion, the unbreakable bond between church and state, the diluted affinity for country music, the heat, the lack of mountains, the silly accents, the 10-gallon egos, the oil industry, George W. Bush, the fire ants...

Yes, Texas. What seems perverted to the cohort I left behind in California is that I wanted to move to Texas (and let's be clear, I'm talking about the least Texan city in Texas, I moved to Austin) so I could be happy. It was not impromptu or a decision I came to lightly. I am not the kind of person that can just throw my life in a backpack and call "home" where ever my feet press against the dust. I am not so breezily "giving this a try." I wrestled the idea for many, many months, and in that time I held a mirror up to my life so I could reflect on what I'd be potentially divorcing. Despite the ocean and the bay, the mountains, the wine country, the rich cultural diversity, and the friends I had grown to love like family, all I really saw staring back was struggle, dissatisfaction, and the weathered marks of a 6 year lament. My experiences in California were valuable, and I grew up quite a lot, but like a cactus, I grew older without growing roots any deeper than surface layer. I had the basic needs met, but nothing gave me strength or a meaningful reason to stay.

It whittled down to 2 options, but both of them included a larger network of friends and family that would sustain me and nourish my displaced roots: I could go back to Michigan, or I could risk it and move to the Lone Star State.

"Life starts when you accept the maybe and make friends with the unknown."  I said that. It's about time I practice what I preach.

Once the last box was packed and loaded and directions to Austin were printed out, my purpose shifted from survival mode to getting-happy mode. I've experienced quite enough depression and self-loathing for this life-time and the next, however long they last me, and as we all well know, there's no time like today - nay - this very moment to be one's truest most authentic self. Even though I've been more or less passively journeying down the yellow brick road my entire life trying to discover happiness, I recognized I had an opportunity to use this transitional period to really gaze inwardly and find what would give me more control of my happiness.

You see, from day 1 in California... shit, frankly, even on the road trip out there... I started looking for "signs," tallying up reasons my existence there was "meant to be." Unfortunately, maybe because of my shit-tinted glasses of depression, I always had a larger tally in the "not meant to be" pool (ie: slept on a plywood bed in a "furnished" rented room, resulting in suing my landlord, also resulting in losing the only friend I knew in San Francisco; my bike was stolen; my jobs lost funding; my roommates were slobs... it goes on and on). I stayed longer and longer trying to give myself more time to make it meant to be, and the fleeting positive events became so important, so I could validate my entire life, that they became all the heavier and easier to drop, break, and crush my soul. A wiser person would have known this was a silly way to live.

In fact, a wiser person said exactly that. Joseph Campbell, philosopher and author-extraordinaire, wrote,  

If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Wherever you are -- if you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time.

By studying the greatest myths, legends, and religious stories known to man, Joseph Campbell made it clear that happiness is not something outside yourself you must lust after to attain, rather it comes from within you, provided you have the eyes to see it and you steadfastly, boldly, unapologetically follow it. What makes someone else happy is certainly not guaranteed to make you happy; your bliss is authentic to you and you alone.

There's the detour sign! The road I was on is under construction. This is a new way to happiness. It's an internal speedway. Proceed without caution.

My mission in my recent past as a Californian was to get away from Michigan and find what would make me happy, but clearly I was looking in the wrong direction. Ultimately my move to Texas, however rash it seems, or unsexy it seems, or however uprooting it may actually be, is conveniently giving me the chance to change my view and get on the right philosophical track. I'm not saying I'm starting over, because life (if you haven't noticed) is continuous, and even though I don't consider the last 6 years the "best" years of my life, all those crazy San Francisco days and nights brought me to better understand myself, and I'll draw invaluable lessons from those times while I'm in Texas and where ever else I lay my roots.

Now I have the chance to redefine my self by really listening to what makes my heart sing, and I can make decisions that will propel me further into joy. I can work for an organization I trust in; I can live in a place that feels comfortable - that's not a 300 sq foot studio - that I can afford; I can surround myself with positive people who share my interests and values and who will care about me just as much as I care about them. Of course I had this option all along - I could have stayed in CA with this new found affirmative attitude, but it would have been lonely none-the-less. In a new place, it's simply easier to let the mucky, shitty stuff roll off as I cling only to the things that I feel a positive connection to in my heart of hearts. At least I can try to.

The warning sign in this is that it's easy to fall back into old habits and ways of thinking... it's easy to tally up the "good signs" and the "bad signs." In my first week here in Austin, I thought this place was most certainly not meant to be for me - my dad had a heart attack, my apartment was under construction, I got a ridiculous and unjust ticket... but then good things started happening (I got a job!) and I felt a kick of that karmic fuel I'm used to running on. But again, all that was outside myself.

As much as I do believe in karma (so much I named my cat after it), I have to trust that my happiness in this lifetime is not subject to the tally marks of external forces. Bad things don't happen because I have created bad karma for myself. Bad things don't happen because I chose the wrong path and I have to stick to it, either. Life is flexible, and if the path I'm on seems unnecessarily bumpy or lacking in scenery, I can choose the detour, the service road, or I can go in a different direction all together - but that's up to me, not just the external signs I see along the way.

I just finished a book called "Rebel Buddha" by Dzogchen Ponlop, and in this book Ponlop describes the danger of sticking to the same path, just because we think the Buddha said so (and you can apply this to any religion, philosophy, or individual world view). We might think the path to spiritual liberation is a straight line, padded with daily meditations or going to church or whatever practices you've been taught, but that may not always be the best thing for you. He writes, "When a living tradition becomes static, without any sense of freshness, and we lose our basic heart connection with the spiritual journey, it's actually very sad." He continues, paraphrasing the Buddha, "Not looking at what's going on inside can be much more destructive than worrying about unfavorable external conditions."

So from now on my heart's calling the shots, and it's going to drive me to a full lifetime of happiness. It doesn't matter what road I took before, and it's ok if I have to reroute down the line, that's just a part of the journey. But right now, in this very precious moment, bliss is inside me, screaming:

• Trust your instincts
• Think less, feel more
• Say yes to new things
• "Enjoy the struggle"
• Accept your feelings as truth, don't fight them, but let them go like leaves floating down a river
• Embrace your youthfulness... Be curious! Be silly! Speak your mind! Climb a tree! - worry about how you'll get down later
• Welcome silence
• Open your heart... stop holding grudges and spending time with anger, that's all in the past
• Take pleasure in little things; appreciate them like they're big things
• Care for a living thing outside of yourself, whether it be a plant, a shelter cat, or an entire community, or as Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child or a garden patch... this is to have succeeded"
• Love
• Love
• Love......

Happiness is an internal journey you take with your Self, not an external destination you can walk or drive to. I'm not trying to give the impression that I've suddenly "found" something, please excuse my preachiness, but I do feel like I'm on the right track now. I suspect I'll be hit by waves of more yucky stuff that will force me to question my personal philosophy and reassess what makes me happy. In fact, this will definitely happen! And I look forward to it, too. Without those bends and unexpected twists, those doubts, those opportunities to reflect and try a different approach, I will never know how brilliant and beautiful my happiness is meant to be.

The gift of fear, uncertainty, and other yucky stuff

I've found over the last few days that TEDTalks on instant Netflix is the newest "thing." The TED (Technology, Entertainment, and Design) Conference has been a forum for researchers, geniuses, and masters of hope to come together and present their "ideas worth spreading." I've been a fan of these talks for some time, so when Netflix coyly suggested a documentary-series on "Sex, Secrets, and Love," the ex-sex-ed expert in me eagerly began streaming. I figured it'd be an excellent refresher course on some of my all time favorite topics.

To my unexpected delight, this is the latest episode I watched... it's about 20 minutes, but very much worth your time: Brene Brown - The Power of Vulnerability






For those of you who really just skipped over the cool part and onto my word vomit, let me summarize the discussion with what Brown said in a Huffington Post article:

If there's anything I've learned over the past decade and experienced firsthand over the last year, it's this: Our willingness to own and engage with our vulnerability determines the depth of our courage and the clarity of our purpose.

Even if letting ourselves be seen and opening ourselves up to judgment or disappointment feels terrifying, the alternatives are worse: Choosing to feel nothing -- numbing. Choosing to perfect, perform, and please our way out of vulnerability. Choosing rage, cruelty, or criticism. Choosing shame and blame. Like most of you reading this, I have some experience with all of these alternatives, and they all lead to same thing: disengagement and disconnection.

I don't think you have to be a TEDtalk presenter to recognize the truth in everything Brown is saying, and it certainly doesn't take a genius to hypothesize how I feel about this topic. I started watching the episode in my power-hour of 11 o'clock PM, and it has sparked fireworks in my brain that echo so profoundly that there is nothing I can do but extend the sound through my fingertips on my keyboard.

Courage, Brown pointed out, is the ability to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. I think this is my new motto and personal mission. I know that I am only a fraction of the courage I can be. Now, because of something as simple as a 20 minute monologue from someone who I had never heard of before, I am energized to become even more me.

By living "out loud" - honestly, authentically, and boldly - and by taking risks without knowing what the payoff will be, or if there will be a positive return on my investments at all, I feel like I am starting to take more of my own shape in life. It feels like the rough edges around my persona can smooth out... I can lay down some of my rigid shields and defenses because there's no longer a point in protecting myself from my own fears. What will strengthen me and help me transcend is the very thing I've kept hidden most my life - that vulnerability.

A past therapist of mine called this "tolerating ambiguity." We (and I don't know if that's an American We or a gender specific We or an all of humanity We) seem to be programed for needing clear answers. It's either / or, yes or no, black or white. This is especially evident when we're assessing our own values and ideals.

• Am I a valuable member of my company? My community?
• Am I a good person?
• Am I making the world a better place?
• Am I lovable?
• Will I be happy?

I need to know what the future holds! But asking myself these questions introduces more unknowns and more "opportunities" to feel vulnerable. Sure we can throw down some math and conclude with some probabilities. But if I remember anything from high school calculus, there can be multiple answers to the same problem, and it's that vagueness that poses a threat to my cool and confident character.

Will I be happy if I stay put in the known, in the comfort zone, in my current apartment, job, zip code? Yes - No - Maybe so... Shit, where'd I put my magic 8-ball on this one? It'd feel a lot better to have an answer on all of these big life questions.

More importantly, I must ask myself: Will I be my Truest Self if I don't accept and appreciate the moments of not-knowing and absurd uncertainty? This is the only moment we've got, right? Gotta make it count! And it's true that sometimes the moment we're in outright stinks. Like Brene Brown discussed, we are born into suffering. Painful things happen. Our friends and family are plagued with illness and death, we endure economic hardships and job losses, we face heart break, and we DON'T KNOW what's going to happen to us...  I don't think it's all about finding the positives and rising above this yucky stuff; what will make us stronger is actually grabbing a handful of the crap and uncertainty and fear, taking a deep breath, looking the mess straight in the eye and saying, "Why hello, yucky stuff! I see you! You are scary! You make me uncomfortable! THANK YOU!"

The more I can face my inner-demons this way, and the more I can even show those demons to the outer-world, the more true and whole-hearted I think I will become.  The more whole-hearted I become, the more I'll be able to inspire positive action in the people and things around me (and what more could make me happy?). A few months ago I shared some ugly truths about my depression, and you know what happened? I felt better. And my friends huddled around me and supported me. And it taught people something, and maybe helped others suffering with their vulnerabilities. Evidently, yucky stuff yields wholeness and love.

Think of me (think of yourself!) as a trunk of a tree: Being courageous is like letting my roots and branches stretch out beyond my reach. I may not be able to do anything about them at a certain point, and I may be more exposed and vulnerable to the elements, but stretching out wide, with an open heart, will also provide me a stronger foundation. I can grow taller and provide more fruit to the world when I embrace the unknown - when I embrace my "opportunities for growth." Maybe with enough reach, I can become a shelter for someone/thing else, and I will feel truly useful in this crazy, chaotic place on Earth. It starts with accepting the maybe and making friends with the unknown.

Vulnerability, although yucky, is a gift. And I intend to use it.

The Audacity of Non-Compromise

Lately I've been reconsidering the value of compromise.

Two weeks ago I was in Denver for a week of staff training, team-building, and planning.  One of the activities we did as a team was determine our individual management styles and how we deal with conflicting points of view. The five styles, in order of their preference amongst my coworkers, are: 1. Collaborate, 2. Compromise, 3. Yield, 4. Avoid, and 5. Compete. 

Collaboration is great, right? Especially in a work place, it's valuable to prevent future conflict by working together from the very start and knowing one another's thoughts, feelings, and opinions, and merging ideas together to create a cohesive product. In personal relationships, it's: I'm good at making entrees, you're good at making dessert, together we can do the dishes later... bada bing bada boom, what a happy couple.

On the other hand, Yielding, Avoiding, and Competing are three strategies all deemed inappropriate most of the time. If you yield, you're just letting the other person dictate; if you avoid, you're just letting conflict run amok indefinitely; if you compete, you're the dictating bitch or bastard. But frankly, these three strategies have their time and place, whether it's at work or at home. Ultimately I'm going to yield to my boyfriend and let him make chocolate cake, because it is his favorite, even though I may be in the mood for yellow cake. When tensions are running high, I'm going to avoid the fight and go for a walk and let the situation deescalate.  When I know I'm right about matters of importance, particularly matters pertaining to my own feelings, I'm going to "compete" opposing views (though I prefer to think it means having confidence in myself) until my point is understood.

With all that considered, compromise is generally held up as a much better management tool by the masses because if you can't start out collaborating, at least you can identify each other's needs and wants, and work backwards towards the goal. What I find interesting about this style of management is that both or all parties have to lose a little in order for the group to win. In a relationship, I suppose an example would be: I'll do all the cooking if you do all the cleaning. Neither is an exceptionally fun task to fulfill all by one's own self, but you will get to your end goal, even if you're left feeling resentful and you really didn't want to do the cooking. I wonder... is compromise still compromise if you have to sacrifice?

In my last relationship, I thought being a really good girlfriend meant compromising my own ideals for the sake of my partner's, and for the sake of having a relationship at all. On our very first date, Mr. T (name changed for privacy and humor) explained to me that he was just recently separated from his wife; he moved out only two months prior to meeting me, and they were not planning on filing the divorce for maybe two years, or until one of them found themselves in a new and serious relationship. Mr T told me about how sad he was in his marriage, how he and his wife had not had sex for the entire 7-ish years they were married (he couldn't exactly remember how long they had been married), and how the overwhelming desire for physical and emotional intimacy led him to fall in love with (and in between the legs of) a friend he and his wife shared.

My first reaction to Mr T's story was of disgust and criticism.  I thought, "I don't want to date a married man, not even a divorced man. I don't want to date a cheater. This guy's a Catholic? He's 36? He should know better!" But the secondary reaction of sympathy and compassion was mighty persuasive. Through his openness and clear vulnerability, it occurred to me that Mr T was wounded and needed affection. Furthermore, he was giving me all the romantic cues that I was special - I was worth overcoming his heart break for - I was not like all the other women of his turbulent past. In face of my chronic loneliness, and in absence of any other man showing me any attention what-so-ever, I chose compassion over criticism. I chose to dive into his problems, making them more important to fix than my own. I was making a compromise with myself in order to feel loved.

And a lot of good that did me.

While my situation with Mr T may sound like an extreme and reckless example of compromise, I know that I am not the only woman out there making these mistakes in order to preserve the happiness of men or the hope for a long-lasting relationship.

I may be particularly vulnerable to making these mistakes in relationships, as all the surveys say my personality type is that of the Helper or Protector. And as a female in an ever-lasting patriarchal society, I have been subtly and obtusely learning my whole life to take care of the needs of others before my own. As a child, I was given baby dolls and taught to play "house," aka "mother." I was told I'd be a good teacher or nurse. Meanwhile, my brothers were given Lego's and hockey sticks, and were told they'd be great engineers and doctors.  The messages are all around us and have been invading our psyche for centuries: a woman's role in life is to support and nurture. Women who exceed these constructs to become the CEOs, prosecutors, head surgeons, etc, are way more often than not considered masculine, cut-throat, and bitchy, reaffirming a woman's rightful place is merely next to the head of the table.

Whether or not I'm bitchy, I do fit the stereotype of what a woman should be - I work in "support services" within my organization, I genuinely love helping other people, I like to clean and cook and buy pretty flowers, and with my devout femininity, I wanted to be a good girlfriend to Mr T. So when I saw he was weak and exposed, I wanted to be the one to give him strength. I let him determine the parameters of our relationship - I tried not to argue with him that staying legally married to his wife was unfair to me, and I kept my mouth shut about living with him so his family wouldn't judge him for moving on so quickly and seriously with another woman. When he slipped and call his ex-wife "Baby" in my presence (because of course I was expected to hang out with them and be her friend, as she was still his best friend), it was wrong for me to feel hurt. "It was just a slip," Mr T would say, "it's just an automatic thing to call her, out of habit." And when I was hurt too much by it all, and shed tears or even yelled in anger, he'd deflect my feelings with, "You're getting crazy. Calm down. I'm not going to talk to you if you're going to be like that."

Was I crazy?

It's quite an anomaly to me that so many relationships take this route, with one person having liberty to feel any emotion that comes to him, acting out on his feelings with any behavior that he sees fit, while the other person feels her side of the story doesn't matter at all. When I look at the big picture of these relationships, I don't see any actual, mutual compromise going on. Yet I hear stories like this so frequently, and all the women say they're doing their good deed by putting his needs before her own - compromising. I've heard these stories through my friends, in case studies about domestic abuse, and in articles about the psychology of women. Check out "The Stiff Upper Lip: A Man's Condition and a Woman's Burden" by Yashar Ali for another look into this cultural phenomenon.

Just as frequently as I hear these stories, I hear women steadfastly excusing men's bullshit, uncompromising behavior by saying things like "he just had such a long hard week at work, he's stressed out," or "we've got a vacation together coming up, and if things don't get better after that, maybe then I'll tell him how I feel." I know I made these excuses countless times with Mr T.

In these situations, compromise is completely ineffective; women are not giving up one thing while their men give up another as a way to meet their shared goals. The compromise is one sided. And women are not compromising just for the sake of their relationships, but for the sake of mankind, ensuring men don't have to take responsibility for their unloving, uncompromising behavior. Women are simply compromising everything.

I feel like I compromised my entire self for the sake of being in a relationship with Mr T, and in doing so, I yielded, and really lost, my self respect. I lost the value of my values as I sanctified his.

When I finally came to my senses and we were breaking up, I told Mr T how I felt that I was simply a catalyst for him, that I helped him overcome the heart break and depression of going through a divorce, and now that he had readjusted to a life without the comforts of marriage, he'd be able to move onto his next relationship with freedom and ease. He tried to assure me that that was not true, that he needed to be single and heal from the loss of our relationship, but sure enough, even before I was able to move all my things out of our apartment, he was dating someone new, unabashed and exalted.

It's clear to me that Mr T didn't take the time to learn anything from our relationship or how manipulative his actions and inactions were, but I learned a lot.  In the time that has lapsed sense our break-up, I have relearned the value of my values.  I have learned what compromise is, and what it isn't. And I have recognized that to be a good person, let alone girlfriend, I need to take care of my needs before I attend to anyone else's.

In looking towards new relationships, I can see the big difference between making healthy compromises with my partner and compromising my self. While I will always appreciate a man being open and vulnerable, because being vulnerable is being real and genuine, I will not fall for him simply because he can wear his heart on his sleeve. I will not make it my job to fix him or mend his psychoses. But, with the right person, I will effortlessly make him a better man, just as he will unintentionally make me a better woman. 

With the right person, a compromise won't feel so much like a surrender. If I have to manage the men in my life with a firmer stance, or if I have to avoid certain men all together, so be it, as long as it leads me to finding someone who can appreciate me for who I am and where I've been, because compromising my ideals and my soul again is undoubtedly out of the question.

Journal of a Solitary Sick Girl

“Does anything in nature despair except man? An animal with a foot caught in a trap does not seem to despair. It is too busy trying to survive. It is all closed in, to a kind of still, intense waiting. Is this a key? Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go. ”

“I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful hault, 'won't go,' or, even worse, explodes in some innocent person's face.” 

― May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

It's day 7 of my attempts to survive my new found malady.  I have been curled up in bed all day except for the 2 hour adjournment to the doctor's office this morning, where I filled an "emergency slot" due to the 5 separate ailments plaguing me. When the receptionist booked my appointment earlier this morning I could hear a single tear form in the corner of her eye then slowly trickle down her cheek as she said, "You poor thing, you have all that going on? No kidding you've had better days." I reassured her that I've been bed-ridden for a week already, so this is actually a good day since I'm ever so slowly healing. But her sympathy was exactly the right stroke for me at 8:33am; it's good to start out the day knowing someone out there cares and doesn't want you feeling pain. In this way, today has been better than most.

Perhaps the worst day of an illness is the pre-day. That's the day you vaguely start to take notice that you're not quite top-notch. That day for me was last Tuesday. I woke up fine, got to work early, trotted along with my typical Tuesday tasks... and then at about noon I felt a curious scratch in my throat. My lunch break was a trip to CVS for cough drops and milk chocolate - one of them was sure to slay the subtle yuck - but after trying one of each, I knew with all my sickly wisdom that I was sailing straight into a storm. By 3pm I could no longer bare the swirling tides within me. My throat was tense with anticipation, my shoulders ached and heaved skyward to brace what was ahead. So I scurried home in search for higher ground.

Home. That little, 400 square foot studio apartment with creaky floors and a chainsaw radiator and windows so thin you can feel the wind speed change when someone sneezes outside on the street. That place where you can't operate the toaster and the microwave at the same time or you'll blow a fuse.  That place where you better love taking boiling hot showers or freezing cold showers, because there is no in-between. That is my home; that is the place I've tucked myself into, holding on for dear life for the last 7 days, a hermit in a crowded city.

The night of the pre-day was also the morning of the first day of the end of the world. And that could still be true for all you know. The night started me with chills and aches that I tried to muzzle with cotton and fleece covered with wool. Still, my teeth chattered. I buried myself under my sheets, blanket, down comforter, and wool blanket on top of that, and I let the fabrics mute my moaning as to not disturb the street traffic below. But in all that self-comforting and nuzzling, sleep would not be had. I think my temperature only rose to 100.8 as I shed every thread of fabric in a 3 foot radius of my body, but it felt like I was a frog slowly boiling to death, senseless and unable to jump out and rescue myself. The moderate fever, like the moderate life, seems the most demanding to tolerate. I found myself madly ruminating about how lovely it would be to have a real burning fever, as though I was tracing Kerouac's prose in On The Road, but instead of talking about people burning with passion, I substituted my own despair, inwardly chanting, "the only ailments for me are the mad ones, the ones that are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars;" If my temperature was at least 103 I could get some sleep! Instead my night invoked brave patience until it met the dawn and I could moderately sweat myself to my doctor's.

It was Wednesday when they ran the first strep test, which came back negative minutes later. It is because of situations like this that I've determined the practice of medicine is no more impressive than it is for some slummy guy on the corner convincing a tourist his Mike Bidlo is a Jackson Pollock. It is always a guessing game based on appearances, and no matter what the facts, doctors will try to convince you they know better. "Your strep test was negative," the nurse said, "but it still looks like strep, so take these antibiotics and we'll call you in a few days to somehow prove it is what we say it is."

Then the cough set in. It was mild since the pre-day, but with swollen, patchy tonsils, a good strong cough was too difficult to embrace. As the swelling subsided, the full force of my cough took siege.  I coughed and coughed until I vomited, and then I coughed some more. I coughed up saliva, I coughed up phlegm, and I coughed up blood. And that ain't no strep talking! But because I so badly wanted to believe in the practice of medicine, and believe my doctor was appropriately taking care of me, I refused to treat my symptoms like the flu because what I had was bacterial, and I had antibiotics for that. And for 3 more days I hacked and moaned and buried myself under the sheets.

On Saturday morning, after still not hearing from my doctor's office to find out the results of the culture on my throat, I dialed them and left an urgent message. Then 2 hours later, just as I was about to call them again, just as my mom was calling me to make sure I wasn't dead, and just as I was about to sob to her that I thought I was dying, my doctor called me back. "You have strep," she exclaimed. "Significant growth. Keep taking your antibiotics."

"But doctor!" I retorted, "I can't stop coughing. I'm coughing up blood!"

"Well," she replied, "I can prescribe you a cough syrup, too?"

According to all the online health sites, strep does not ever entail a cough.  My doctor-friend recited her knowledge, "FACE: Fever, Absence of cough, Cervical lympadenopathy and Exudates on tonsils. That's the pneumonic to diagnose strep. NO COUGH." And my brother-doctor also offered his two cents, saying that from 2500 miles away, he could tell I had a virus. So maybe I have both?

It's been 4 full days of hiding in my sickly solitude at this point in the story, and it is nauseating to continue typing on about it.  I've been sick, that much is obvious. How many more words can there be to describe the misery? Regretfully, there are a few more, and I must use my finger jabber to distract myself from the inflamed and oozing affliction sitting upon me; writing is my way to survive it after all.

So, still stuck in Saturday, fatigued from my uneducated quarrel on bacteria versus virus, I woke up from a short nap with a blood shot eye and yellow tears. I tried to call my doctor's office back but it closed at noon. Luckily there was an on-call nurse available, and I exasperatedly drew the picture for her, "You see, it LOOKS like pink eye, thus I have pink eye, too," and she called in some more antibiotic eye drops to the pharmacy. Of course, pink eye can be bacterial or viral, so the weight of my quarrel pressed on.

My friends and readers, you must understand, after all the health problems I have had the luck to survive in the last 2 years, I have developed a dark sense of humor about sickness. I always expect the worst, and perhaps I should be ashamed of that because positivity is a powerful healer itself, but when one thing goes wrong, I've learned to never say "it can only get better from here." God is watching, and he likes to test that theory. When 2 things go wrong? It can still get worse. When 3 things go wrong? It can still get worse...

So when I woke up in the middle of the night moving on to Sunday, I was not surprised when my left eye was glued shut and blood started pouring (not even trickling) out my nose. I was not surprised later in the day when I realized the sharp pain in my ass was not just a fissure, it's another hemorrhoid. I was not surprised at the same time when I discovered the antibiotics I have been on have given me a yeast infection. There is no surprise left in me, I am very matter of fact, according to appearances, learning to lose.

"You poor thing, you have all that going on? No kidding you've had better days," the receptionist said this morning. No, ma'am, I do not kid. And my doctor later confirmed it, I do have a bacterial infection AND a viral infection. And even a fungal for good measure.

I'm taking 6 prescriptions for my strep, flu, pink eye, hemorrhoid and yeast infection. I'm faithful to my probiotics, even though it would not surprise me at all if I get C. Diff again and need that dreaded fecal transplant. I'm still taking my stool softeners, my omega-3s, and my St. John's Wart to keep my depression in check through it all. I am still stuck in bed, and I don't know how long it'll last.

I do know this solidarity is not a choice, and I hope tomorrow this, too, shall pass.

Look out, he might be a dbag!

Being in Michigan, especially around the holidays, often inspires me to tap into my inner redneck in one way or another. Today I took a picture of the giant Uniroyal tire on I-94 just before crossing into the Detroit boundaries, and dozens of friends affirmed this display of redneck awesomeness with thumbs up on Facebook. It made me feel proud. Jeff Foxworthy is a god among men in my neck of the woods, so surely a redneck joke from him is the confederate flag sticker to the bumper - the icing on the cake - to my re-acculturation to the Mitten State once a year.

While it's easy to embrace this Michigander cheekiness, what's harder is taking hold of the warm and fuzzy Christmas spirit in wake of a hard break up with a.... oh, what word to use... a very nice young man? ...who, after telling me he needed to be single, moved onto a new set of legs just as quickly as he first fell in love with me (3 weeks time). Can't say I didn't see that coming. But a girl's gotta cope somehow...

Look, I suppose there were a few, subtle signs that my recent relationship wasn't ideal. It's clearer in hindsight. It is absolutely my failure for not dumping this jerkoff the first time he called me his exwife's name, or called her "baby" in front of me. But hell, I'm young and allowed to make a few mistakes. I'm allowed to be a Bad Santa. I'm allowed to say "Fuck It" on Christmas Eve- I have first amendment rights. I'm allowed to be angry, and I'm allowed to share my frustrations with the world, and I'm allowed to caution my young readers not to make the same blind mistakes I did.

Thus, I present this cheeky little post. Merry Christmas, everyone! And thanks for the inspiration, Mr. Foxworthy!


If he stays married on paper so he can reap health insurance from his exwife, he might be a douche bag.

If he keeps his exwife's ringtone unique from everyone else's (Caribbean Melody) because it reminds him of all the great vacations they took together, he might be a douche bag.

If he has to use his cell phone to remind him when your anniversary is, he might be a douche bag....

If he refuses to delete the reminder of his and his exwife's anniversary from his phone, he might be a douche bag.

If he only introduces you as his "friend" to his family only after you've move in with him, he might be a douche bag.

If he calls you a hypochondriac even though you have a genuine, chronic, painful, bloody health condition, he might be a douche bag.

If he picks a fight with you in front of your friends because you got ketchup on the fries you were sharing, he might be a douche bag.

If he mocks happy relationships on their way to marriage when you're in a cab on the way to a Hawaiian vacation together, he might be a douche bag.

If he says that your once in a life time display of confidence about your hobby makes you sound "cocky," he might be a douche bag.

If he says the only reason he asked you to move in with him is because he felt sorry for you, he might be a douche bag.

If he generally thinks people from your part of the country are uneducated, fat, and have unreasonable faith in Jesus, he might be a douche bag.

If he's a Catholic and thinks any of the previously mentioned, he might be a douche bag.

If he surprises you by taking you to see your favorite band in concert, then makes you pay for the tickets, he might be a douche bag.

If he tells you to hurry up when you're walking up a mountain and having an asthma attack, he might be a douche bag.

If he takes you rock climbing and gets you stuck hanging from a rope for 3 hours, 200 feet in the air, and gets mad at you for being a little shaken, he might be a douche bag.

If you give him hundreds of dollars worth of sports gear for Christmas and his response is "let's not do anything for Valentines Day," he might be a douche bag.

If the first thing he tells you is "you spelled 'your' wrong" in a love letter you wrote him, he might be a douche bag.

If he says your down jacket looks better on him, then tells you to buy a new one in the store for yourself that's $200, he might be a douche bag.

If he tells you that you don't make enough of an effort while you're making him a sandwich, he might be a douche bag.

If a friend has to tell him to comfort you when you've pulled your hip-flexer and are crying in a pile of snow, he might be a douche bag.


If you have another example of douchebagary from your life, don't be shy, add it in the comment section. It's a fun game! And it's a way healthier way to manage anger than slashing tires and drop kicking someone in the throat... :)

Embracing The Dark Times

I have to preface this blog by explaining why I am writing it at all.

I think there are many, many people out there that write because they are burning with creativity and the only way to let out some of the steam is to put their pen to paper or their finger tips to a key board, or now a days, even their voice to a recording device that will literate their words for them.  It's the same thing for dancers, who are compulsively compelled to move and stretch and fly in order to express their emotion; same for singers who are required to, at times, belt it out at the top of their lungs; just to make the point, I will even go as far to say that athletes have this same creative drive as the run or row or throw or flip. People express their inner selves the best way they can through these creative forms... I just don't think that's the real reason I write.

There are others that write, not because of the liberation they feel to expose their creative energy, but simply because they are damn good at it.  It's a much rarer reason to write, I think, since there are thousands upon millions of people who would love to "make it" as a writer, but really they just don't have the extreme and effortless talent.  When I look up at my modest shelf of books written by authors like Eggers, Palahniunk, Foer, Kerouac, Murakami, Sedaris, Robbins, Lamott, Thoreau, London, Whitman, I do not think they got as far as they have with their publications because they have repeatedly bared their souls in the only way they knew how, but because they worked hard, threw away the crap, and made examples of their excellence. They are Writers, real ones, because they are good and because they are masters of perseverance. That's definitely not the reason I write.

It has taken me several years to convince myself it was OK to consider myself a "writer" at all. Sure I've had a few poems and stories published in school newspapers and private printings, hardly the platforms to boast or declare credible value to my efforts. And of course when I'm feeling especially vexed I may open my little red journal or whip out my computer to rant about some personal or ethical dilemma, but trust me, I face a lot more dilemmas in my day to day life than my rants give me credit for. If I only felt on fire once a month or 2 or 3 times a year like this blog would suggest, I'd be a much more comfortable person.

I should clarify that I do write in part because it is creative, it takes effort and wits, it expresses something inside of me, and perhaps I am OK at it, better at it than I am at any other mode of communication or art.

The fact of the matter is, I write because I have depression.

I think I need to pause here because it is not something that most people with depression would like to admit. It is also a disease (be that a treatable one) that is severely minimized and depreciated in our society, even though an estimated 21 million children and adults are affected by the disorder annually.

Now, you may be thinking, like the rest of your collectively unconscious American peers, "This 'disease' (cough, cough) is merely a weakened state of mind which is over diagnosed because antidepressants are trendy and doctors aren't paid to care about causes, but treatments, as they are sell outs to pharmaceutical companies."

Well, I guess I can't argue that point. It's entirely possible. However, my point is that as much as people know, or think they know about depression, it is remarkably stigmatized here in America and all over the world.

Why do I write, I ask myself? Not so much to create, but to cope; not so much because I deserve a platform, but to build a platform for others so that anyone who's ever felt as crappy and lifeless and desperate as I have will understand that depression is not one's fault. Not to mention, typing it out here reaffirms this truth for myself, and I can't hear it enough. Major depression is an illness just as real as cancer. It will not go away without the right support systems in place, whether that involves medicine or family or friends or religion or time.  While I am still seeking an effective support system for myself, and while I am digging myself out of the trenches of this illness now, as I have been for several months, and while I carry a history of depression at different depths that go back in time as long as I can remember (I idolized Eeyore and my imaginary friends committed suicide, if that gives you any insight into my troubling childhood), I feel just as deeply that this topic should be discussed openly and freely, without shame, in order to conjure the support it takes to heal from the beast.

I recently heard a lecture discussing pessimism - a surprising topic, as most of us are trying to be the opposite - and the speaker quoted Nietzsche several times explaining that the proper way to live is to embrace the dark times we all face - the pessimism - embrace the lessons that suffering provides, and cultivate the relationships that are naturally built when one confesses their private selves.  This clever idea really strokes my sulking conscience. Embracing the idea that I should embrace my suffering encourages me to write about my depression as publicly as this blog will allow, not just for myself as a way to vent and cope and seek solace in the few friends who may read this, but for everyone who has ever been touched by the problem of depression, and I think that has to be just about everyone, period. I know most of my own friends and family don't know how to "deal with it," and I know a lot of my friends don't even know I suffer from it, since I, like my 21 million fellow melancholics, am trained to mask my truest emotions as much as possible and minimize sadness by calling it things like "a case of the Mondays" or "I was really burnt out from work so I just slept all weekend" or by only posting *happy things* on Facebook, even if they are completely insincere, because nobody wants to be cyber-friends with a Debby-downer. My hope is that my rambling thoughts to make these ugly truths more visible (even though I run the enormous risk of vulnerability and appearing as though the only way I can be emotionally intimate with anyone is by disclosing e v e r y t h i n g  to  e v e r y o n e) will give people a better understanding of what depression is, why it is, and how to kick start the healing process with the people they love.

What it is:

 (A journal entry from an unknown time)

It took me an hour to get out of my apartment today just to get a cup of coffee and write a little bit. It didn't take me an hour because I had to shower and eat a nutritious breakfast and have a pre-cafe coffee before hand... I was already dressed, my chores were done, all I had to do was put a few things in my bag and walk out the door. What slowed me was the dark pull that urged me to just stay where I was, close to my bed, and think about writing as I actually watched a marathon of Scrubs on Netflix. "Why leave? I have coffee here. I have internet and a computer and Netflix instant streaming and pen and paper, all the options are readily available."  I looked at my bed and at my writing chair, both flaunting my own, sad, Homer Simpson ass-impressions, which perversely attracted me. "I must get out."

I started to pull myself together and I looked in the mirror. I looked away, went toward my bag and stuffed my computer into it, then I went back to the mirror.

"God I'm ugly. I look sad. My fucking left eyebrow is so unruly.  I'm hideous. I'm definitely gaining weight. Who am I? I hardly recognize me."

I was trying to look further into my eyes for some deeper sense of recognition, but I couldn't. "I look empty. I am nothing. I hate myself. I hate looking at this. How can this be me? Why would anyone want to look at me? This is disgusting."

I went back to my bag. And back to the mirror. This is a masochistic game I can't stop playing. The dark pull is always trying to get me back into bed. The microbial hopefulness left in me is always quieting nagging and trying to get me out of the cloudy dungeon I've created for myself, but to little avail. It smells stale, like something is slowly dying. Even with candles and air fresheners thoughtfully placed throughout my abode, all I sense is decomposition. Even when all the shades are drawn on my window dominated walls and it's sunny outside, it seems gray and foggy where I am.  I feel like you could punch or stab me, and I would have no sensation of it. I think, "Can I get someone to try that on me?" Wadded up tissues surround me. I can't remember eating in over a day but I'm not hungry, though I could use a beer.  My legs and arms feel like I'm heaving logs to and fro when I try to cross the room.  There is a pile of clothes on my bed and on the floor, I sleep on it often because I'm so apathetic I can't bother to push one pile onto the other, and I just keep pulling my sweatpants of out the mass for everyday wear.  There is a pile of dishes in the sink. There is a pile of DVDs scattered across the carpet.  There is a pile of me staring at myself in the mirror again, trying to ignore the other piles and collect myself decently enough to go into public, where I can get a few shots of Vitamin D and fresh air and pretend to be a normal person.  The effort it is taking is all just so I can say I left my apartment this weekend... just so when a coworker asks me what I did this weekend, I can say "I went out for coffee" because at least that's something.

"That fucking left eyebrow - why is it so asymmetric from the right one? Fuck!"

Why it is:

The reasons people have depression varies greatly from one person to the next. Of course I could generalize some of the causes, or you can go look them up on webMD. But since I've written this much already, I figure I might as well keep going and confess why depression is for me - not to throw a pity party for myself, but to validate that it's real, to embrace my suffering, and to illustrate that it is in fact a disease beyond the control of my frontal lobe. And the reasons are:

1. There is no reason at all. I know it sounds like I'm playing some semantics game with you, but the truth is that for many, if not most major depression sufferers, it seems like they just woke up one day and there were all the previously mentioned symptoms and hopelessness.  Nothing extraordinarily bad happened - a few stressors, but nothing they couldn't manage before. It's like a wire gets loose in the brain and suddenly nothing "clicks" anymore. When I had my first major depression episode my freshman year in college it was a few days after a douche bag who I'd been on a couple dates with dumped me for my best friend. I can still remember what my dorm room looked like when I got the instant message that exposed the truth, what it felt like to kneel down in the middle of the room and scream and bawl while my roommate tried to study, what the other girls in my hall looked like when they came in to muzzle my madness. As if I had never been dumped before! I honestly didn't even like this guy that much. He was a terrible kisser.  And once the rage resided that night, I proceeded with my regular routine for a day or two, until something inside me shut off. I skipped my first classes ever. I slept through track practice, faking the flu.  I couldn't stop crying, even when I mustered up the courage to call the clinic and tell them I wanted to kill myself, I was bawling on the line and continued to do so until I got to the health center and they put antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills in my mouth. This is a long first reason, but depression really threw me off guard. I had been a 4.0 student and a track-star, and for those things to not matter because a sloppy kisser preferred my friend seemed outrageous even to me. But it was what it was. And it is what it is now. People always try to tell me to have perspective... I DO. I know there are good things happening around me, and there are many worse things that I could be dealing with.  I know I am "fortunate" in many ways. But fortunes are impossible to embrace when you feel like the walking dead for no reason.

There are other reasons though.

2.    Genetics. My brother has suffered from depression and generalized anxiety much of his life. My dad, too. When I asked my dad about our family mental health history, he couldn't go too much further than himself, since pre-1940's, even with Freud around, the stigma of mental health was probably at it's strongest, not to mention my dad's parents lived through a national depression, aside from a personal one, so no one dared discuss such things, but he suspects my grandma and grandpa were melancholics, too.

3.    Low-income. This is a reason my depression lingers as well as a reason it exists. I can't afford to take a lot of preventative vacations, get a bi-annual full body massage, or buy organic produce from the farmers market. Money is a huge stressor for me - I haven't been able to pay my hospital bills from 4 months ago; even though I do have insurance, it didn't cover most of the cost of my colonoscopy. Each co-pay I spend is half a day's pay (before taxes).  Each rent check I sign is over half a month's salary, and I live in the cheapest studio I could find that didn't have a toilet in the living room. There is absolute truth to depression rates being higher among low-income groups. C'est moi.

4.    Poor physical health. With anyone who has a chronic or terminal illness, there is a deserving need for profound emotional support, and others are generally game to play the supporting roles. I have no intention to exaggerate the severity of my health problems... I don't have cancer, I'm not going to die from what plagues me today, but I am plagued.  I've had over a year and a half of intense focus on my digestive system. I've lost count of how many doctors' visits I've been to, how many antibiotic pills I've swallowed, how many supplements and aids I've purchased to ease the pain of 18 months of diarrhea, constipation, anal fissures and thrombosed hemorrhoids.  If you bled from your ass nearly everyday, if you had to walk with a limp because of razor sharp pain in your rectum, if you've had bouts so bad you couldn't move an inch from your bed or your bathroom, I think you'd be depressed too.

5.    Circumstance.  This is the main cause for most depressive disorders. It gets called "circumstantial depression" to depersonalize the problem and place blame on the crap luck of life, and that diagnosis seems to bring comfort to people, so I'm ok with it.  Circumstance is just one branch of major depression though.  Or maybe a better analogy is it say that circumstance is the thorny bark of major depression.  My circumstance is that I live far away from my family and friends. I moved to San Francisco without a job and only knew 1 person, who quickly fell out of friendship with me in the first 2 months.  The job I have now is completely isolating - I don't have any coworkers in CA, all my communication is done through email, Skype, and an occasional phone call.  Coworker-friends from previous jobs live spread out across the Bay Area which lends me to see them once every 3 or 4 months if I'm lucky.  I've had really shit luck with roommates, and because of this, I've lived in 6 different places in 5 years. Most recently, I moved to be by myself after breaking up with my live-in boyfriend who said I was a hypochondriac and exaggerating my pain, among other vengeful, gas-lighting accusations (more on that in the near-future post).  Finally, I'll add that the affect of the winter holidays only strengthens my pessimism.  Not only is there less sunlight now to draw good vibes from, but there's the societal pressure to be with loved ones, or particularly, one loved one, at this time of year. It does not surprise me that the elusive single straight male is craigs-listing for a holiday girlfriend. The pressure is on to be happier than ever at this time of year, which makes it especially difficult for anyone who's ever lost a loved one. There's the memories of Thanksgivings and Christmases past that cannot compare to the punctuated loneliness felt without those loved ones. I always get especially blue in late November because three of my four grandparents died on Thanksgiving. Crap luck. Tie these circumstances in with poor health, low income, and genetic predisposition, then it should be easy to see why I'm afflicted so. 

How to help:

I think of my battle with depression as a lot like Frodo Baggins carrying the ring to Mordor. I know it's cliché to reference this trilogy, but none the less, the story fits.  Carrying the powerful ring is a struggle... a long, dark, burdensome journey... and it takes a huge network of allies to help Frodo get through the world so he can be done with the ring for good.  The evilness of the ring is always whispering to him, begging him to give in to it, to let the darkness win. If it weren't for the Fellowship and about a billion other friends that back him up along the way, Frodo would have certainly been lost to Dark Lord Sauron's cause.

Now, it's hard to speak on what the right magical ingredients are that can help the hypothetical sufferer of depression feel relieved of his/her burdensome journey; there are too many variables that play into any one person's affliction. But the underlying aid that I feel must certainly be there for anyone carrying the "ring" is a band of altruistic friends that will help guide him, have his back when circumstances get especially tough, and who will remain steadfastly determined with him, even when his own determination wanes, for the time when he can embrace ultimate freedom from the despondency and actually feel, perhaps for the first time, the lightness of joy, love, and happiness.

The billion of metaphorical allies might come in different shapes and sizes... some in a pharmaceutical pill form, others in vitamins and supplements like Omega-3 and St. John's Wart. They might come in the shape of a doctor or therapist. They might come as giant Redwood Trees. They might come as adoptable cats.  They might come as reruns of Seinfeld episodes.  But the best allies to depression I've seen are a few plain and simple friends.

I understand how tiring the role of ally to a depressive can be, believe it or not I've been on that side of the coin, too. It can be frustrating because it feels like nothing you say is getting through. You can say, "But you DO have so much to live for, you're beautiful and smart and kind and a hard worker..." and the sad one will say, "No. I'm not. The end." which can feel like you’re hitting your head against a brick wall.  It can be annoying because, hell, we've all got problems and stressors in life, and sometimes you'd like to have someone relieve you of that drag, but the depressive is pretty self-absorbed and it's nearly impossible to shake him of his own self pity. I do not always envy the lives of my friends trying to deal and cope with me, as I have become their heavy burden to carry. Depression is damn sticky and ugly, and it can ruin a lot of relationships all on its own.

So while the ally has a big job to do, I can only say that with me, the simple efforts you make are by far the most effective. I can't swallow it when my friends try to fix my depression for me... force feeding me perspective does not ensure I can keep it down. Don't give me a laundry list of things I should be doing to take better care of myself. "Go make new friends. Go exercise. Do more writing. Get out of your apartment. Appreciate what you have" - I'm already ruminating about the things I should be doing to slay my depression, hearing it as a command only makes me feel even more like a failure. More obviously, you can't fight the battle for me or try to take away the stressors causing me pain (unless the stressor is you), just as Frodo's Fellowship couldn't carry the ring for him. But for all the ways you can't help, there are easy things you can do. I hope people can apply these things to anyone who's got the blues without much straining:

• Call, write, or stop by just to say hi and that you're thinking of them
• Instead of telling them to "think about other things," share what's going on in your life
• Go for a walk or run together - invite him to be your wingman for some physical activity [it is like swimming through molasses just trying to get out of bed for a solo activity, but I very rarely miss a date if a friend asks me to workout]
• Make dinner together
• Do not allow your own joy and enthusiasm to fade. Keep it high, and hope the one who's sad will eventually rise to your level of happiness
• Make her a mixed tape or CD filled with silly / happy / kick ass songs to help her keep her mood up when you're not around
• Smile
• Softly remind him of the things he used to find pleasure in - if he likes to play guitar, remind him how playing makes him feel, and encourage (without putting pressure on him) to play it maybe once a week
• Hug - virtual hugs are great too
• Just BE together, no motive or activity is necessary. Be ok with silence. Your quiet presence can tell someone a lot about how much you care

So now that I’ve written more than what is required for most college papers, I will conclude my lengthy confession.

As I try to summarize, I’m filled with quivering self-doubt and I’m wondering if all this rambling was at all useful or appropriate.  Have I over shared? Over exposed? Have I perversely sanctified depression (it’s starting to sound like a bad word again) as if it were something to actually talk about aloud? How sick is it – how disturbed will I be perceived – to have streamed my thoughts on this topic with oh so many words? I’m about to press “publish” on this epic tale and come face to face with the rest of the world that places no value, only stigma, on any health problem let alone a mental one, as if there was any difference from your bodily health and your brain health. I’m scared, to be honest.

I’m trying to remember why I have written all this at all… why did I preface this blog so many finger taps ago?

Because writing saves me.  And I hope so desperately that what I write can in some minuscule way save someone else – or at least teach someone a little more about the secrets I see about the world.  I do think health is important enough to talk about in public, and even online. I want to be a part of a braver society where we can genuinely be who we are and not hide ourselves for the sake of appearing “normal” or professional or unjudgeable. I have to accept that I’m being judged for all this, but the benefit outweighs the risk. I own my problem with depression, and that helps me deal with it; I hope my writing will help you help me deal with it, and I hope it can help you deal with it in whatever other way it may affect you in this lifetime.

I often wish I never had to deal with any sadness, ever. I frequently cringe when I’m forced to consider why anyone has to suffer at all. But it’s like The Lord of the Rings…

Frodo: I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.
Gandalf: So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring. In which case, you were also meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought.

Maybe, just maybe, I am meant to carry depression so I can be more empathetic and better help and serve others who are plagued with health problems. Maybe it will somehow make me a better writer. Maybe this will make me a better friend.

When I have another down swing and get a little a lost in the darkness, maybe I’ll remember I wrote this; maybe my friends will have read this and be a little more available in the way I need them; maybe I’ll just lean on what Frodo’s best friend and companion said in response to Frodo’s gloomy doubt…

Sam: I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding onto something.
Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?
Sam: That there's some good in this world... and it's worth fighting for.