LiveJournal facsimile blog, part 4372

I'm in that weird ennui-space again and it's self-indulgent to write about it, AGAIN, but I will, because I have to. Because if I don't type these words out of my body, I might self-destruct.

I deal with depression. Big deal.

"Nobody likes their jobs, nobody got enough sleep...just suck up, suck up and be nice."

Reverting to lyrics to express my angst? Check.

I deal with anxiety, dyspraxia, autism, migraines. PMDD. Whatever. We are all steeping in mental illness and we all need validation for our pain. Who the fuck cares?

But the fact remains that I am unhappy. I am unhappy with the way things have transpired in my "career" and I don't know what to do about it or where I want to go with it. I don't know how much to care. And I am so sick of caring what people think of me. I'm unraveling, but I won't admit it outside this very public space of admitting it. I'll HATE that I wrote these words tomorrow.

Mostly, I've stopped drinking which I think is why all these things are more salient at the moment. They're rearing their heads for me to figure out how to confront them. Mostly, I've also stopped moving, doing, anything. This is probably a depressive episode. Lots of people have had this same issue, are sharing this same problem right this minute, as I am.

I need to funnel my propensity to daydream and live entirely inside my own head into art. I know I do, but inertia claims me as her loyal subject. This is actually a really big change from yesterday wherein I washed my hair, put on eyeliner, and listened to Chelsea Wolfe all day. Today I barely put on pants and went for a walk.

The worst part about depression (aside from all of it?) is the guilt. I feel guilty that I'm indulging myself...letting myself steep in the stew of my self-loathing. It is crippling, but I'm doing it anyway. I've already stepped onto the Sadness Train. There's no going back now. I just have to wait it out. Wait it out. Listen to music. Take a walk. Watch "The Office". WALLOW.

Wait it out and
ALLOW it to pass...

I wallow quite well, in fact.

At the root of the listlessness is a situation that feels like a lack of control. I've lost control over my job because I've let it all just be as it is, like a river passing by me as I sit on the bank. That's a great way to meditate and it has even worked out really well in life most of the time, but not right now. Right now I am angry and I want to run. My solution last week was to separate myself from it emotionally, and that worked well for me then. But it's not a permanent solution.

Inside my head, when I'm not having nightmares or feeling guilty about work, I am a mythological creature that rules a magical world no one but those I invite can inhabit. The older I get, the less time I spend in my magical world. That stops now. Fuck you and your adult world. I choose oblivion because fantasy has kept me alive for 33 years now. It is my most favorite friend.

defaults

I kind of hate that everything I write here lately is just sadness. anxiety. depression. woe.

The facts are that I am healthy. I have a home. I have friends. I have family. I have a great job...several, in fact. I have resources.

But these things fall away when your brain isn't ok. And it's not as if I won't survive. I am resilient and like I said, I have resources.

But the only things I think are moment-to-moment survival. I'm trying not to complain because so many others have it so much worse, which is why I won't promote this particular blog.

There's been a death in my best friend's immediate family. I don't even have the words for how she must be feeling right now. I keep trying to offer paltry advice on what I know of PTSD but all I have to compare her experiences to is the stupid tornado.

And THAT is something I really really wish with all of my heart that I could forget. I'm tired of being a wreck every time the wind blows. I'm tired of the anxiety that descended upon my brain in 2011 that hasn't let go. I've had more of it in the last 4 years than the rest of my life combined.

I went to Florida for the funeral. I left my wallet in Florida. Because I didn't have my ID at the airport I had to undergo a background check, have my bags thoroughly searched, and a thorough pat-down (with gloves and everything). Because of that, I haven't wanted to be touched since then even though the woman was very professional. I dreamed of being molested. I keep feeling my breasts being grabbed at (even though that is NOT what happened at all).

I'm really quite fragile.

I know I need therapy. And probably medication. But instead I curl into a ball. I drink. I cry. I take shallow breaths.

Sometimes this world wreaks death and disaster and trauma and isn't kind at all. It takes good people from us. It takes down our childhood homes. It scatters our sentimental objects. It rapes and it kills and it decimates us.

But there's also a wealth of good people on this earth...people willing to help without being asked. People ready to give you exactly what you need before you even know you need it. There is so much goodness in other beings on this earth. We do what we can to help each other.

I know I will survive this depression like I've survived all others. I've GOT to believe I will eventually ignore a thunderstorm like I used to pre-2011. That stupid word: hope. But it's there and peace will come as it always has. Goodness and calm are more prevalent than malice and upheaval.

Originally...

Back in the hopeful first days of January I decided that September would be a month in which I would blog every day...

I wrote a bit in my journal earlier on what became a dismal Labor Day and I hated all of my thoughts. I declared that I would journal every day in September, but I might not blog.

Now I'm wishing back from my meandering wash to think that maybe I'll blog AND journal every day in September. I'm going to attempt to call it success if I post SOMEthing, ANYthing...even if they are thoughts I've posted in some word order or another since I was 14. Because as I said above, I am SICK of my thoughts.

This year there are many more things on the DIDN'T do list than the did. I've stopped posting articles to The Current, Etc. I've posted barely anything in this blog. I've essentially stopped writing. I keep reminding myself that I have started a radio station and I have started a YouTube channel that now has 60+ subscribers, the bulk of which are people I don't even KNOW! But those two ventures don't take up the time that writing does.

I haven't even been reading much either. It has turned into a year of rest and I feel less guilty about it than perhaps I should.

Perhaps this month that will really change, though I've been saying that all damn year. Perhaps I'll manage to post some sort of bumbling detritus paragraph once a day here and maybe save the REALLY angst-ful stuff (it gets more angst-ful? Yes, sadly.) for my journal.

I long to fill real pages with scrawled thoughts again like I used to early in the millennium.

Onward...

Reconciling Invalidation...

I don't yet know how to accomplish this, is the short version.

The long version is that I've been spending a lot of time lately trying to put myself out there. I have this blog, I have my zine, I have the radio station, I have the YouTube channel...but I still have the same nagging feeling I've had my entire life. That no one gets me. That no one cares. I'm currently broadcasting my second radio show and I'm literally the only person listening. I put a lot of work into my playlist. I've spent lots of time promoting my radio show. But it's very likely that after three months of weekly broadcasts, I'll have to face the fact that no one cares, as per usual.

Yes, I realize this is an angst-y and self-involved way to look at things. It's unreasonable for me to expect my friends and family to spend four hours of their Friday evenings listening to me play music I like. It is. It's ridiculous. Every issue of Chickweed includes a mix. I usually make 50 copies of that mix. I think mayyyyybe 5 people listen to that mix, and that's a thing you can listen to anytime. So why would anyone listen to me DJing from my iTunes?

But I am trying. I'm trying to put my thoughts out there in the world, via blog, via zine, via radio, via video. Maybe what I have to say isn't interesting. Maybe I'm not self-actualized enough yet to be interesting. Maybe I never will be interesting. And why does it even matter, anyway? Do I need to be relevant? I've always told myself I don't care if there's a meaning to life, and I don't. But meaning interpreted by me has some validity TO me, if that makes sense. I'd like to feel that my efforts to express myself are heard. But I also think that's selfish of me. I have a small handful of friends that seem to consistently enjoy my work.

But what is that (this) work? It's self-indulgent whining a large portion of the time. Maybe I shouldn't be reinforced for that. I'm starting to wonder if that's all I'm made of, is the worry, I suppose.

My ability to relate to others is tenuous at best. I feel like my reserve of empathy is endless, but my projection of self is almost never in tune with those I'm trying to project myself upon. There are kindred spirits I've met in my path, but they are few and way too far between. But this is my fault. I don't reach out to people in the real way of having conversations and hanging out with others. I project in zines and on blogs and via radio. And I hope that someone wants to talk back.

My brain is so full, but I say so little. I'd love to be heard, but perhaps I don't have the stamina to speak as much as is required for that.

the moment

Living in it is a tricky thing. We can benefit from focusing on now, remind ourselves that now is all we have...

but we can also get so trapped in "now".

For example, "now" has led me to make poor life decisions because I couldn't see beyond my situation many many times in my life. "Now" has caused me not to commit my experiences to memory and left darkness in the place of important moments in my life. Did I live them when I was there or was I too overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of them to understand them at all?

When I visualize events in my life, the pictures taken at those events come to mind at times when the memories themselves are misty or even nonexistent. What I don't document, I don't keep. I am exceptional at forgetting.

This leads me to thinking about the darkness within. Mine, yours, ours together. I have a blotted out portion of my past. I don't like to think of myself as a victim, but I also can't blame myself for choices that I felt, accurately or inaccurately, were taken from me by people that are horrible. I blot to survive. I'm glad for it because it means that my mind has found a way of coping. I also feel sad for my former self, the choices I could have made, the paths I could have taken.

I feel empathy and worry for those around me that are living within choices they feel are taken from them, choices they'd like to remake differently, or choices they didn't make at all and now cannot make. Going after things wanted/needed is worth it. You may not know what you want until you dip your toes into something sticky.

I am forever beholden to those that kept me alive during years of black. Without my best friend Kim, I wouldn't have made it through the first half of high school. Were it not for my mom pleading with school officials to let me have art classes the first three hours of my senior year, I wouldn't have made it through high school at all. If I hadn't had the almost constant companionship of my brother Sagan the years after high school, I would have slipped too far into the abyss to be reached. We need those around us to shake us. We need those that love us to stick around even when the shaking has no effect.

If you know someone living in darkness, just be there. Shaking, advice, and truth may not reach us, but presence will. Presence and acceptance can break through, even if the person doesn't realize it until many years later.

LIVE THROUGH THIS.

LIVE THROUGH THIS. THIS IS A CALL TO ARMS: I want to do a mental health-themed zine. Talk about how people with diagnoses, depression, coping/sensory issues, Post Traumatic Stress (a LOT of us in Joplin are still dealing with this), etc deal in life. I would love to have some stories/insight/thoughts from close friends/family that I know have found/are in the process of finding ways to live in this world.

Any input in any form (drawings, maps, rants, poetry, ANYTHING from any perspective/place in the process) would be greatly appreciated. I will use your content for my zine, but you can be anonymous or use an alias should you feel more comfortable disclosing under invisibility cloak. Below are some questions (most of them center around the word "diagnosis", which I am using as a stand-in for any issues of depression, coping, PTSD, etc). You can choose to answer these questions directly for me to use as an interview in the zine (only answer those you're comfortable answering, of course, and feel free to reword/add questions as ye see fit), or just use them as a jumping-off point for anything you want to say.

I want to have this zine out on the Summer Solstice so your deadline to submit content is JUNE 13 and submissions can be sent via email: mixtressrae@yahoo.com

Please consider sharing your experience with others even if all you do is spend ten minutes replying to this blog with a random thought or two.

Thank you SO much in advance,

Stephanie

QUESTIONS/THOUGHTS:

Do you have a diagnosis (self or formal)? What is this diagnosis?

Do you find strength in your diagnosis? Do you disregard your diagnosis?

How have you come to define your diagnosis?

How have you learned to work around discomfort surrounding symptoms of your diagnosis?

How does it feel on your worst days?

How does it feel on your best days?

How have your loved ones responded to your diagnosis?

What do you wish the general public understood about you/people under similar circumstances?

What advice have you for others under similar circumstances?

Despondency.

It's time I come out of the closet.

I suffer from depression. I've never been "diagnosed" with anything; I've always been a pretty accurate self-diagnoser. I believe some of it is linked to PTSD, but I've had symptoms my whole life and so have at least three of my female family members. What I mostly deal with is episodic depression, but it is cyclical and usually corresponds to the down-swing of my menstrual cycle (the one or two weeks after ovulation and preceding menstruation). I don't take drugs for this depression (again, self-diagnosis would suggest otherwise as I do imbibe caffeine, alcohol, etc of my own accord to indirectly treat my lows), but there are many things I do to distract myself during what can sometimes be up to two weeks out of my month.

And they are just that, distractions. Depression is not plinky-plunky music after taking a pill while the possible side-effects wash quickly over the screen ("in some extreme cases, using Happy Fun Ball can result in coma or death"). It's not like genital warts. It's like life. It's like anything in life. If you work out, you get to force yourself to do it for all eternity. If you want to eat right, you have to make good eating choices day after day. Slugging through the world when you're fucking sad can feel like that scene in "Melancholia" when Kirsten is dragging around all that murky crap behind her like a couture dress.

I've had a day like this today and I share it with you not because I want sympathy (in fact, don't feel sorry for me, it only makes me sadder) but because I know others feel it too and I believe it is ok to live with sadness. I function as well as I can day after day and this is unaided by pharmaceuticals (I don't even take birth control--I am the all-natural hippie y'all think I am in some ways) and some days this means a day of mad creativity and some days this means breathing in and out for the entire day.

I used to spend a lot of time wondering why and feeling bad about seemingly meaningless despair, but I've learned to be a little more forgiving. What's wrong with me? Brain chemistry. Hormones. Maybe I should eat better and exercise more (I should ALWAYS eat better and exercise more). There's always something that can be done, but sometimes it's difficult to do it. I've heard bipolar people say before that they'd rather ride out the depression in order to still take advantage of that mania at the other end, and though I don't consider myself bipolar, I do understand the sentiment. I'd rather be me enjoying the benefits of my creativity and warrior-like attitude two weeks out of the month and deal with feeling the opposite the other half of the time than to be levelly apathetic. I suppose, because I don't know any different.

I do know that I am a healthy human being and I do the best I can and I will continue to try to do the best I can, even when that means canceling plans and hiding in my bedroom watching a Bones marathon on Hulu (this blog is actually cutting into that, so I'll keep this short). I know a lot of people deal with a hopelessness I couldn't begin to comprehend. I still got dressed today, fed myself and my animals, and even went out in the sun a bit before it went down. I still consider myself a SURVIVOR in that "Run the World"-music-video way. This is the first time I'm admitting my depression publicly. So there it fucking is.