Writing It Out

Things have been unprecedented in my life lately.  At the end of 2016, I closed on my first home.  It was decision predicated by the amazing job I got earlier last year and the logical steps of my life.  And it has been absolutely amazing.  I've felt steady and well adjusted.  And even in dealing with my assault in November, I've been able to focus on this new chapter and how excited I am to be a home owner and making it my own space.

And then, my body betrays me.

I have been able to bring myself to be in my friend's apartment.  Mainly because the love I feel there has overcome the very, very bad experience I had.  But it also means that my assaulter is often one floor down in the place where he works.  For the most part, I've become very good at dealing with that fact.  I've seen him.  But I've yet to enter the bar.  Usually I keep my eyes on the ground and walk to and from my friend's place.  And it has been hard, but ok.

Today, after spending a wonderful evening painting, watching movies, and making new friends, I finally decided I was ready to go home.  And he was outside.  He was there, smoking and talking to people.  And in an instant, I was not okay.

My pace quickened as much I could on an ice covered sidewalk.  My eyes immediately started to water and my heartbeat picked up its pace.  I tried to keep myself composed until I got to my car because there were people outside and I didn't need someone noticing me in my vulnerability.  By the time I got to my car, I was hyperventilating.  I placed my stuff in the car and got in, immediately locking it in case he had followed me.  While I don't fear for my safety, I also haven't spoken to him and don't know if he would make that effort.  He did not.

The whole 8 minute drive home I could barely control my breathing.  I made my way inside, shaking as I fumbled with my key in the difficult lock.  Once inside, I slammed and locked the door behind me.  My poor dog looking at me as if to ask what's wrong as I collapsed on the floor crying.  I laid there for a moment with my warm face against the cold tile floor.  I composed myself, I got up, and I moved on as best I could.

But it's still with me, as much I as I move forward and focus on positive things, it's there.  It's there in the dark part of me.  The recesses.  So that in my weakest moments, it hits.  My therapist suggested that I write when I am this emotional, hence this post.  I'm not looking for pity or sympathy.  Only for people if they do not already understand, that the pain and damage of trauma runs deeply.  And it is painful.  And I wish with all my heart that I could get rid of it.  But I can't.

30 Days of Militant Self Care: Day 5

I mean, just look at his face? Too cute.

What goes into your mind isn't easily erased.  Today was about treasuring something that has had a positive aspect on your life and revisiting it and why it has lasted in your mind.  Maybe it is something happy.  Maybe it is something sad.  Maybe it is something scary.  Some things that go into your mind leave a lasting impact.  And it is time to revisit it.

I recently reread one of my favorite books, Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson.  I discovered the book last year and it quickly became one of my favorites.

The reason I fell in love with this book is not just the adorably happy raccoon on the cover. I mean, he's amazing, but not the only thing amazing here.  Lawson lives with mental and physical illnesses, and in this book she describes the ups and downs of such a life.  But the point of Furiously Happy is that even through the dark times, you can choose to try.  To make memories that are funny or ridiculous or "what the fuck was I thinking" moments.  You will have good days.  And you will have bad days.  It's what you choose to do with yourself that matters.  Not the illnesses inside of you.  This book is a collection of moments, stories, and even essays of Jenny's life.  They all have to do with living with mental illness, but they aren't the point.  Having mental illness isn't the only thing that defines a person.  It's easy to write someone off as "Oh, they have ADD" or "Well, she has depression."  Everyone person living with mental illness is more than that.  I am more than my depression and anxiety.  I am more than the back problems that plague me.  I am me.

Jazz hands!

One of Jenny's most amusing anecdotes is her father's taxidermy business and the many little creatures she has come to possess.  Her first book, Let's Pretend This Never Happened, features a Shakespearean dressed mouse holding the skull of a smaller mouse in a delightfully Hamlet way.  In her manner of collecting ethically killed creatures, she came to own two happy little raccoons.  Which she occasionally has attempt to ride her cats.  It is just stomach cramp inducing hilarity.  But it is also poignant.  I know what she feels because I've felt it too.  The days you can't bring yourself to get out of bed.  The days where the only thing you can accomplish is taking a shower.  The days where logically you know someone is just an asshole and it shouldn't matter why they critique you, but it hurts.  Jenny's words are real and having some of the same mental illnesses, her words reach down into my heart and pat it gently saying, "We got this.  You're not alone."  I highly recommend this book to anyone living with mental illness.  Not only is it laugh out loud hilarious, but it helps you know that you're not alone in the struggle.

Stay tuned for more adventures in militant self care!

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30 Days of Militant Self Care: Day 3

Today's post was something I desperately needed.  It was a little motivation.  Having depression and anxiety means dealing with shit that I know is dumb.  I know logically that it isn't that hard to pick up after myself.  I know that logically if I fold and put the clothes away once I'm done with the load that it won't take that long.  I know logically that as soon as I open a bill or a check, I should not just relegate it to a pile that will eventually grow large enough to go through.  I know these things.  But that does not mean I follow them.

A post went viral recently of a woman with depression who cleaned her room. She posted a picture of her room before, and a picture after she cleaned it.  This is my depression to an absolute tee.  I will let things get bad enough until eventually it takes a whole day to clean it.  That is just how I operate.  It has been that way since I was a kid.  My mom tried to get on my butt about keeping my room spotless but eventually I told her to just shut my door.  Because it's almost an impulse or something truly out of my control.  I do the same with my car.  And with the couch in the living room, though that I pick up more regularly because I share the space with my mom.  But today, today I did something.

Today's prompt was to acknowledge and tackle an adult task that you've been putting off.  Cue the laundry!!!  Laundry takes me around two to the three days.  I usually amass enough clothes for two loads, if not three.  Sometimes four if I am especially unmotivated.  I am trying not to use the term lazy anymore.  Because sometimes I am just refusing to do something, but other times I literally couldn't bring myself to do it if I had all the King's horses and all the King's men.

Floor?! You exist!

I wish I had the foresight to take a picture of the mass of dirty laundry that was sitting here. I mean it was epic pile of leaves level.  I did all three loads in the washer yesterday, but forgot the towels needed to be dried so those hit the dryer tonight.  But my adult task for the day?  Sitting and spending what felt like an eternity folding and putting away clothes.  In the end, stuff that needed to be hung up got laid out flat for later but anything that can be folded got put away.  I wanted to get other adult things done like activating my new debit card and filling out my art show application.  But the laundry took that long.  Like 3 hours.  So by the time I was done, I had just enough energy to write this and go to bed.  It's not much.  But it means something.  Not just to me, but to everyone who understands the struggle to be tidy, the lack of motivation to put stuff away when you're done with it.  This one is for you.  The ones who struggle.  The ones who are unmotivated.  Cheers.

Stay tuned for more adventures in militant self care!

Stigma: Love It, Hate It, Learn To Live With It

Noun
1. a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one's reputation.

I didn't understand this idea until I was in college and saw the world around me, realizing that so much of my life that I've kept secret would be criticized by others.  While some struggles I have learned to be open about, others I have kept only to myself.  With April being sexual assault awareness month, I knew that I wanted to write about my assault.  While I have written about it before, there is always more to the psyche, particularly with my recent participation with Hear Us Roar 2016 at Northern Michigan University.  So allow me to delve into the depths of my life and tell you all about it.

I started struggling with depression when I was a kid, but didn't understand it.  I felt isolated and lonely most of my childhood, but I put on a brave face for everyone around me.  I had one friend that I was very close to, but felt completely alone besides her friendship.

During that time, I began to self harm.  I had a very elaborate and shamefully sneaky way to go about it.  I pricked myself with pins.  Very voodoo-esque. I would manipulate the pin under my skin to cause discomfort but drawing very little blood.  I would often use scissors to scrape and scratch my skin but not enough to leave a mark anyone could see.  Even into my adulthood, the compulsion to self harm would get very strong during a depressive episode.

The summer after 8th grade, I attempted suicide.  Knowing very little about medication, I didn't understand that in order to kill yourself, you had to take far more than the recommended dosage.  Not just 4 pills.  I always figured dying in my sleep would be the easiest way to go.  Just sleep and never wake up.  Well, I disappointingly did wake up.  After that, I tried to move on and let it go.  But after a week, I wanted to try again.  I held a large knife in my hands and rolled it over and over.  I wanted to die, but I also wanted to say goodbye.  I called my best friend at the time and told her.  She made me put the knife down and talked to me for hours.  She saved my life.

A lot of my depression was triggered at 11 when my mom and I were in a near fatal car accident.  Much like any major stressor, my body's chemistry shifted. While I had always been the skinny girl, I was now the chubby friend.  Putting on weight became easy and losing it very, very hard.  I couldn't help but feel ugly and think I would never be someone's first choice to love.  The struggling self esteem still continues its march with me on a daily basis, though at this point, I've beaten it back quite a bit.  However, the lack of self esteem manifested itself as a near eating disorder in early high school.  Knowing nothing about fitness, I believed that barely eating anything would make me skinny.  I would skip breakfast, eat salad for lunch, and often times skip dinner.  Many a night I would force myself to go to bed with a rumbling stomach because I believed it would burn more calories. This did not last very long though, because my depression didn't turn me away from food.  It led me to using food as a coping skill.  I would begin eating my feelings.  Which I sometimes still do, but in more healthy ways.

The self defeating behavior and self loathing continued through high school and into college.  Going through college I started working on loving myself.  It was hard.  When you've programmed yourself to hate seeing your face in the mirror and your inner monologue calls you a "fucking ugly cow" whenever you're naked, it's an uphill battle.  But I eventually believed that someone would be interested in me.  In fact, I decided to let loose.  To do something I would never do.  I went to a frat party and made out with a stranger.  Which ended up leading to a life changing event.  As he would be the same guy to sexually assault me while I was drunk a few days later.

The stigma of being a survivor was quickly brutal.  I learned very fast about rape myths and victim blaming.  And after that, I shut it away.  I put it deep inside me and didn't process it for a while because it was too much.  Once I decided to finally deal with the rape myths and the victim blaming, I frankly just got angry.  Fucking angry.  Angry that someone would tell me it was my fault for being drunk.  Angry that so many people are victims of sexual violence.  But mainly angry at myself for believing any of it.

It was around this time that the PTSD set in.  I would have nightmares or flashbacks.  I would often shake, cry, scream, or hyperventilate.  I could nearly rip out my hair.  It would feel like I was living it all over again, and no matter how many showers I took, I never felt clean.

Shortly after this, I relocated to Alabama.  I had a successful relationship and amazing friends, but that was all I had.  The bitch landlady who owned the house we lived in lied to all of us about her mortgage so she could overcharge her friends.  I was a stranger so she didn't even feel bad for doing it to me.  Truly proving the kind of person she is.  More about that here.  But slowly, everyone else moved out and it was just me and her.  Even with my amazing dog, I couldn't cope.  My relationship also ended and I began abusing alcohol.  I would drink three or four beers every night just to get to sleep.  Or straight chug whiskey.  Or vodka.  Anything to be able to sleep.  I started fairly lightweight, but that tolerance quickly built up. When I moved out of Hell Bama, I was able to get my relationship with alcohol under control, but it wasn't easy.

I worked on moving forward.  I joined an amazing organization, the Listening Ear, and learned how to deal with my emotions.  I learned I wasn't alone and that other people loved me.  I transitioned into a job I felt more passionate about.  Working with teen boys at Turning Point Youth Center was an experience I will never forget.  I got to be on the ground floor of the new Abuse/Neglect unit.  I got promoted to assistant group leader and developed amazing relationships with the kids there.  It unfortunately didn't last.

My relationship with my supervisor deteriorated.  I never felt good enough.  I felt that every move I made was scrutinized and that I never did anything right.  Walking on egg shells is paralyzing, and my anxiety reared itself.  I would start having panic attacks on a daily basis on the way to work.  I would shake, and cry, and hyperventilate.  Sometimes I had a friend there to talk me through the day and be support.  But the days without her were devastating.  Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and I quit.  When working with teen boys isn't the most stressful part of your job, that's saying something.  So I willingly entered unemployment and job searching.

I had a short lived job, but the New Year would prove the end of it.  And the end of my second relationship. And for two and a half months, remaining optimistic seemed impossible.  Every time I came close to a break, something would fall through.  I spent days crying.  Isolated by my depression and anxiety.  In March, I got a lifeline and started a job in finance.  It's not my dream job by any means, but it pays well and I am massively enjoying it.

But even with my life on the upswing, it doesn't mean I don't have all this still.  It will always be with me.  A part of me.  And that doesn't mean I like it, but I live with it.  Because it's me.  These are my stigmas.

Back on the Wagon, I Guess

I'm sitting at the airport writing this, even though I'm not sure when it will be posted.  And already the info is a bit dated.

I've written about my struggles with depression and the experiment of going off my meds.  I've been so lucky to have support through that period.  That being said, after much consideration and consultation with my doctor, I've decided to go back on my medication.  It wasn't an easy choice.  I had hoped to at least make it longer than the couple of months I did.  But life doesn't really work that way.  Especially not emotions.

I think it became clear to my doctor that I needed to return to my meds when I broke down sobbing after she asked "How are you?"  It's a lesser dose; actually the dosage I initially started at back in college.

Writing these posts isn't just about airing my problems into the ether.  Or  bitching to the world about how damaged I am.  It's me trying to share a little piece of myself to a world where so many people suffer in silence.  Fear of stigma and judgment keeping them from seeking the help they need.  If one person reads my blog and feels less alone in the world, I will consider it a part of me well shared.

You may suffer in silence, but you don't have to be alone.

Some Days Are Bad Days and That's Okay

When you have depression, you have good days and bad days.  And lately, a lot of my days have been bad days.

Most of that stems from an unhappy work situation.  It's hard not to feel stymied when I make less than 10 bucks an hour, work 11 hour shifts, wear an uncomfortable uniform, and work on weekends.  Being with the same company for three and a half years has meant nothing, and I have nothing to show for it.  In fact, after both relocations, I went back to the bottom of the totem pole.  And now, I'm just genuinely exhausted.

I decided earlier this summer to go off my medication for my brand of depression (which has some a la carte anxiety).  My doctor had urged the trial, saying part of the job of my medication is to teach the brain to transmit chemicals it wasn't otherwise doing.

And overall, it has been a good trial run.  At first, I felt slightly less control over my emotions.  More weepy than usual, but I still seemed to be doing alright.  But now I'm starting to wonder if I'm losing control.

It's hard to explain the thought processes of a depressive person to someone that has no clue.  It's not just being sad or in a funk; it's deeper, and darker, and scarier than that.

You know how sometimes you go into a room and forget why?

Now imagine you start crying and screaming and you don't know why.  Or you zone out and stare at the wall for hours, but you don't know why.

My depression can't be logical sometimes.  Many moments I'm reacting emotionally and I don't know why.  Or I'm reacting with more sharp emotions.  Sometimes I do know why.  But not always.

Some days it's like treading water and trying not to drown. Some days it is the urge to fight tears all day, because I'm at work and can't break down there.  Some days it is knowing that nothing is going to snap me out of it.  And that can be terrifying.

Luckily through all of this, I've had amazing support.  Friends who have experienced mental illness and understand.  Friends who will do anything to cheer me up because they know there is nothing to fix.  Friends that understand if I break down crying that there isn't always an explanation or solution.  Friends who will listen to me cry and moan about how unhappy I am.  In short, the best friends a person dealing with depression could ask for.

Recently, I had my feelings invalidated and then completely mocked by someone.  And I don't know if they misconstrued something or were having a bad day or whatever.  As someone with depression, I ask this of others: please don't ever invalidate what someone is feeling, especially someone dealing with mental illness.  If you disagree or think it's ridiculous, fine.  But don't discount it to them.  What they are feeling is real.  What I was feeling was real to me.  And it feels like a slap in the face to have someone mock me when I'm down.

I guess I'm writing all this because I don't know if I'm going to go back on my meds yet.  Maybe I just needed to vent, or explain myself.  I don't know.

What I do know is that I'm lucky to have people I can count on and know I can trust.  And I also know that feeling like this sucks.  And that some days are just bad days, and that's okay.

A Laugh Can Hide A Lot

Courtesy of Tumblr

They say "Laughter is the best medicine."  And in some ways, I believe that.  I notice when I force myself to smile more that it becomes contagious.  That people return the smile.  That a day spent with laughter is a day not wasted.  But as I've mentioned before, struggling with depression or any mental illness can make smiles hard to come by.

Robin Williams' death, like most celebrity deaths, shocked people.  But one of the reasons it is even more shocking is not because of drugs or anything like that, but that this man who brought so much humor to the world, apparently killed himself.  Laughter can brighten your day, but it can also be a mask.

Mental illness is not something that can be seen or touched, but only felt by the person who deals with it.  Sure you can see the outward signs, but when someone is happy-go-lucky and smiling all the time, you never know what is really going on inside their head.  That's why depression and anxiety and other mental illnesses are so terrifying and dangerous.  Because people suffer in silence.  Because we can't tell from the outside that people need help until it is usually too late.

I suffered in silence.  I tried to kill myself secretly.  Because I didn't know what to tell people or what to say, or how to deal with the onslaught of judgment for the fact that I was a kid dealing with those kinds of feelings.  Mental illness doesn't pick and choose; it doesn't have a preference for men or women, adult or children.  Mental illness will take anyone.

So please, if you need to, ask for help.  There are people in the world who want only to help bear your burden.  You're not alone, as much as it may feel that way.  Don't feel the need to hide behind a mask.  Please seek help.  Whether you believe it or not, the world would be a dimmer place without you.

You can call a national hotline or find a more local one here.

Learning to Hurt and Be Okay With It

I've made known here and throughout my life connections that I struggle with depression.  What most people don’t realize is that Depression Disorder is a catch-all term.  My personal “brand” of depression as I like to call it also features an anxiety disorder aspect.  I have dealt with being incapable of controlling my melancholy since I was young, and tried to kill myself in 8th grade, which I didn't disclose to people until years after.  

One of the most infuriating things you can say to someone dealing with depression or similar feelings is to say “Just be happy,” or “It’s about your attitude,” and the like.  When it is actually depression, you can’t control your happiness level because your brain isn’t sending chemicals properly.  I could continue on this diatribe for ages, because it really is maddening, but that’s not the point of this post.

My first doctor’s appointment back in Michigan, my doctor recommended trying going off the medication for a while this summer.  Part of my medication besides directing the brain to send the proper chemicals is to also teach the brain how to do this on its own.  Hence going off the medication can help determine how your brain chemistry is going by itself and if you need to continue with medication or not.  Obviously not having to take medication to control your brain chemistry would be incredibly helpful.  These medications can run quite expensive at times, so if your brain finally gets the gist itself that is one less bill.

So I decided to give it a try for a month.  It helped that the decision coincided with my prescription running out.  It has been under a week since I’ve been off my medication.  The first two days didn’t feel any different.  But as I have gotten farther on, I’ve realized my emotions seem to run a little bit.  However, as I am a naturally emotional person, it’s hard to distinguish between me being normally emotional and me being extra emotional because my brain is going wonky.  Like today, I teared up and nearly started crying watching Four Weddings on TLC.  I might normally feel a hitch in my throat while watching a show like this, but could it be more than that?

The whole point of this, besides announcing my life history and personal medical choices, is to ask for something.  First to the general public, please be understanding to those around you dealing with mental illnesses.  You have no idea how incredibly terrifying it is not be in control of your emotions.  When I break down and can’t stop crying and don’t know why, I understand it is weird, but I also need you to understand that I can’t help it.  So please be supportive of people in your lives who deal with such things.  It’s painful and scary and often humiliating.  Second, I’m asking everyone in my life to be supportive of me.  I know things might go fine but I also know my emotions might go haywire for a while.  So far, I’ve been blessed to have awesome family and friends who know what it is like to struggle with this.  But while I take this month to see how I do off my medication, I’ll possibly need even more support.  So if I can’t stop crying or cancel because I’m feeling sad or what have you, please understand it’s not you it’s me. Haha, see I made a joke about it.  But really, thank you in advance for dealing with me and my weird brain chemistry.  I have a feeling this will be taxing on me, but I’m willing to give it a go so wish me luck.

It's Not Always About Your Attitude, Not When You Have Depression

How do you dull the ache in your chest when you don’t know why it aches?

Can you fill the loneliness in your heart when you don’t trust anyone enough to let them in?

Have you ever cried for hours without knowing why?

Have you ever felt overwhelming soul crushing despair that you’ll die alone?

Welcome to living with depression.

Not every day is a bad day.  But when a day gets bad, it is very rarely that it will improve.  I was not diagnosed with depression until I was in college, but looking back now, there were clear signs I was struggling with something all the way back to 8th grade.  A lot of people chalk up certain behavior to kids going through puberty, and in some cases that’s all it is, but just because a kid is moody and withdrawn doesn’t mean you shouldn’t probe further to find out if there is more going on below the surface of puberty.

My mom and I were in a serious car accident when I was 11.  It happened the summer between my sixth and seventh grades.  A man fell asleep at the wheel, swerved into our lane, and hit us head on.  The jaws of life were needed to remove my mom, who was in a coma for a short time following the accident.  And that was the end of my childhood.  

It’s sad to say, but when someone that young gets a grasp of the idea of mortality, it’s hard to go back to being young and flippant.  Granted, I still had and do still have moments of immaturity, but my emotional level at that age was no longer 11.  Seeing your parent in a coma and wondering what would happen to you if they died is not something you just move on from; I mean, unless you’re a sociopath.  

So I grew up, and I learned how to be responsible for more than just myself.  And eventually I did hit puberty and rebel at the idea that I had to do so much, and it wasn’t fair, and yada yada yada.  But then I started internalizing everything.  I took all my negativity and put it on myself.  I started to feel very alone and began thinking that if I was gone, no one would notice or even care.  Obviously this is completely untrue, but try explaining that to a kid who feels like she only has one friend.  

In Eighth grade, I felt like I had reached the breaking point.  And I tried to kill myself.  My stupidity and naivety are what saved me.  I had never had sleeping pills before.  So I didn’t realize that taking more than the recommended dose would have to be a much higher number than three pills.  So when I woke up from a really long nap and realized that didn’t work, I considered other options.  Eventually I was talked away from this and reaffirmed that people did care, which is why I am still here today.

The first half of Freshman year of high school, I was miserable.  My best friend had gone somewhere else.  I had barely any friends, and I was struggling to get used to the course load.  I would come home and nap every day because I was so tense and stressed.  At Christmas, I asked my mom if I could go to boarding school.  Because then I’d be struggling but I wouldn’t know anyone so I could relish the isolation on my own terms.  As opposed to feeling alone while being surrounded by people you know and don’t get along with at all.  She said she would consider it if I was still this miserable at the end of the year.  But by the end of the year I had forged new friendships and rekindled old ones.  So the idea of boarding school slipped out of my mind.

But even as things looked up, I was still struggling internally and felt that I had no one to talk to about it.  My mom finally suggested therapy.  I was skeptical at first.  The idea of paying someone to sit and listen to you talk?  I mean, it sounds far-fetched.  Or just unbelievably easy.  Sit and listen to someone bitch about their problems and get paid?  Um, where do I sign up for that job?  So going in, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  In my first session, I sat down in the office and the therapist asked me to talk about myself and my life.  I got out two sentences before I burst into tears.  Everything came out.  How alone I felt.  How I felt like there wasn’t even god, because if there was why did all this terrible shit happen to me?  So I started going to therapy.  And I started feeling a little at peace.

I made it through the rest of high school and found myself bound for college.  With the security of knowing school wasn’t too far from home and some friends who would be at the school with me, I boldly left home.  But my depression didn’t stay behind.  I had stopped going to therapy when I left for school and it only took a semester for it all to catch up with me.  At Christmas, I was a zombie.  I would sit and stare at the wall.  Normally, Christmas is my favorite time of year.  I broke down in front of my mom, an occasion I remember in great detail, saying a felt like something was wrong with me.  It was at this point that my mom admitted depression ran in the family, both sides for me actually, and I realized I was fucked.  So I decided to try and get on medication.

I found a psychiatrist, in the same office as my previous therapist, and he diagnosed my depression.  Now, when I say I have depression, that’s a catch all term.  Depression can take many forms.  It isn’t just, “Oh well I feel blue today.”  My particular “strain,” as I shall call it, is a combination of depression and anxiety.  My attacks begin at any given time.  I have quite literally been singing my favorite song at the time on the radio, and I will be overcome with crying.  I will ball my eyes out.  This can last anywhere from five minutes to an hour or two.  Then once I’m done crying, I zone out and become a zombie.  I’ve sat staring at the wall for hours before.  My psychiatrist started me on medication.

I’m not saying all medication is good or that you have to take medication, or what have you.  But I can and will say with authority, I don’t think I could function without my medication.  Of course one issue that can arise is tolerance.  I’ve had to have my dosage upped once since I started, which isn’t bad for the length of time I’ve been on it.  But even with medication, I still have days that are rougher than others, particularly around that time of the month when my hormones are haywire anyway.

This post has shared my own personal experiences with depression, and it is for a reason.  Depression can happen to anyone at any age.  If you feel like you or someone you care about needs help, do something about it.  There seems to be a stigma of some kind about seeking psychiatric help.  I’m telling you right now, that’s crap.  People have that job because they want to help others cope with emotional issues.  So take advantage of their expertise and learn about depression.  Medication may help, or you may be able to handle life without it.  Depression doesn’t magically go away, but life can be better.  If you feel you need help, find someone.  Even if it is just to call a free hotline.  But start somewhere.  And if you feel it is a friend or family member suffering, talk to them.  Let them know they aren’t alone.  You don’t know how much that means to someone who feels completely alone.

Also the most annoying thing I can encounter as someone with depression is when someone tells me to just be happy or it’s about attitude.  I have a chemical imbalance. I don’t work like that!  So don’t be that person.  Seriously.