Well yeah, but...

This has been accepted as an article for The Mighty. As they edit for length and content, here is the full piece just in case anyone is curious.

Gratitude is a beautiful feeling. It connects us to the people and things in our lives in a way that can be hard to put into words. It allows us to show compassion for those who don’t have the same things to be grateful for, and a little bit of it can go a long way.

Normally, I use Thanksgiving to recount all of the things I’m grateful for. I don’t make an official list or anything, but I look back on the year and give silent thanks for the people and things in my life. This year, though… Well, it has been anything but normal.

It goes without saying that this has been a rough year. Obviously, it has been far harder on some than on others, but I don’t think 2020 will be getting a “Best Year Ever” mug. Certainly not from me (though if anyone knows where I can send a strongly-worded letter to the universe, please feel free to pass that information along).

As manageable as my depression has become over the last few years, this time of the year is always a little extra tough for me. Add to that a global pandemic and an election for the ages, and the last couple of months have not exactly been all rainbows and puppies.

When I sat down with my Thanksgiving meal this year and tried to come up with what I was thankful for, my mind was instead flooded with negativity. Just a few weeks ago I was struggling to find any kind of joy in my life; if joy was barely within reach, how was I supposed to manage gratitude? Maybe if the idea was to list all the things that have helped make this year such a train wreck, that would be far more doable.

So, that’s what I did: I let the negative thoughts and memories fill the space in my head I was trying to save for gratitude. I thought about the things that had caused me pain. I recalled numerous times I had cried and plenty more when I was thisclose to crying. I remembered heartache, grief, frustration, anger… I probably could have gone far into the night if I’d kept at it, but at a certain point, I found myself thinking, “Well yeah, that sucked, but…”

That’s when the light bulb flickered to life. “Hey, wait!” I thought (or likely said aloud to myself, as I am wont to do). “I bet there’s a ‘well, yeah, but…’ for a lot of these things.” As someone who often encourages others to look for silver linings, it seemed like a good time to follow my own advice. 

With this in mind, I came up with a number of “wellyeahbuts” to offset some of the gloom and (plot twist!) they look suspiciously like gratitude. For example…

Negative Thing: My Grampa passed away early in the pandemic. It wasn’t COVID-19, but coronavirus is what kept me from going to see him or my family. I was trying to do the safe thing by staying at home and I lost track of how many times I changed my mind about what to do. I also lost count of the emotions I went through. It wasn’t easy to process.

Well yeah, but… The facility Grampa was in let immediate family visit before he passed, and my mom was able to give him my love for me. Ultimately, he was with people who loved him, which is the most important thing of all. And as for me, I will always have my memories of him and the knowledge that he loved all of us so very much.

Negative Thing: I started seeing someone in January, before the world went crazy, who I fell for. Hard. We had this amazing connection and so much in common, and I felt so good when I was with him. I thought he felt that way, too. Until he decided to move across the country. Even then, I held out some hope, at least for friendship. Two weeks later, he unfriended and unfollowed me, and didn’t even text me to explain himself until my best friend called him out. It all made me question everything he’d ever said and everything I thought I’d felt. We haven’t had contact since May and it still stings to recall.

Well yeah, but… We really did have some amazing times together. (If it hadn’t ended so poorly, those memories would be a lot rosier, but I digress.) Even if the connection wasn’t real to him, it was to me. So, theoretically, I could find a connection like that again with someone for whom it’s mutual and who will respect me and communicate with me. That was also the strongest I’d felt for anyone since my divorce and it’s nice to know that maybe there’s hope for me to feel that in the future.

Negative Thing: Seasonal depression hit especially hard this year. I didn’t really feel it coming on so much as I suddenly realized that I just didn’t care about doing anything and that I would rather nap than anything else. Eventually, it progressed to crying myself to sleep with no idea why I was feeling so awful, breaking down mid-day for no apparent reason, and even more naps.

Well yeah, but… With a little encouragement, I reached out to my doctor to ask if an increase in my antidepressants would be an acceptable path forward. I got the green light and it hasn’t been long, but so far, so good. I also have an awesome therapist who is able to talk me through some of what I’m dealing with and offer some suggestions to help. And I have amazing friends and family who check in on me and have reached out to me when they felt I might need a hand.

Negative Thing: Self-quarantining/staying ‘safer at home.’ I’m introverted to boot, but I used to visit my parents probably once a month (or once every other month, at least) before this; during the pandemic, I have seen my mom twice and have only seen my dad briefly via video chat. I live alone (save for my two dogs) and work from home, so staying home means being alone (as was the case this Thanksgiving). I can count on one hand how many people I’ve hugged since March, and I had to cancel two separate trips to visit my two best friends. Basically, it all sucks.

Well yeah, but… I’ve managed to stay healthy through this, as have many of the people in my life. Oddly enough, the pandemic has made me more social in some ways. I now have regular video chats with friends and family and have been particularly active in a few Facebook groups. I miss hugging people and spending time with them (especially my parents), but I find some comfort in knowing that I haven’t somehow contributed to the spread of the virus and that I’m doing my part to help keep everyone as safe as possible.

In the end, I came up with a fair number of “wellyeahbuts” to counter the negatives, and I’m pretty grateful for that. Things look more than a little different this year, so to those who have been struggling with gratitude or counting their blessings as I’ve been: try looking for some “wellyeahbuts” to help put a spin on things. You might not be able to come up with much or you may feel afterward it was just a waste of time. Well yeah, but… at least you tried.  

Caring For Your Erika: Depressive Episodes

EDIT: I just wanted to preface this by saying it was meant to be part tongue-in-cheek and part serious, as is kind of my style. I don't expect ANYONE to 'take care of' me when I'm depressed, but should someone want to help out or better understand what I might be going through, here you go.

No two people are the same. I mean, you can be scarily similar to someone else, but there will always be differences. The same goes for mental illness: no two individuals' mental health struggles are the same. Symptoms, triggers, reactions, needs... they all differ based on the person.

Every so often, I find myself bawling and feeling worthless for no known reason. This is part of what I define as a depressive episode, and when it gets to that point, it's really hard to just suck it up and keep on keepin' on. About a month ago, I called into work because I couldn't stop crying and spent the day on the couch with my dogs. I was never in any danger, and I've certainly been through worse, but this one was like a sneak attack and I was completely unprepared for it. As I just went through something similar again, finishing this post seemed like a good idea.

I'm lucky to have a few really excellent friends who have seen me through some really rough times in my life (feel free to go back and read about some of the fun) and continue to be here for me. But even the closest of friends, those who have been through the worst of it with me, sometimes aren't sure what to do when an episode hits, or might not be aware that I'm in the midst of one. So, ladies and gents here is a quick guide!

Caring For Your Erika During a Depressive Episode

Part 1: Identifying A Depressive Episode

How exactly does one know if their Erika is experiencing depression? It's a good question and, unfortunately, there isn't an easy answer. Sometimes your Erika will tell you straight out that it's happening; that's usually a pretty clear indicator that an episode is occurring. But if your Erika is playing a bit coy, here are some things to look for:

• Your Erika may be quieter than usual. Her responses may be shorter and carry less emotion than normal, or she may take much longer to respond in the first place (both when speaking face-to-face and via text/message). This is often an early warning sign, though be sure to rule out sleepiness and 'hanger' as possible causes.
• Your Erika may not be eating. If stressed, Erika has a tendency to overeat, but in the throes of an episode, she is much more likely to skimp on food instead (and what little she eats is unlikely to fall into any major food group).
• Your Erika may be crying. This sign is much easier to read in person but can be a strong sign of a depressive event.
• Other indications may exist and should be reviewed on a case-by-case basis.

Part 2: What To Expect

Once you've determined that your Erika might be having a depressive episode, what can you expect to happen?

• Crying. You may think your Erika's tears have dried up. She may go minutes, even hours, without so much as a drop. Do not assume that this means your Erika is done crying. She's not.
• Neediness. Even more than usual, your Erika may seem to lean on you. She may even come to resemble ClingWrap in her efforts to ensure that you are not leaving her in her time of need. Whilst uncomfortable, rest assured that the effects are usually temporary.
• More crying. See above.
• Pushing. Contrary to the above, you may actually feel your Erika pushing you or your attempts to help away. This does NOT mean she does not want or need your help. In fact, she may need it even more than you know.
• Self-deprecation. Your Erika may begin to doubt her awesomeness during this time. She may feel unworthy, make negative statements, and feel all around bummed about herself. 
• Yet more crying. How many tears can she possibly have?? Only time will tell.

Part 3: How Can You Help?

So, how can you best help your Erika when in the midst of a depressive episode? There's no tried and true method that will work each and every time, but there ARE a few things that are likely to help.

• Let her cry. It might make you uncomfortable, but trying to stop the crying is not going to work. Let it happen. If you prefer not to be cried on, sit a safe distance from your Erika and have plenty of tissues handy. Asking or telling her to stop crying is not advised; you've been warned.
• Reassure her. Even if she doesn't ask for it, even if you feel like a broken record, even if you don't understand WHY you're reassurance matters... Give it a try. Remind your Erika that you are there for her - if and when she needs you - and that your friendship is not so fragile as to be broken by this episode. If she pushes too much, give her a break for a bit. She may just need some time to let your affirmation sink in.
• Assist as you are able.
• If you're nearby, you can offer in-person comfort. Does she need to talk? Lend her your ear. Does she need a hug (the answer is almost always yes)? Cuddle up or, if you're not the cuddling type, grab the tiny dog or a stuffed animal and let her hug her heart out. Has she forgone eating? Bring her a bite to eat (she responds especially well to ice cream and chocolate).   
• Not available or close enough to visit? That's fine! Texting helps. So do random memes and videos of adorable and/or funny things. Kindness has many forms and travels long distances with little effort. Just checking in with your Erika can be a major help.

Part 4: After The Episode

Unfortunately, these things do not always disappear as quickly as they have seemingly appeared. A depressive episode can wreak havoc emotionally, mentally, and physically. It may have passed and your Erika may be feeling a bit better, but odds are good she is a bit exhausted in some capacity. She may need a nap or some extra chill time before facing the world again. It's possible that some plans will have to be adjusted or canceled to allow her to fully recover. Sometimes recovery takes a few hours, other times it may take a day or two. Try to be patient with your Erika during this time; she knows it's a pain in the ass and feels bad about it. Trust me, she'd rather just be feeling better. Give it time.

Notes & Tips

These little tidbits didn't really fit in with the above-outlined parts of the episode but may be noteworthy nonetheless.

• Offering help is much appreciated, but your Erika is unlikely to speak up and say what she needs or wants because she feels so undeserving. She may view any offers of help as insincere or as being borne out of pity. Likewise, she will often feel unworthy of requesting anything on her own, assuming it would be a burden or seen as an act of selfishness. 
• Depressive episodes, even within the same person, can vary. Your Erika might get through one episode all on her own, but be nearly incapacitated by the next. Unfortunately, she won't know how it will play out until she's smack in the middle of it. Isn't the unpredictable nature of depression exciting?
• Depression is NOT a choice. And your Erika is doing things regularly to cope with it, such as daily medication and regular therapy sessions. Hell, even writing this all out is a great outlet and coping strategy! 
• Last, but not least, a reminder: No matter how hard it is in the moment, remember that this is temporary. Your Erika has been through a lot, and yet she's still here. She's stronger than she thinks and braver than she knows. She might not see that in the face of darkness, so remind her that she has the tools to get through this. And if all else fails, offer her a flashlight.

Hello Darkness, My Old Nemesis

2+ years since a post here. Daaaaaaaaang. In my defense, I was blogging elsewhere, and I was going through some shit, so... Wait, why am I defending myself? Moving on!

For many of us, the change in seasons - particularly as things get colder and darker - brings about other changes. And not the fun, happy kind of changes that brighten your day and put a bounce in your step. Nope, quite the opposite, actually.

That's right, kids! It's another post about depression! Wooooo!

While I have not been diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder, I always tend to struggle a bit this time of year. Between the colder weather and the early darkness (especially now that we've "fallen back" an hour... Seriously, why do we still do that?), I think it can be difficult to get motivated to do things. Especially things outside, because, well, yuck. We had snow for Halloween this year, FFS. Totally uncalled for.

Anyway, I'd actually been doing really well for quite some time, but last week I had a minor depressive episode in which I found myself swallowed by darkness. It came on quickly, and because it hadn't happened in a while, I kind of forgot how to fight it. I forgot I had my flashlight (ahhhh, shameless self-promotion!). Thankfully, my bestie was around to chat and we got my brain back on the right track and I hopped right on out of the hole. Huzzah!

Then yesterday happened. Nothing was particularly different about it. It was a Tuesday. I was working. Listening to music. Chatting up my bestie. All the normal things that I do. But for some reason, this loneliness crept up out of nowhere. It started with thoughts like, "Man, I really wish I had some people out here to do things with" and "It's been so long since I've seen fill-in-the-blank, I miss her/him."

Then it started escalating, and instead of my voice, I heard THAT voice. You know, the one that says things like, "Well, of course it's been so long. Why would they come just to see you? You're not worth a whole trip out here!" and "You'd think you'd be used to being alone by now, wouldn't you? Better start now."

I decided to try taking a nap, hoping that the voice couldn't break through the sleep barrier, but I couldn't fall asleep. Instead, I literally just laid in bed and let the voice attack me. I cried. Not a ton, but enough to make me feel even more pathetic than I already had been feeling. The voice said some more nasty things, and I just took it. The depression and crying had drained me; I had no fight in me at that point. I couldn't even muster of the energy to adequately cover for myself and told someone, "I'm fine."

Maybe it goes without saying, but the phrase "I'm fine" really means anything BUT that about 99.9% of the time. But it just came out and I didn't have it in me to try to backtrack or explain myself. I just let it ride.

Eventually, it came out that I was clearly not all that fine, and I tried apologizing. For what, exactly, I'm not sure. It's just my default to be sorry. For being sad. For being no fun. For being needy. For bringing someone else down. For not taking care of myself. For trying to cover it up. For not doing a better job trying to cover it up. For my mental illness. For being the kind of person who apologizes for their own mental illness. For being... me.

So there I was, sitting on my kitchen floor waiting for my frozen pizza to be ready - because honestly, my other default is to eat, and while not the greatest habit to be in, it's a hell of a lot better than crying in bed - and I had a talk with myself.

Erika. You're having a low day. And it sucks. But that voice? That voice is an asshole. It knows every button to push, every thread to pick at, every pain point imaginable. It knows you. But you also know it. It lies. It hurts. It feeds off insecurity and despair. So stop feeding it! Eat some food, watch some TV, get some energy back, and be YOU. Because YOU are awesome. 

I'm paraphrasing, but you get the point. I was giving myself a pep talk. And it worked, at least a little. I got my pizza, went and watched some TV, and felt a little better. With some energy restored, I was able to get up and make a Target run, and then I felt even better yet! And by the time I got home, I didn't even need the pint of ice cream I'd bought. (Oh, I still had some, but I didn't eat the WHOLE thing. Progress, y'all.)

This might all sound pretty unnecessary to some people. Either because they've never had to get out of a depressive funk or because they think what I was experiencing was too minor to be such an ordeal or because blah blah, whatever logic or reasoning seems sound enough to them to write this off or call me a drama queen. But if you've been in it, if you've experienced that darkness, you know that the amount of evidence and prodding it takes to convince your brain otherwise is frequently disproportionate to the trigger or matter at hand. (You know, like dropping a box of macaroni and crying for an hour.)

In the end, the trigger isn't nearly as significant as the episode itself. That's the nature of depression. Some days, you get lonely and you just go, "Hey. Chin up! It's all good!" Other days you have the same thought and end up crying in bed in the dark with a couple of very confused dogs.

My point (yes, I have one... I think) is that it's a lot harder to get out of a hole than to fall into it. Whether you tripped over your own feet or someone bumped into you or you dove headfirst... It doesn't matter so much how you got in there as it matters how you get OUT. Don't let your focus be on the trigger or the fall; let it be on making it out and moving on. Let it be on your victory in the face of darkness. Let that be your next flashlight.

That Girl: Sometimes Words Are Just Words

If you've ever watched "Awkward" then you should understand the "That Girl" reference. Watching "Awkward" is the closest thing to re-living my high school years. You couldn't pay me to actually re-live my adolescence. There is no sum of money large enough for me to agree to it. (If you threatened me with the life of a loved one, then yeah, I guess I'd have no choice, but since that's not a realistic scenario, we'll just move on.) If Jenna were a real person, odds are she would grow up and feel the same. In fact, I think Jenna and I could be pretty good friends. But since she's not real, I'm thankful that I'm lucky enough to have some good friends already. Friends who were never ashamed of me, who would stand up for me, who were (and are) there for me whenever I needed them. 

If you haven't seen it, here's a brief summary:

Jenna, the main character, is a 15 year old girl who loses her virginity to a guy that is ashamed to be seen with her in public. Later that same day, she's blogging about how sometimes being a teenager makes you feel like dying (haven't we all been there?). She attempts to grab some aspirin and manages to trip, break the bottle so pills spill everywhere, bumps the hair dryer into the (full) tub, and busts herself up. Result: Everyone thinks she tried to kill herself and they keep referring to her as "that girl" who did this or that.

I can definitely draw some parallels between myself and Jenna. OK, so I didn't have sex until I was 18, and I wasn't the result of a teenage pregnancy (although my parents have been together since they were in high school). But I had some wacky friends, was less than popular, might've been a bit awkward here and there, wrote/typed up my every thought like it was my job (though I'm not nearly as witty as she is), and I was known as suicidal even though I wasn't. 

As you might know, in middle school, I wrote some kinda scary poems. Morbid? Maybe. But just words.

Then I tried to help out some friends starting an advice column and, in my infinite stupidity, wrote as if I were a girl contemplating suicide.

Again, it was a heavy topic, but it was just words.

I never had any serious suicidal thoughts until late high school, but from about age 13 on, I could just as easily have been "that girl" like Jenna. Maybe I even was. The only thing I ever remember people calling me was "the biggest crybaby at East" (I think I would rather have been "that girl"), but who knows what people said about me? 

Reality: Probably not much. 

In psychology, there are these two concepts known as the personal fable and the imaginary audience that sort of work together during adolescence to make us believe that everyone is paying attention to us and that everything we do is being scrutinized by our peers. But they're not and it's not. Most teens are too wrapped up in their own lives to give a damn about someone outside of their immediate world. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part it's in your head. Unfortunately, that's where teenagers live: in their heads. So it's hard to get away from all those thoughts. Really, really hard.

Jenna actually manages to turn her imaginary audience into a real audience when she lets her private blog go public, which is not a move I would advise unless you're comfortable with people knowing all of your business. I only divulge here what I'm willing for the world to know about me, and while some of it is pretty personal, I'm at a point in my life where I really don't care of strangers or even acquaintances want to judge me for my thoughts or actions. And I know that my real friends won't judge me. Mock me? Maybe. But not judge me.  

So who cares what random people say about me? Or what someone might have said? Words are just word, especially when they come from someone with no real connection to your life. What someone else thinks of me doesn't have to change what I think of myself. It has taken a long time to understand that, and sometimes I still wrestle with my own opinion of myself, but in the long run it's my words that mean the most to me.

15 years old is now half of my lifetime ago. And it definitely feels like it! Well, most of the time. Sometimes I still feel that insecurity trying to creep into my brain, knocking on doors that have been closed and locked for years to keep the darkness away. I still struggle not to answer, even though I know that nothing good would come from it. Sometimes I wonder if I would be brave enough to face what's hiding in those rooms, and I wonder if I should just open the door and let the battle begin. But the real courage lies in walking past the door without even a glance, leaving the past exactly where it belongs. I might not be strong enough to fight my demons, but I'm smart enough not to let them back in.   

But How Do You REALLY Feel?

I'm going to assume that most people have asked for reassurance at some point in their lives. Asking a friend if an outfit looks good. Asking a coworker to look over something for you. Asking someone to wish you luck. It's a nice feeling to know that someone else believes in us, no matter how trivial it might seem.

But wanting reassurance from time to time is a lot different than needing constant reassurance. You know that friend or acquaintance that's always asking people things like, "We're friends, right?" or "You're sure you like hanging out with me?" The person that seems to be forever fishing for compliments or positivity; talking about how terrible her singing voice is or how he'll never find a significant other. The person that you really did like once upon a time, but all of the negativity and neediness has just gotten to be too much and you're not as sure anymore.

Yep. That's me. I am that person.

Or maybe it was me. I like to think I've grown past some of that, but I do find myself with that itch for someone to tell me I'm doing a good job or that I'm as funny as I think I am. It's a hard habit to break. And it's a possible risk factor for depression.

Ru Paul is famous for saying, "If you can't love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?" This is more like, "If you can't love yourself, how the hell is anybody else gonna love you?" 

When you have low self-esteem, believing in yourself is pretty much impossible. Or at least it felt that way to me. So I went looking for other people to believe in me. And while I loved the reassurance and praise, the positive feelings I took away never lasted. I was constantly wondering if the reassurance had been genuine. Did they really mean it, or did they say it to be nice? And for that matter, do they even really like me or are they just putting up with me? How could I know for sure?

And so I kept asking. I'm sure to a lot of people it seemed like I was purely fishing for compliments, but it was beyond that. Pardon the cliche, but it's like an addiction in some ways. You go looking for the reassurance. You get some and it feels good. So good! But only for awhile. Then you come down and you feel worse than you did before. You need MORE reassurance. So you go looking for more, and the cycle repeats. 

At a certain point, your questions become ridiculous. Even after someone has reassured you, you ask, "Are you sure? Is that how you REALLY feel?" And my bet is that gets old REALLY fast. Logic told me that if people were willingly hanging out with me, they were friends. If they confided in me, shared things with me, they were good friends. Maybe even best friends. But depression kicks logic to the curb. I would start wondering if particular friends really liked me, or if it was something else. Convenience, maybe. Or just being nice. Or maybe they needed or wanted something from me (though, I couldn't imagine what, since I thought I had nothing to offer). I thought K (yes, my "sister") was only my friend because we've known each other my whole life. I thought Bestie was just being nice to me. Hell, I even thought Hubby was just trying to be a nice guy and cheer me up when we first started dating.

Even now I struggle from time to time. It's impossible to know exactly how someone else feels about you; you can't read minds (much as you might try). Some people are going to lie or sugarcoat things. But for the most part, if you consider someone a good friend and you genuinely like them, there's a good chance the feeling is mutual. I know that my sister doesn't just put up with me. I know that Bestie is one of the best friends I've ever had. And I know that Hubby loves me to no end. I know this because it's how I feel about them. And unless they ever give me a reason to doubt that, I'm going to choose to keep believing it.

So piggybacking on my last post, if you know a habitual reassurance-seeker (or if you are one), don't assume they're just attention whores. Some of them are. It happens. But if you see some other potential symptoms of depression or low self-esteem, they may just need to be reminded that they ARE worth something. And they might need a nudge, push, or shove toward a long-term fix. You can't be there to reassure them 100% of the time, but you can be a friend 100% of the time. 

Everybody Hurts Sometimes, But Nobody Should Hurt All the Time

Life has been busy since June 6th's post. Brief recap.

June: I turned 29. Hubby turned 30. K came home for the summer (a drive that I was lucky enough to help with again). Saw Barenaked Ladies at Summerfest.

July: Aside from the traditional July 4th festivities with K, not much in July. We did go camping (which was great) but I forgot batteries for my camera (which was NOT great). Hubby's cherished project car (the '81 Camaro) burned to the ground. Oh, saw Paul McCartney at Miller Park! That was epic.

August: Went to State Fair. Hubby and I went on vacation with the puppers (road trip to/from Medford, OR). Fall semester started at the end of August.

September: Hubby and I celebrate our 3 year wedding anniversary (by going to the zoo, of course).

Sprinkle a few Brewers games, a lot of grilling out, and a few more zoo trips and you're pretty much caught up. Ta da!

The real reason I wanted to write today is that it's World Mental Health Day/National Depression Screening Day. Obviously I've written about my depression before, so I (hopefully) won't bore you by repeating myself too much.

Depression blows. Seriously. And it so frequently goes undiagnosed. Sometimes because people think what they're feeling is normal. Sometimes they don't recognize the symptoms. Sometimes they believe that it's something to be ashamed of, which is the saddest of all to me. 

So, let's look at those 3 quick. (Yes, there are other reasons, but this is my blog. Deal.)

1) It's normal to feel like this. Sometimes, yes. Everyone feels sad sometimes. And sometimes we feel so sad, we refer to it as "depressed" (because I think we like to use longer, more complex words for more serious feelings... or maybe that's just me).  If you feel down after an upsetting experience (a loss, maybe), that's "normal." (I usually hate the word normal, but hopefully you can see why i have to use it here.) It's normal to cry and hate the world and want to curl up under the covers until things get better. But what about those times when nothing all that bad has happened and you feel that way? What if it lasts for weeks or months at a time? Does that seem as normal? Doesn't that sound like it warrants looking into?

For example, when Hubby and I lived in our apartment (which now seems like AGES ago), I would have episodes of depression in which really (and I mean really) trivial things made me feel worse. I once dropped a box of macaroni on the floor and wound up sobbing and screaming over it, convinced I was an epic failure and couldn't do anything right. An appropriate reaction might've been swearing or being pissy about cleaning it up, but I had a breakdown. That's not "normal."

2) It's not like I want to kill myself or anything. Suicidal thoughts are only one possible symptom of depression. And you don't even have to want to actively kill yourself... you can want to die without wanting to take the action to do so. But even if you don't have thoughts about your own demise, there are a bunch of other symptoms that could indicate you have some kind of depressive disorder. Sleeping too much or too little. A major change in appetite. Having no energy or interest in doing things you usually enjoy. Feeling like you're worthless. Problems with concentrating and making decisions. Even physical things like unexplained aches and pains.

Right before I went back on fluoxetine in 2008, I was experiencing a lot of these other symptoms. I was sleeping every chance I got and was still exhausted. I wasn't motivated to get out of the apartment to do things, and I usually lacked the energy to do much anyway. I pretty much always thought I was worthless, and I let Hubby make as many decisions as possible; everything else I just kind of ignored. (What should I wear today? Meh. I'll stay in my pajamas.) Even though I didn't want to kill myself, I was definitely experiencing some depression.

3) I can't go to a therapist/doctor. I'm not crazy/sick or That would be so embarrassing. Newsflash: Therapy isn't just for the "crazies" anymore, friends. Even if you are completely free of mental illness, you probably still experience some stress and/or worry (and if you don't, please let me know because I'm pretty sure the scientific community would love to study you). And if this stress, worry, sadness, or whatever is at all impacting your life in a negative way, you could probably benefit from a visit to the doctor or therapist. 

I took myself off of my medication when I was younger because I didn't want to have to rely on it to be myself. And I was (mostly) OK for awhile. But when an episode hit, I wasn't really prepared to handle it. These days, if I drop the macaroni now, I just curse, clean it up, and grab the next box or look for another option. My medication allows me to function like a normal person, and I wouldn't have the meds if I hadn't sought help. And while I'm not in therapy at the moment, I'm definitely not opposed to it! Certain therapies can be more effective than medication, particularly in the long run... it would be nice not to need the antidepressants for the rest of my life, but they work well for now.

So where do you start? Wherever you feel comfortable. You can do some research or take an assessment. You can talk to someone you trust, or make an appointment with your primary doctor. And if you need immediate help and don't know where to turn, don't forget that there's always someone to listen at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255).

Well, I hope I didn't sound too much like a bad PSA, and I hope you took something away from it! If nothing else, please remember this: No matter how you're feeling, who you are, or what you're going through, there is someone out there to offer love and support. You're not alone. Hey, you've got me, right? :)   

Happy Happy, Joy Joy!

Nov. 13 - Yesterday I was thankful for...

Disney!!

That may sound silly to you, but I am thankful for all things Disney. Growing up, I was always begging for the latest Disney video (I actually screamed when I got Beauty & The Beast from my Mam-maw for Christmas). I never missed a Disney movie in the theatre. In fact, I saw Aladdin in the theatre 3 times on its first go. I've seen Nightmare and Nemo twice each; once the first time around and once in 3D later in life. My room as a baby through age 3 or 4 was Winnie the Pooh themed. I've been to Disney World 5 times and already have WAY in advance plans for a 6th trip (our 5th anniversary in 2015) and a first trip to Disneyland with my bestie after that.

In college, I was known for my love of Disney. My roommate bought me Finding Nemo the very day it was released on video, and friends would bring me little toys from McD's or from cereal boxes if they were Disney related. I watch the Disney Channel (no, I don't care that I'm 28) and have an entire piano book full of Disney songs. I'm working on a Disney wall for our bedroom and looking around the living room, I can see at least two Perrys (from Phineas & Ferb), a Fantasia hippo, Mickey & Minnie ears, Disney Trivial Pursuit, and more.

Now, my love of Disney pales in comparison to my bestie. (Thankfully, this isn't a contest; I would lose.) But compared to most people I know, I'm a bit of a fanatic. Everything I've listed above makes me so genuinely happy! I know there are a lot of people who dislike Disney (or downright hate it), and there are people who think it's just for kids. They're entitled to believe that, but they are TOTALLY missing out on something that brings so much joy to so many people. I can always count on something Disney to lift my spirits, and for that, I'm thankful.

Nov. 14 - Today I am thankful for...

Antidepressants.

If you've read my blog before, you know I've struggled with anxiety, depression and some tendencies of OCD. It's not a super fun topic, but these things are very, very real and very, very serious. It's a little different for everyone, I suppose, but I would imagine most people would agree that living with a mental disorder can be hard and lonely.

Thankfully for me, my medications make life much nicer and more manageable. I'm personally on fluoxetine (Prozac) and bupropion (Wellbutrin), and these two little drugs have made a world of difference in my life. I will probably always need them, and that's OK. I'd rather my quality of life be better than be too proud to be "dependent" on pills.

Am I 100% with the pills? Of course not. I still have my days and my quirks (like not being able to make phone calls without feeling like I'm going to vomit the whole time), but when compared to life without the pills, things are a million times better. And for that, I'm thankful.

The Follow Up

Well, I'd say I've been missing quite long enough.  Here I am.  Bask in my... here-ness?

So, I wrote these pretty heavy/serious/unhappy posts and then I disappeared.  What gives?  It took a lot out of me to write all of that, and I guess I just needed a break before coming back to explain.

I have 3 main reasons for writing those posts.  The first is completely selfish: it was therapeutic.  My closer friends already knew most of what I went through (or, at least the parts they were around for), but I haven't talked much about any of it in a long time.  When something like that sits inside of you, it feels kind of like a bowling ball sitting in your stomach.  (OK, maybe something smaller, but you get my point.)  Writing about it and getting it all out there felt so good.

The second reason (slightly less selfish) is to share my gratitude.  I was (and still am!) lucky to have people in my life who loved me and cared enough about me to take some action.  Not everyone is so lucky, and I'm utterly grateful to everyone who has touched - and saved - my life.  Without some of you, I couldn't have become who I am today.

The third reason is (I hope) the least selfish and most important.  There are people out there with stories like mine who should know that they aren't alone and that it can get better.  It doesn't happen overnight, and it doesn't happen without some effort, but it can happen.

If my story can touch one person, I've achieved more than I could ever hope for.  My pursuit of a degree in Psychology isn't just because I find it interesting, but because I want to use it to change a world.  Not necessarily the world, but a world.  

What's the difference?  The world is a big freakin' place.  It's a whole planet.  With billions upon billions of people, each with his own issues, worries, dreams, regrets, and everything else.  A world is much smaller, more personal.  My world, for example, encompasses me, my friends and family, and the things I cherish most in life.  Many people have helped change my world, and in return, I want to help change some other world.

Maybe I'll help change one person's world.  Maybe I'll help change a community's world.  Maybe I truly will help change THE world.  The best I can do is try.

So with these posts begins an epic journey to change things, one world at a time.  If I've changed your world, thank you.  Thank you for letting me in, thank you for believing in yourself, and thank you for being you.  And if I haven't changed your world, I know someone else out there has.  Be sure to thank them, please. :)

Have a beautiful Memorial Day weekend, lovelies! <3

Riki's History Part 5: Living & Loving

I won't pretend that things were smooth sailing after the "Shane" incident.  I dated a few guys (using the term "dated" pretty loosely here) between fall 2005 and summer 2006.  Remember the old friend from my middle school days who would later introduce me to my husband?  Yeah, I was "dating" him when I met Hubby for the first time (six years ago this month... wow!). 

Hubby and I started dating in September of that year, and things were (usually) great.  He treated me like a queen, and I loved every second of it.  In early 2008, we got an apartment together, about an hour and a half away from where I had grown up and lived for my entire life.  I had very few friends out here, and Hubby had lots of them.  I would get lonely, feel unwanted, and cry.  It sort of sucked.

There was one time when I dropped the box of mac and cheese I'd been planning to make on the kitchen floor.  I started yelling and swearing, saying dinner was ruined and I had fucked it all up.  Much as he tried, Hubby couldn't convince me otherwise.  I wound up sobbing on the kitchen floor for awhile.  Same thing happened when a vase broke.  These are normal occurrences, but I was completely incapable of handling them normally.

In late July, I decided it was time to try the meds again.  I contacted my doctor (who is quite possibly the most understanding and least judgmental doctor I've ever met) and she put me back on Fluoxetine.  I started taking it again beginning in August, and I was already feeling happier just knowing that things would get better soon. 

Then came The Break-Up.  (Dun, dun, dunnnnnn.)

In August, Hubby and I were planning a camping trip, so I had worked "summer hours" that week (9-hour days Mon-Thurs, half day Friday) so we could get a head start.  Instead of trying to recall all of this, I'm going to copy/paste from my journal entry a few days after it happened.

We packed, we had lunch, we packed some more... He seemed a bit strange, but I wrote it off as lack of sleep combined with 3 cups of coffee in less than 3 hours (he stayed up late to play video games and drank a lot of coffee at work just for fun).

Then, when I asked him if he was OK again (I'd already asked, and his arm hurt, so I'd given him some ibuprofen), he said he had a lot going on in his mind. He seemed serious, so I took his hands and encouraged him to talk... He started with some stuff about how there was a lot of talk about marriage lately... and apparently he decided that he really couldn't see marrying me. I told him I wasn't looking to get married right now or anything, and we talked a bit more.

I asked at one point if he still loved me, and he took a long pause. Then he said, "I guess my silence sort of answered that..." He didn't say it in a mean way, just said it. I remained as calm and collected as I could, and continued talking to him about how we could work on things. He would say things that I found encouraging, that I thought meant we could work through it. Things about if we had hobbies together (I had recently told him I'd be happy to come out and hang with him while he worked on the car, and reiterated this, and agreed that I'd even try getting my hands dirty in the process), or if I had friends to hang with (I told him I could try being friends with [insert she-who-will-not-be-named here], and that once the meds kicked in, that I could look for a new job and have new coworkers to hang with)...

But all in all, he just wasn't sure he loved me anymore. He'd had doubts for weeks, he said. Did he still care about me? Yes. Deeply. He even said he "likes me a lot". At some point I started crying a bit, but was still trying to reason with him. Neither of us knew what to do. I told him that the logical thing might be to see if things get better with the meds, you know? But, there's nothing logical about love.

And so, I began to pack. He helped for awhile, but I couldn't stop myself from crying and saying the stupidest things. Things like, "I can't believe you went on vacation with me and didn't love me!" and "I just want you to love me again..." Lines that happen in a bad book or movie, but I just couldn't help it."

It was the worst pain I've experienced yet, and thankfully my sisters were there for me and I flew out to Las Vegas for a few days to recover. 

In my opinion, that break turned out to be one of the best things that happened to our relationship.  I got to spend some time back in my hometown, reassuring myself that I wasn't completely dependent on him, and finding that my meds were making things I normally couldn't do seem much more possible.  His time away from me made him realize that he truly did love me, depression/anxiety/insanity and all.  We were back together soon, and have been together since. 

As of this post, I'm on 40 MG of fluoxetine and 150 MG of bupropion (generic Wellbutrin), and I'm doing really well.  I used to think that being on anti-depressants meant I was dependent on them, and I hated that thought.  My mom put that into perspective for me.  She asked me, "Well, are you dependent on your glasses to see?"

"Uh, yeah..."

"The glasses don't change your eyes, they just make it easier to see.  The pills do the same thing.  They don't change who you are, they just make it easier to be you."

I still have my moments, and some days are harder than others, but it's mostly within the realm of normal emotions.  When I get sad, it's usually because something sad has happened instead of just out of the blue.  When I get frustrated, I don't yell and swear as much anymore.  And when I do have a particularly bad moment, I use some of the techniques I learned back in my days of therapy and some other relaxation methods.  I'm a nicer person to be around overall.

I've been back in school since August 2009, and am on track to get my BA in Psychology (go figure, right?).  I'm married to a wonderful man, and have a great house and an adorable dog.  I have friends who love me and family who always has my back.  I even have a hobby that I'm passionate about (photography is the most therapeutic thing I do)! 

A lot of people have contributed to my happiness and well-being.  I don't have the time or space to thank them all individually, but more than likely, you know who you are.  Thank you.  From the very bottom of my heart... Thank you.

The bottom line is something like this: Depression (and other mental illnesses) sucks.  It's trying for you and everyone around you, and some days (many days... sometimes every day) it feels like nothing will ever get better. 

It will. 

If you give it time, it will.  If you work at it, it will.  If you allow your friends and family to help you, it will.  If you find goals you want to achieve, it will.  And eventually, those days will become rarities, and when you slip back into old ways of thinking, just remember that it did get better.  And it will again.  Don't give up.

 

Riki's History Part 4: Depressed & Desperate

Even after the past three entries, I know this one is going to be the worst.  I'm reliving some seriously messed up stuff and I honestly look back at my life and wonder how I let it get to that point.  The best I can do is try to learn from the past and keep moving forward.

So, when we left off, I was about to leave college for the second time and had met Shane.  Shane was a 19 year old guy I met online.  He was from Missouri, and we had a few things in common.  At college, I didn't date much (or really at all; I was seeing one girl for awhile, but nothing really came of it), so the attention I got online (AOL, baby... I'm that cool) made me feel special.  There were a few guys I IM'd with frequently, but Shane was my favorite.

After I had gone home, my parents insisted I get a job.  I half-heartedly looked, thinking I'd be back for the spring semester, but it wasn't to be.  For a couple of weeks, I lived with my best friend L and her family because I just couldn't take my own family anymore.  "You're breaking your mother's heart, you know," my dad told me.  I knew.  But at the time, I just needed to get out.  On top of this, I had stopped taking my anti-depressants.

The first time we talked on the phone (January 2005), Shane had told me he would sound funny, something about altering his voice.  It should've been a ginormous flag, but I just figured he was being goofy.  That's what we did!  We had fun and flirted and laughed.  Shortly thereafter, I finally got a part-time job.  A few weeks in, I bought my very first cell phone so I could talk to Shane any time I wanted.  By that summer, I was racking up some hefty phone bills (mostly because of texting).

I considered Shane my boyfriend.  I talked to him more than anyone else I knew, and we had such great conversations.  Most of the time.  Sometimes it felt like he wanted me to do nothing but sit around at home and talk to him or (in his absence) think about him or just do nothing.  One time that bothered me in particular was my 21st birthday.  He didn't want me to go out to drink, but there was no way I was missing out on hitting the bars for the first time.  Between texts and phone calls, he kept bugging me all night until I finally stopped responding.

A few times we had broken up (the first time having been a few weeks before my 21st birthday) and then gotten back together.  We were in love, and someday we would get to be together in person.  The drama kept mounting, though.  Hindsight, of course, is 20/20, and looking back, I can't believe how gullible I let myself be.  I believed all kinds of things. 

Want an example?  Once, I believed that he was at a water park and hit his head, giving him some form of amnesia.  I learned this through texts that were supposed to be from his friend telling me this, and warning me that Shane might not remember me.  I was devastated (K probably remembers this; we were over at D's for movie night, I think) and didn't know what to do.  Miraculously enough, everything ended up OK and Shane was fine.

Every day, every week it got harder and harder.  One day we'd be happy and all would be well.  The next we'd be fighting or breaking up and I'd be sure my life was over.  For awhile, we were "engaged" and were planning to get married in a few years.  I even started picking out dresses and rings online (it's the closest I ever got to dreaming of my wedding before I got engaged to Hubby).

For a year this all went on.  My friends thought I would be better off without him.  I know my parents thought so.  But he was the only person I was certain loved me at that point in my life.  I didn't get to go back to school that fall (I hadn't earned enough money for my parents to give the OK), and soon I found out that my sister (K) was moving across the country.  Nothing felt right except for Shane.

So, naturally, that's when my world came crashing down.

In November 2005, more than a year after I'd first "met" him, Shane called to say there was something important we had to talk about.  20-year-old Shane was in fact a 15-year-old girl (we'll call her Girl X).  Her parents had found out about how she had been lying to me (and them) and made her own up to things.  As I talked to her mom and things unraveled, everything started making sense.

The reason "Shane" was always at the local high school ("he" told me he worked there, but Girl X was really a student there).  All the times I heard people call her by her real name (a unisex name).  The extravagant stories meant to force us to break up because she couldn't simply do it.  The excuses for why we couldn't meet (because she wasn't who I thought), and the "altered" voice (in my defense, she had a very gender-neutral sounding voice over the phone). 

Girl X wasn't to contact me anymore, but she did.  She apologized and told me that she really did love me.  And being as depressed and desperate as I was, I kept talking to her because I loved her, too.  I don't care about gender (it's one of the perks to being bisexual, I guess).  A body is just a body; I was in love with the person inside and the body wasn't even a factor.  We secretly kept talking for a day or two until her dad found out.  At that point, it came down to this: Either I stopped contacting Girl X, or they were going to essentially flag me as a child predator and things would've gotten U-G-L-Y.  I opted for the former.

She kept trying, though.  I'd get texts, but I kept ignoring them.  Her or her friends would keep emailing me or IM'ing me.  Within a week, I changed my phone number.  I had blocked her on AOL, along with all her "friends."  At least once she tried to trick me into talking to her.  I had gotten an IM and was chatting with some guy when things started getting weird.  It dawned on me that it must've been her, and I said goodbye and blocked that name, too.  A few years later, I think she might have tried again, but I can't say for sure.  The last time I know I talked to her was 6 and a half years ago.  

This whole thing sounds insane.  I'm aware.  It's hard to believe that I didn't see the signs, right?  You only see what you want to see sometimes, and all I wanted was someone who loved me and made me feel worthwhile.  I sometimes suspected that maybe "Shane" was in high school, but I figured maybe he was a senior and just didn't want me to write him off as being too young.  Never did I suspect he was female, nor that she was only 15. 

At first, I missed her.  Terribly.  My best friend/sister was moving away, I'd lost the person I loved, and I was feeling utterly alone.  But as time went on, I realized that she had lied to me for a year, and instead of being sad, I was just plain old pissed off.  Mostly, I think, at myself for being so trusting, so blind to everything.  I was embarrassed and hurt, and I told very, very few people the truth about what happened.  Now you all know the truth.

My depression and low self-esteem can't take all of the blame for what happened, I know, but they played a pretty major role in things.  Had I been a happier, more confident person, I wouldn't have been spending my entire life online talking to strangers who (at least seemingly) accepted me without question.  I probably would have found more joy in the world around me, I might not have felt like the only way someone could love me was without having to be physically with me, and maybe I could have found happiness in loving myself instead of seeking someone else's love.

Riki's History Part 3: Ups & Downs

Well, like I said, the rest of high school was fairly uneventful.  Toward the end of my sophomore year I started dating a great guy (thanks to my old camp friends, we already have a nickname for him - Beefy).  We were together for a year and a half (until I inevitably messed things up), and he treated me like a princess.  

My mom's side of the family has a history of severe headaches and migraines, and sadly, I didn't escape this fate.  Sometime during my junior year, Mom took me to the doctor to see what they could prescribe for my headaches.  At one point the doctor asked, "Do you have any symptoms of depression?"  Without hesitation, Mom and I both answered yes.  Based on that and a few other questions, I was prescribed Celexa.  

To this day, one of the most meaningful gestures a significant other has made for me was shortly after this.  I had told Beefy about the appointment and the name of the medication, and told him I'd be starting it soon.  The next day when he picked me up for school, he handed me a bunch of paper.  He had gone online and researched Celexa to learn more about it and gave me the results.  He wasn't exactly someone who goes out of their way to read a lot, so it was pretty amazing to know he cared so much.  I'll never forget that.

Eventually, my dosage got bumped up.  And again.  And again.  It would help for awhile, and then slowly taper off.  Beefy stuck with me through a lot of ups and downs, as did a few really amazing friends.  The real problem came if I didn't get the pills refilled quickly enough (and, being a teenager, I was terrible at being on top of things).  The results weren't pretty.  At one point I went three days without my meds and found myself curled up under a desk in an empty classroom, crying and talking to my friend's mom on the phone because my own mom wasn't being any help (so I thought).  Part of it was anxiety about getting things back in line, and part of it was my system being fairly dependent on the Celexa to function.  

I was on Celexa for a few years.  Before I started college in fall of 2002, I went to see my first proper psychiatrist, who threw some wellbutrin in there as well.  Even with that added in, things didn't go so well.  

I don't want to bore anyone with all the details, so I'll just hit on a few things.  The first is that I became an insomniac.  I would be awake for 22 or 23 hours of the day, crashing just long enough to get wired up again.  I was always online, and as much as my roommate tried to involve me, I preferred the world wide web to the actual world around me.  I was dating First again, but he never came to visit and around October I broke things off for good.  (When I broke up with him, he said he had been trying to find a bus out to see me before getting the crap beaten out of him.  I do know that he was severely hurt for awhile, but in my eyes, it was still too little too late.)

Worst of all was the suicidal thoughts.  You know that disclaimer on commercials?  The one that says children and young adults are susceptible to worsening depression and thoughts of suicide?  Yeah, they're not kidding.  There were times I would find myself sitting on the floor in the showers, holding my razor and thinking about how easy it would be.  There were other times when I would lay in bed for hours, missing class, not eating, not sleeping, just crying or aching.  I started burning myself with my lighter (I had recently started smoking at that point).  Things were bad.

They reached a peak in late October when I decided it was just time to do it.  Bestie (who was at college about an hour away) had been wonderful to me, and I felt I owed it to her to say goodbye and to let my boyfriend (who went to her school) know what was going on.  I don't know if I was hoping she could talk me out of it or if I just wanted to talk to someone who loved me or what, but I pretty much scared the ever-loving life out of her.  She told her mom, and they were telling me they would call the police if I didn't stop talking like that.  So, on Bestie's advice, I took my knife to my downstairs neighbor and told him to hold onto it for awhile.

I was too late, though.  Her mom (I think) had already called the police, and soon they showed up at my dorm.  An officer peaked into our room (our door was usually open) and said, "Do you know where I can find Emily?"  Since we actually had an Emily on our floor, I pointed him down the hall.  I was trying to decide if I should make a run for it when two more officers came into my room, asking if I was Erika.  Within 10 minutes there were 4 officers (with 3 squad cars; don't you people carpool or work in partners?) and an assistant dean in my room, all asking me questions.  They almost took my scissors away (until I showed them just how dull they were), and then asked if they should take my pills away.

"My antidepressants?  Uh, I need those so I DON'T hurt myself..."  They weren't thrilled with my response, but they let me keep them anyway.  As the crowd was tapering down, my RA showed up.  He'd been at the library studying, and noticed the cop cars.  He was just curious until he realized they were parked in front of his dorm; then he was alarmed.  He was a great guy, and he made me laugh when he came in and we had this exchange:

RA: I saw all those cops and you know who I thought they were here for?

Me: [Insert other resident's name here.]

RA: Yep.  And for what?

Me: Drugs.

RA: Yep.  

When my roommate came back, she guessed the same things I had, and we joked about it, saying next time they'd be here for the other resident.  After reassuring him that the night's events were over, my RA told me to watch The Muppet Movie (I did) and that the next day he'd take me for ice cream (he did).  Best RA ever.  

The very next night a friend committed suicide.

All I could think was, "That could've been me."  My world was shaken and I finally realized that I didn't actually want to die.  A few weeks later, my roommate helped me tell my parents what was going on and that we thought I could use some time in the hospital.  Mom and Dad didn't agree, but they did agree that I should come home.  They took me to a new psychiatrist, who tried a few different meds with me and referred me to a therapist.

The combination of behavioral therapy and Fluoxetine (generic Prozac) were good to me, and in January 2003 I went back to school.  I kept going through fall of 2004, at which point, I started falling apart again.  This time, my major problems were migraines and falling asleep at the drop of a hat.  I honestly couldn't stay awake, and would find myself sleeping while sitting up with my laptop trying to do homework.  (Eventually, we found out I had sleep apnea, and that was a big part of the problem.)  I was missing classes left and right, and in late November, I decided that it was time to leave again.

But just before this happened, I met Shane.  And that, my dears, is for next time. 

Riki's History Part 2: Pain & Panic

High school, I had thought, was a time to reinvent myself.  The first day of classes, I woke up at 5:30 to make sure I had plenty of time to get ready.  My fingernails matched my sunglasses (which I wore as a hair band, thinking I looked cool), my outfit was great, I was ready to go.  Plus, I finally had a boyfriend, so I thought this would be my year.

My mom always said that most people have a pretty miserable freshman year.  Mine was more miserable than most*.  Things got off to a decent start, but quickly turned sour.  My boyfriend - we'll call him First, since he was my first real boyfriend - and I broke up about 2 months in to the first semester because I had been flirting with another guy. The other guy and I "dated" for six days before I was back with First.  

Things went fine until right around winter break.  I had been putting up with quite a bit of verbal and emotional abuse from First in those few months.  One example that always comes to mind is the time he offered me some of his fries.  I turned them down because I knew he hadn't been eating much lately and I didn't want to take away from his lunch.  Another friend (a guy, of course) offered me some of his fries, and I took a few.  First started yelling at me, asking me why his fries weren't good enough for me, calling me a bitch/slut/etc.  I ran away crying, and when he came after me, he apologized profusely, begging me to forgive him and telling me how much he loved me.  Incidents like this had become our norm (thus earning me the nickname of "Biggest Crybaby at East"), and I put up with it.  

Until the time he used physical force.  I was running away crying one of the times, when he caught up to me, grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the wall.  Fortunately, a few upperclassmen were passing by and told him to let go of me.  It only resulted in a bruise on my arm, but I knew it could get worse, and I knew I had to break things off.

I worked up the courage to do it.  I'll never forget that day.  He was wearing a jacket designed like the American flag and I had dressed up to boost my confidence a little.  When I told him I wanted to break up, he begged me not to.  I stood my ground and the next thing I knew he was walking away from me, telling me he was going home to kill himself.  I cried out to him, told him we could keep dating, and he came back.  I told him we'd talk later.  All day we did this dance.  I'd try to break things off gently, and he'd threaten suicide.  I was frantic, and eventually wound up having my first panic attack.  

Panic attacks are insanely scary.  Your heart races, you start breathing heavy and sweating.  The world around you feels surreal, almost fuzzy.  Everything's a bit tingly (probably because of the breathing), and in my case, I wound up hyperventilating myself into an asthma attack.  Friends got me to the nurse and I had my first nebulizer (sp?) treatment.  While sitting there, trying to relax, they sent in one of the school's social workers, as my friends had tried to explain the circumstances to the nurse.  When I was able, I told her what was going on.  They managed to find First, call his dad and get him home safe, and I thought maybe things would be OK.

In January, when school started up after break, I started dating a new guy.  First caught wind of this and was having none of it.  At first, he just kept trying to give me presents to win me back, including a ring (to this day I don't know where he got it, but it wasn't from a store), but I kept turning him down.  Then he began confronting New Guy.  New Guy and I tried ignoring him and his threats, but things just got worse.  At some point, the three of us ended up in a mediation session (New Guy thought it was a good idea to get everything out in the air with an adult present).  It was actually going well until the mediator stepped out of the room for a minute.  First pulled out a knife, made a few threatening remarks (about New Guy, and about taking his own life again) and ran out of the room.  We told the mediator what happened, and they managed to find him before he really got anywhere (it's a big school; no quick escape routes).

For months, things like this would come up, and I didn't know how to deal with it.  I'd have more panic attacks (and resulting asthma attacks) and wind up at the social worker's office or in the school psychologist's office.  New Guy and I broke up, and I felt more alone than I ever had.  I felt this intense pain that came from so deep inside of me, but never physically came out, and I was frustrated.  I was mad because there wasn't a way to fix the pain, to make it stop.  And so, like too many others, I started cutting.  

It was never anything life-threatening.  Just shallow cuts up and down my arm.  After I'd made the cuts, I'd pour rubbing alcohol on my arms and I'd cry while it burned.  It was a release for me, a pain I could control.  It was a pain that went away.  So much easier to explain than the pain inside.  Eventually, First found out about this, and told some staff member at school.  Word got home to my parents, but the most that ever came up was a brief conversation in which my dad told me they knew and that I was to stop doing it.  They checked my arms at school for a few weeks, but eventually I was off the hook again.

There's a taste of my freshman year.  The rest of high school was relatively uneventful compared to all of that, but I'll save that for next time.     

*Due to some feedback, I feel it's necessary to say that I assume my freshman year was more miserable than most (relative to my peers, anyway).  I certainly know that people had worse years than I did (at 14 or 15, life can really suck), but I also know a lot of people who had much better years.  I'm not saying that my life was so totally awful, blah blah, wah wah.  I'm just saying that it wasn't so grand.

Riki's History Part 1: Depression & Anxiety

I've been trying to figure out how to work up to a certain entry, and I think this is probably the best way to begin.  It'll take a few installments, but, I feel like it will help me deal with some things and bring some lesser-known info to light.

When I was six, I started having terrible stomach aches every night.  I'd wake my mom up and she'd sit in the bathroom with me while I waited to puke, but it never came.  After awhile, I stopped waking her up, and I stopped rushing to the toilet and accepted the fact that my stomach hated me.

We tried different diets, as suggested by my doctor.  The no-dairy one was the hardest, because I'm a true Sconnie.  I missed milk.  And cheese  And ice cream.  (Oddly enough, they let me have yogurt, so I didn't have to miss that.)  The worst part was that none of the diets worked.

As years passed, the stomach aches either became less frequent/bothersome or I was so used to them that I didn't notice anymore (most likely a combination thereof).  It wasn't until I was an adult that we discovered the most likely cause of my stomach aches was anxiety.  Maybe it had been more apparent if I had told my mom about the recurring images in my head of someone murdering my family and leaving me behind.  Or if I had told my parents that every night I worried that our locks weren't good enough or that my parents wouldn't wake up if someone broke in.  Or if I had told them that so many of my nightmares didn't come while I was sleeping, but while I was laying in bed hoping to fall asleep so the thoughts would stop.  But I didn't tell them, so they never knew.

When I was thirteen, the topic of suicide came up.  I don't remember how or why.  I didn't exactly want to try it, but the idea intrigued me.  Around this age, I started to write poetry.  Two poems in particular threw up a bright red flag.

Life is like a nightmare,

in which I have come,

it grabs me and holds on tight,

until the morning sun.

Don't smile, don't laugh, don't even cry,

not a hint of sympathy,

life is like a nightmare, 

it has gone and embraced me.

Life is never easy, 

life is never fair,

life is like a nightmare,

so why do I even care.

And the more succinct (and scary) 4-liner:

Life is never easy

Causes lots of stress

Life is all my problems

The answer must be death.

My friends were, needless to say, concerned.  I tried to assure them that they were only words, and they backed off for awhile...

Until some of my friends on the school newspaper decided to start an advice column.  They asked us to submit a few questions to get the ball rolling, and along with the more trivial, "I like this boy, but I think he likes someone else.  What do I do?" questions, I submitted one about  contemplating suicide.  Big mistake.

My friends took this as a cry for help (and, maybe it was... I'm not sure what my 13-year-old self was really thinking or capable of doing) and alerted a teacher or two.  Next thing I know, I'm being hauled off to the school's psychologist to take what I now know to be a simplified depression screening test.  "I am happy... 1) Rarely or never. 2) Occasionally. 3) Sometimes. 4) Most of the time. 5) Frequently or always."

Here's the thing... I was a pretty smart kid.  I knew I couldn't flat-out lie and say I was all sunshine and sprinkles, but I knew that if I let them think I was miserable, I was in big trouble.  So, I answered with mostly 3s, threw in some 4s and 2s for good measure, and asked if I could go back to class.  I had to go back to the psychologist's office once a month or something for awhile.  Every time I would make sure to wear sparkly makeup and do my hair up fun.  I'm not sure if it was an attempt to say, "See?  I'm fun and fine!" or "Look!  I'm different and weird!"  Either way, they eventually stopped making appointments for me and all was well in the world of Riki.  If my parents knew about it (and I have to expect that the school called them), I don't think they ever mentioned it.  

The worst part about this experience was the friends that I lost.  For a year or so, I had been hanging out with the other 4.0s (other straight A students), even though I think I had a 3.8 or something.  We all had a passion for writing, and would stay in at lunch, reading each others' stories and plays, developing characters, all sorts of things.  It had been one of the 4.0s who had told on me, and while I wasn't mad anymore, she and the others were apparently scared or bothered enough by the ordeal that they stopped reading my plays and stopped hanging out with me.

I latched on to another group of friends, and while they weren't interested in writing their first novel, they were nice to me and accepted me.  Those few friends were my lifeline for the rest of that year, and some of them for even longer.  In fact, ten years later I met my husband through one of the people who helped me through that time.  

Since I could write a whole mini-series on my high school issues, I'll save that for the next installment.  Until then...