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. 

Unimaginable.

Imagine you were reading a book, or watching a movie (for those less book-inclined), starring a fairly standard family: Mom, Dad, two boys and a younger daughter.

Now imagine that when the kids get older (teens and early twenties), their father dies. Car accident. It's terrible, but the family has each other, not to mention friends and neighbors, to help them through it. 

Life goes on; never quite the same, but things get better. Then eight or nine years later, the younger of the sons is in a car accident. He dies. The grief is tangible and the news is heartbreaking to all. Still, life manages to go on and while it is tragic, it isn't beyond belief.

Not even a year later, there's a phone call. Something terrible has happened and now the eldest son is dead, leaving only the mother and the daughter. At this point in the book or movie, you'd probably be pretty upset. Oh come on! you might think. It wasn't enough to take away the father/husband and one of the sons, now you've killed off both? This is just unbelievable!

And that's the feeling you're left with. The story isn't over, but at this point, it's hard to believe that one family could endure so much loss and grief. Most books or movies wouldn't take it to this point. The irony of the middle child's death via car accident, so similar to his father's, would have been the most tragic part, and things would have gotten better in the end.

Unfortunately, this isn't a book. Or a movie. If you remember this post, then you already know that. 

It's unimaginable what this family has gone through (and seemingly continues to go through), and my heart breaks just thinking about it. Most tragedies never even take it this far, and yet, this couldn't be further from fiction.

So, once again, I urge you all to embrace the people in your lives and be thankful for them every day. Trite as it may be, you never know when they might be gone.     

RIP, neighbor.

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. 

Is It Rapture Time Already? (aka, "Beam Me Up, Jebus!")

Boy, time flies!  It seems like just yesterday we were saying goodbye to certain loved ones, preparing for them to be beamed up by the G-man himself because the world was clearly going to end in 2000.  

Actually, there have been a LOT of predicted Rapture experiences.  Check out this list on Wikipedia for all the previous supposed dates of Rapture.  Personally, I'm gonna go with Sir Isaac Newton on this one.  I'm thinking we've got a good 50 years at minimum before Jesus decides he wants to be saddled with the responsibilities sure to accompany (and follow) the Rapture.

In case you weren't aware, I'm not particularly religious.  Wait, that's an understatement.  I am NOT religious.  I'm what most people would probably categorize as 'agnostic.'  I'm pretty sure there's some kind of higher power out there, but I don't believe in any specific God-like figure.

Being a-religious was sort of hard on me growing up.  I remember being in 1st grade or so and a friend asked me if I prayed at night.  With sort of a sideways glance I told him that no, I didn't, to which he promptly replied, "Oh, well you're going to Hell then."  Lovely.  

6-year-old Erika kind of took this to heart (in other words, I was f*cking terrified) and tried this "praying" thing a few times.  Turns out it really just wasn't my thing.  I also completely missed the whole point of prayer, so it would go something like this:

"Dear God, I really want to get a good grade in Math.  And I REALLY wish I could fly.  I think I could, but I need some help, you know?  OK.  Amen."

In the following years, I started coming up with snarky responses to religion-based questions. 

"What church do you go to?"  "I attend the Church of Erika.  We meet Sunday mornings in my room and sleep."

"How come you celebrate Christmas?"  "Because my parents celebrate it."

"Why don't you believe in God?"  "Why don't you believe in dragons?"

Now, I've attended services at a few churches.  When I was a kid, I went to a Lutheran service with a friend and her family.  It was close to Christmastime, and I remember the music was beautiful, but the rest was so-so.  Later in life I sat outside of SEVERAL Catholic services between Girl Scout cookie booth sales.  Not my thing.  And when I was in high school, I went to a Presbyterian service with one of my best friends (the best of my church-going experiences).  It was pretty cool (they were a VERY accepting church, which was a new concept to me), but still just not my thing.

My parents once told me that they wish they would've raised me in a religion so I could choose what I wanted to do about it when I became an adult.  (I'm not sure how they would've accomplished this; Mom also grew up a-religious since my Grandpa is an atheist and Dad went to a Methodist church when he was quite young but also grew up mostly sans religion.)  

I'm actually thankful that they brought me up the way they did.  Sure, I miss out on some religious references now and then.  And for me, Christmas is about a fat guy with magic reindeer and Easter is about bunnies and chocolate.  But I'm not sorry for these things.  I take great joy in giving gifts every December and to this day I hunt Easter eggs at my parents' house!  And I don't need an antiquated book to tell me what's right or wrong; my parents' did that for me, and they did a wonderful job all on their own. 

So, all that being said, I wish all of you believers well in your journey to Heaven, however you may get there.  As for me?  I guess time will tell.  It'll be an adventure, that's for sure.     

World Wide Waste of Time

Thank you, Diablo Cody, for that new meaning of WWW (and thank you Kelly for suggesting I read Candy Girl...  I'm really enjoying it so far!).

So, I frequent one of those sites that hosts all sorts of random games (for free, or for paid membership).  I'm a sucker for a good puzzle game.  Or, pretty much any game really...  I like games!

What I don't like is the chat feature on the SIDE of the game.  Yes, I know, I can minimize the chat.  I often do.  But then I can't see the progress I'm making toward certain goals, and then I get sad, etc etc.  

Recently, I saw a conversation between two members where one was seemingly "hurt" because some woman he had been talking to via the site refused to send him a photo of herself.  The other member commented on how "weird" that was, and how this other woman seemed nice, but something was clearly off.

Seriously?  I had to minimize the chat because I had several theories on why someone wouldn't send a photo, and didn't want to get into it at the time.  However, let me offer some of those theories here:

1) Maybe she is self conscious.  This is probably the most over-looked explanation out there.  I know I would be hesitant to send a photo of myself to a stranger.  What if he expected me to be hotter?  Or thinner?  Or have longer hair?  Or whatever?  I'd rather he just keep whatever pleasant image he has of me in his mind and continue talking to me, rather than judging me based on my appearance and throwing everything else out the window because I don't match what he already has imagined me to be.

2) Maybe she lied.  Another obvious reason... People lie on the internet.  Maybe she's not 5'9 and blonde like she said.  Maybe she's 5'2, morbidly obese and has lost all her teeth.  Clearly she wouldn't want to send a picture, as this would give herself away.  Duh.

3) Maybe she's a he.  Along those same lines, maybe SHE isn't a SHE after all.  Maybe HE just wanted some companionship, and knew that (sadly) most men in chat rooms are just looking for female attention.

4) Maybe she doesn't have any recent photos.  Maybe she's lost 30 pounds since the last one and doesn't want you to see her the way she no longer sees herself.  Maybe she doesn't have a good picture from the past 5 years and doesn't want to give you the impression that she's lying about her age.  Just saying; these things happen.

5) Maybe she just doesn't want to send a picture.  Even if she's been perfectly honest, has self esteem up the wazoo, etc...  Doesn't mean she wants to send you a picture.  Maybe she doesn't want to play into your perverted sexual fantasies by sending you a picture so you can get every imagined detail right.  Maybe she was annoyed because you asked so many times for a picture.  Maybe she just doesn't care.  

Many explanations are pretty harmless, really.  They range from the simple to the incredulous, but each has meaning to someone.  The internet has given us all a blank mask.  We can choose who we want to be at any given point.  It's an exciting, but terrifying, reality.  

I won't lie.  I've been duped.  Bad.  So I really, truly understand not wanting to send photos of yourself to someone you'll likely never even meet.  Maybe it's best that we all just live in our imaginations online and ground ourselves more firmly in the reality of the world around us.

Pipe dreams, right?  Oh well.