Misnomer?
Perhaps calling this blog “the depression diaries” was a bad choice. According to most of the checklists that I have found, I am no longer medically depressed and only mildly dysthymic (See this link). It’s hard to say why I chose this name. To me, being depressed is a part of my personality make-up; reading the list of symptoms, I can say without a doubt that I’ve been depressed for the largest part of my life, even when I was a wee girl. Crying all the time – check. Feeling worthless -check. Lack of energy and slugishness – check. Thoughts of death or suicide – check. Hopelessness and empty feeling – check, check.
I guess a better name for the blog (which of course I’m not going to change because I’m lazy and a procrastinator – and no, the laziness is innate, not a symptom of depression) would be “The depression diaries (kinda)”. I have hit a better place emotionally; but the demarcation between where I end and depression begins is not a clear line, it’s a huge gray area. I feel when I am writing about my life and thoughts (as inane and completely absurd as they are sometimes), there is no way to distinguish between myself and the illness that has had the most influence in shaping me into who I am today.
Looking back
Seven years ago I was in a terrible place. My ex had just dumped me for another girl. I was getting out of college and I didn’t know what to do with my life, but I knew I couldn’t go back home like my family wanted me to (if I wanted to keep my sanity) and I felt horribly guilty about it. I had no friends, and spent most of nights watching TV, eating boiled vegetables and sobbing. I dreaded the weekends because that meant that I wouldn’t have anything to do. My depression was not as severe as others might have experienced it; I still could get up and go to work and pretend everything was fine during the day. It was the nights that did me in – the long tortous nights where I was by myself and had to think about how horrible and pathetic my life was and there was nothing that could distract me.
Did I think about killing myself? Absolutely, I think anyone at some point has felt depressed enough to do that. I would fantasize about the different ways I could do it, and all I could think about was the relief that I would finally experience, the release from the pathetic shell of a human that I was. The closest I came to it was standing up on my apartment balcony ledge, but I never could go through with it. I reproached myself for being such a fucking wuss that I couldn’t even kill myself properly, that I didn’t even have the courage to do that. I admired people who had the resolve and the will to go through with it, because it meant that at least once, they had taken charge of their life in a way I had never done. In my head, I had a list of all the different ways I could do it, and in my darkest moments, I would recite them like a litany, over and over, making me feel better because at least there was the hope of an out from all the pain, if only I were strong enough. There were times when I would write in my journal, and all I could manage was writing the same sentence over and over again, like when you are punished in school. It was ‘I want to die, I want to kill myself, I hate myself’ over and over again.
Things didn’t get better overnight. In fact, it was fucking tough to admit that I had a problem, to get some help, to go to a therapist. It has taken a lot of time, a lot of effort, a lot of crying and a lot of meds to get to where I am right now; I look ahead and I still see a steep mountain to climb, but I look back and realize that I’ve come a long way.
I wouldn’t wish depression to my worst enemies (if I had any). For everyone who is trying to hang on, remember that you are fucking tougher than anything life throws at you. Keep fighting. I’ve been there, and I can guarantee you’ll reach a point in your life - days or months, or years from now - where you’ll stop, and say to yourself, ‘This was worth fighting for’. And it will feel awesome.
Settling in
Now that the little bean is living with us, Tai has gotten jealous of all the attention he is getting. When I got Tai they told me she had been turned in by her previous owners because she peed on their new baby’s toys, and it completely annoyed me that some people are that irresponsible and inattentive to the needs of their dogs — obviously it was a jealousy issue and Tai just needed some reassurance that she was still part of the metaphorical pack. So I’ve been trying to include her in everything as much as possible so she doesn’t feel left out. Cooing the words “baby girl you are so cute” while swaddling her might also have happened.
(Parenthetical aside: that reminds me, I was googling more about dogs and jealousy and came across an owner who was asking what to do, because her chihuahua was peeing… ON her baby. Some people are fucked up – when do you think it might have crossed their head, to, you know — keep the baby away from the dog?).
Tai’s attitude towards the baby at first was jealousy – (in a totally unrelated note, surprise! I always imagine Tai’s voice as being very English lady. So feel free to read the following in a proper British accent) “what is that lump doing on my sofa! why is my mom holding that lumpy bastard while she could be scratching my belly? I shall pee in my wrath over her newly professionally cleaned carpet and make her come over” – then curiosity – “whilst cocking her head — why is that THING crying? why does it smell like poop?” – then indifference – “Hmmph for a thing that only eats and pees and poops and cries he’s not so bad“.
That was until today, when my sister sent me a picture that melted my heart (which I wish I could include but I can’t because I’m stupid like that and don’t have an image host) of Tai sitting, very still, watching over the baby. How very kumbayah.
The meds
I have been in therapy for almost seven years now, but I always resisted taking an anti-depressant because of all the usual reasons. I come from a Asian-Latin American family (that is the double whammy of medication stigma) where you should not show any weakness, and taking Prozac is admitting that you need help and are not strong enough. I was finally convinced last year after trying to change jobs time and time again but being paralyzed at the thought of an interview. I was so scared to tell my family about it, because in my mind, I would be ranking right below my eccentric aunt who used to wear the same kimono everywhere (and I mean everywhere, and everyday – parties, funerals, that time we went to the theatre to see those Asian acrobats and everyone thought she was part of the crew) and just slightly above the sadly homeless woman who used to run naked through traffic. But, as trite as it sounds, it was one of the best decisions I have made.
I was afraid that the pills would make me be this numb, stepford-wife-esque being, who would only be living life, but not reveling in it. But it was the exact opposite. People who didn’t know I was on the meds told me they could see a change in me — I was more animated, laughing more, a more vibrant version of myself. It’s hard to explain what it feels like. I’m still me, but it’s me on a string of really, really great days. Not to say that there haven’t been drawbacks: I sleep like a bear now and I couldn’t cry for a couple of months. But to me, these were worth not being afraid every day, not calling myself stupid and boring every time I made a mistake, not being tempted to just turn the wheel a little bit more into incoming traffic when I felt all was hopeless. It feels like I’m finally the person I always thought I could be, and I’m loving it.
Date-onomics
For most of my life, I have been a self deprecating, book-loving, geeky nerd. I never dated anyone in high school, and have been in two serious relationships that started out as friendships. So, I finally had my first ‘date’ when I was 27. And when I mean date, is that it was pretty clear that one of us wanted to get into the other’s pants. I’ll let you guess who was who.
Lately, some of the guys I have met have been asking me to do “friendly” things. And this is where the confusion arises. If you are hanging out, not doing anything romantic just doing stuff friends do, by yourselves, is that a date? None of them have tried to feel me up during the movies or done the yawn-hug high school move. I am mostly afraid that by hanging out with them, I am giving them the impression that I am interested. If you hadn’t noticed from this site I tend to have a very playful, blunt sense of humor, which some people might misrepresent as flirting. Then, starts the second guessing – “Ooh, his arm ‘accidentally’ brushed my arm, does that mean that he wants to do me? Or was it just really an accident? Or maybe it was a subconscious manifestation of his desire to do me? Or a coincidence that our arms just happened to be there at the same time – wait, who said there were no such things as coincidences?”
I’m not sure where I’m going with the post, other than I’m way too old to figure out this whole date-onomics thing now. Why can’t a guy just be up front and say – I think you’re cute, let’s go make out? That I can answer with a yes or no, instead of being left guessing (:
It’s only crazy when it’s other people
I have been sucked into the madness that is being a dog owner. I confess I used to be a complete cynic when I saw people doting on their dogs on the street, rolling my mind’s eye and looking down upon the masses of brainwashed people who treated their dog as their child. “Wake up, people!” I would think. “Stop sublimating your need for love and approval into your feelings for your dog!”. Of course, all that cynicism came back and peed defiantly on my carpet in the form of an adorable 4 year old beagle.
I can feel myself turning into one of THEM. First, there was the time I bought her the automatic kong dispenser for while I was away at work. Then, came the sweater, which I swore I would never buy (that she needs because winters here are bitterly cold), because I throw up a little in my mouth every time I see a dog dressed like a baby. The last straw was when I actually bought a dvd for the dog. Let me reiterate — a dvd, for MY DOG. I had been reading stuff online and felt guilty that she had no mental stimulus while I wasn’t there, so I got one of those crazy “While you’re away” dvd’s for her (which by the way, she completely ignored). Finally, I reached the lowest of lows yesterday when I referred to the little bean as Tai’s cousin.
It’s been about six months since I got Tai, and she has been awesome so far. Next frontier to reach crazy dog mom status: a dog stroller* and weekly trips to the salon to get our nails painted together. Ooh, a business idea: doggie bjorns. Hello, early retirement!
* To clarify, I think this is a terrible idea for healthy dogs.
On being a stork
Being at my sister’s delivery two days ago was a beautiful, terrifying experience. For those of you who have seen birth up close and personal know how painful and bloody and gross it can be. I was my sister’s second coach, and to be honest I was afraid of going in and witnessing the miracle that is pushing a baby out of your vagina. I could see myself coming out traumatized and super-gluing my knees shut after that, resolving to be the second coming of Angelina Jolie and adopt all them babies.
I don’t remember very much, everything is kind of a blur in my head. There was a lot of waiting around at first. And then out of nowhere things just started happening. My sister in horrendous pain, squeezing my hand. My brother in law and I holding her legs and shouting PUSH, PUSH, YOU ARE A FREAKING ROCK STAR incoherently from time to time. And then the little (technically not so little – 8.5 lbs) bean coming out, all purple and covered in goo. How the first time he cried, I was crying along with him. The absolute stillness and awe I felt the moment when my little nephew come into existence, and came to BE.
So far I am still enamored of the little bean, who is made out of cuteness*. It’s like he beautifies every room that he is in, breathing out sweetness. He is so light, and falls so comfortably into the crook of your arm (he also tries to feed off my boobs. Come to think of it, he tries to feed off anyone’s boobs, even men’s. Yay, the baby believes in equal opportunity for moobs!). And when I’m holding him, I think that there is some hope in this world after all, if everyone begins life with such innocence and lightness and purity of spirit.
*and, realistically, poop.
So boohoo, my life isn’t perfect
There are days when I wake up and don’t even feel like trying anymore; I remember reading the quote “sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality” and thinking – that is exactly how it feels like sometimes. When one just goes through the motions of life, without any depth or substance or feeling behind them. It’s like you are numb and you can’t get yourself out from autopilot mode in order to truly savor and experience excitement, happiness or even sadness. When I get into one of these moods, it’s hard to get out of them.
Whenever I am depressed about something, I always feel secretly guilty about it. After all, my life isn’t perfect, but it’s great. There are people who are dying of hunger, who are subjected to violence and injustice, whose human rights are being violated. And here I am crying over not being able to get the condo that I wanted. Sometimes, I want to bitch slap some sense into my own self.
Since I always tend to focus on the negative, my therapist told me to make lists about things that I’m grateful for, in order to remind myself that I have good things going on too. So from time to time I will be posting lists that I’m thankful for in hopes that I will keep my priorities in sight.
I’ve been on a streak these past few months:
- Decided to go back to school and get a PhD (haven’t been accepted yet)
- My sister and her husband are living with me until they have their baby
- New car
- Rocked the GRE’s
- Shopping around for a condo
