Hopeless – Depression Update #1

Tuesday, January 19th, 2010

Hopeless is a word I find myself using a lot. I mean, it’s kind of the definition of depression: hopeless drowning in the pain of, well, living. Today, in my comparative literature class, we were talking about this concept of the “pain of living.” Most writers in the Romantic Period dealt with this particular affliction. Then, it was considered art. Now, it’s considered a disease worthy of the heaviest weapon we can heave at it – psychiatric drugs.

Some days the so-called “pain of living” is unbearable, manifesting in cruel albeit mildly ironic ways. Some days my wrists hurt, my lower back aches like an old woman or my feet swell up such that I can’t wear my regular shoes. I’m not sure how much of this is mental and how much of it is sleeping in a bed that I find vaguely uncomfortable for no particular reason and how much if it is my body telling me that it wants in on this depression thing too.

Today, it’s my wrists and fingers. Sitting in class, I did my best to keep my hot coffee cup near where my pinkie meets my palm on my right hand. I clenched my teeth to keep from crying, and I almost couldn’t stop myself when I realized that what the class was talking about was either way too sophisticated for my quasi-analytical mind or I just didn’t really give a shit about the book we were talking about. It was probably a combination of both. It’s not that I’m stupid, I just don’t see why I’m spending my time talking about a book written 150 years ago. Moreover, I don’t know why I now need to write a 6-page paper comparing the 150-year-old book to a 600-year-old book about a completely different topic. Does this seem like a pointless exercise in futility to anyone else? Or is that the hopelessness talking again?

It seems unlikely that anything (especially long-winded drills in critical thinking) will ever spark my interest again. This is where I feel the most hopeless; I feel left behind while everyone around me finds joy and passion in their tasks. I simply do not find anything enjoyable anymore, and it is making me absolutely miserable.

You know, I do this a lot…

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

Sometimes, usually when I start to think about my impending graduation from college or my preferred life path that leads me to teaching a screaming room of 6th graders how to read critically, I want to be a professional blogger/writer/published author/badass.

I mostly aspire to the badass part of that profession.

The problem is that I don’t think I have the chops to make it in such a competitve industry, and the first thing a life coach will tell you is that you have to believe in yourself. So really, I have fucked myself before I have even started.

It’s not that I am trying to sabotage myself per se, it’s more that I just have a negative self image of myself. And by negative I mean like horrible, bad, Hitler-negative. I mean, it a combination of not knowing what I want out of life and not seeing a therapist. I also stopped taking my meds, a decision that has been both fantastic and wonderful and horrible and insane. I’m not sure if I’m feeling better, but I don’t feel numb anymore either. I hated not feeling – I couldn’t feel when people physically touched me, and I couldn’t feel when I was sad or happy or alone. This is better in some ways, but unbearable in others.

I want to write here, in this imagined space – I love writing and I love people reading my thoughts, but I feel so horribly inadequate at the same time. I feel like my thoughts aren’t worth the time of day for the people who know me best – so why would anyone (strangers no less) want to read about them? Why do my thoughts and observations deserve an audience?

So for now, I’m not going to answer that question. I’m not going to feel bad if I don’t want to write here one day, because this is for me and no one else at this point. If that is different in the future, than my desire to write here will also change. Right now I’m going to let this be a space where I work through what I am thinking about – even if what I’m thinking about isn’t funny or witty or lovely or politically correct. I don’t have to write poetry and high prose to be a writer. And even though my self-image is shit, that doesn’t mean my writing is. My writing is what it is, independent of what other people (including myself) think about it. Regardless of my audience size or quality I am going to write. I am going to write about what I’m thinking about, without the strain of trying to impress or measure up.

I spend all of my time and energy trying to get people to like me, and I try to meet to a standard set so high that I crash and burn every time I reach for that perfection that I demand of myself. Maybe, just fucking maybe, I don’t need to set the bar so high for this one little area. I don’t need to impress anyone because no one is listening right now anyway. I can still try (and fail) to be perfect in other areas of my life, but I don’t need to be perfect here. At least for now, I can free myself from the constraints of perfection in my written life and let myself cry metaphorically, and save my anguish for my failed attempts at physical and spiritual perfection in my “real” life.

I can let my apartment stay messy, I can hate my hair for not staying perfectly poufed and teased, I can loathe my waist for not being 28 inches around and I can black out my mirrors in mourning when I don’t learn a new skill on they first try, but I’m going to let my writing suck. I’m going to be okay with the fact that I don’t write on my blog every day, like I wanted. Just this once, I’m not going to beat myself up for my utter lack of perfection in this one area. Just this once.

Oddly Sexual

Wednesday, August 5th, 2009

The other day, I was at a newsstand, buying a few magazines. After I picked up my copy of the newest Oprah Magazine, I walked up to the counter to pay and there was a large display of Snickers bars on the counter.

I looked at the display, and all I could think about was buying 5 or 6 and eating them in quick succession. I started obsessing about the creamy chocolate and smooth caramel and crunchy peanuts; I had a vision of myself laying on a big white bed in a long white dress stuffing my face with Snickers bars. It bordered on an erotic fantasy.

I quickly realized that even if I did buy 5 or 6 or 10 bars and ate them in quick succession, there would be no white bed or silky dress or euphoria. There would be me, cramped in a corner, eating until I couldn’t anymore and then riding out a stomach ache of epic proportions. There would probably be tears, and there would definitely be regret.

Not my finest quality, true. My “secret” food and eating behaviors are less “secret” and more “totally unsurprising because I will tell you if I’ve known you more than 10 seconds.” I am not a private person, by any stretch, but my motivations are often are buried beneath the act itself, and my immediate jump to speak on the superficial acts betrays my fear of the deeper emotional causes. The reckless abandonment and the free spirit that I so desperately crave in my life often manifests itself in food. I want to be carefree and free of constant regulation, and to do get that I often go to unhealthy extremes in eating, exercise, and physical appearance in general.

Look at me using my therapy in real life.

In the 2 second space between seeing the Snickers display at the newsstand and placing my items in front of the clerk, all of this rather depressing information flashed though my mind. I stood there, drooling at the candy isle and I heard Alex say behind me, “Babe, do you want the candy bar?”

“Um… errr… well…” HELL THE FUCK YES I DO!

“Yeah, we’ll take the Snickers. Do you want 2?”

“No. One is fine. Thank you.” ONE TIMES TEN MAYBE.

So I took my candy and put it in my purse. I carried it around with me for the next couple of days, waiting for the perfect moment to eat it, to enjoy it as much as I possibly can. And then, I was sitting on the couch with Alex, totally content. Calm. Serene. And I looked in my purse and pulled out the Snickers bar. Without looking at the nutritional information, without lamenting about the hours at the gym this was going to cost me, without regret or mania or tears, I ate it. The creamy chocolate, the smooth caramel and crunchy peanuts pleased me without a heavy heart, and after I finished I didn’t want another one. I smiled and continued on with my day, pleased with myself and my brief and oddly sexual Snickers bar experience.

An Open Letter to the Universe

Friday, June 19th, 2009

Dear God,

If you are listening – well, then I definitely owe my roommate 10 bucks. While she is a stout believer in you and yours, I am not one to pray, as I do not believe in an entity that micromanages my life. But tonight I feel that I need to believe that someone is listening. And even if you aren’t, I still feel like I could benefit from pouring my heart out to the world.

I am not often one who asks for help, nor am I a person who looks to a higher power for answers, but lately I have been wondering if something huge is missing in my life; something on par with religious experiences or the sense of belonging that a religious community can offer. While I do not see myself becoming a pious person by any stretch of the imagination, I can see myself believing in a natural order of Things, and maybe I can even stretch that to a belief in some sort of higher power, whether it be a god or a Mother Nature.

But here I am in my life, at the tender age of 21, and I find myself begging a higher power through prayer. I am not asking for an A on a test or a winning lottery ticket or a negative pregnancy test; rather, I am looking for clarity. Recently in my life I have had a distinct lack of direction and purpose. I have been binging on negative emotions, and pushing myself into a cocoon of despair, and to what end? This is where clarity would serve me well.

It is difficult to just ask for clarity -like asking for a “sign” that things are going well (or poorly)- it is utterly useless because of the open-ended nature. Interpretation is a bitch.

Recently, I have been so stressed out that my life seems to have lost all of its meaning. My therapist recommended that I read “Man’s Search for Meaning” by Frankl, and while it has been useful as a tool in recognizing that my mind is indeed swathed in a sense of purposelessness, it has been less effective in offering me a sense of peace in finding my meaning. Does this sound strange? That my mind is not connecting with a book that is obviously profound and pretty much exactly what I was looking for? Frankl talks about an extensential crisis that I myself am experiencing, yet the solutions he is offering seem to be doing me no good. Frankl advocates for a future-based existence; living for an ultimate goal. He cites patients of his that have survived the darkest of hours because they know that their life’s work – a book they are writing, a child, a loved one –is not yet complete. And while I certainly have loved ones, is that enough purpose? Can my purpose really be wholly invested in another corporeal being? It is not that I do not find meaning in my loved ones, I just feel like my meaning should extend past serving those closest to me. In short, what do I want for me?

That last question, the loaded one, is the most difficult of them all. I have never satisfactorily answered it, and I’m not sure that many people have. While there is small comfort in knowing that I am not alone in my search, it also scares the living Christ out of me; if most people don’t know, will I ever answer that question? I can’t move on in my life knowing that I will never answer that question. I have to believe that I will have an answer… somewhere down the line.

So, god, if you are listening, I am asking for a clear path. I am asking for the knowledge that I will some day answer that final question: that I will eventually know what I want for myself. I am asking for the strength to go on in the interim, and to know that my life is not meaningless- it is just a work in progress. I am asking for clarity on this cool, pleasant night to keep moving on in spite of myself, and eventually to keep moving on because of myself.

Love,
Dev

BMX Extreme

Wednesday, April 29th, 2009

Recently I joined Group Therapy for women with eating disorders. “Group” is a little deceiving; really it’s 6 girls and 2 therapists sitting around on Friday mornings chatting about our horribly fucked up relationships with food. Why Friday mornings? Because therapy is supposed to be a little bit masochistic.

On first glance most people do not think I have an eating disorder. I come off as friendly, charming, a little batshit crazy, and well-rounded. While I am some of those things, I am also a binge eater and drinker. I sometimes starve myself for days and sometimes I go to the gym twice (or more) in one day. I have refused to leave the house because I thought I was too disgusting to be seen. I will lie about these behaviors, and sometimes not even Alex knows when or how I do some of these things.

I am telling you all of this, dear Internet, because I don’t think this is something I need to hide. I’m not shameful. As I tell my therapist, I have lots of guilt and very little shame.

My body issues stem from deep insecurities about, well, everything. I am hypercritical of myself, my abilities, and my self-worth. Alex is extremely supportive and tells me how crazy I am but all of insecurity still comes out as extreme body hate. Like BMX extreme. Like if there were Olympics of body hate I would totally have the gold medal.