Depression Talk

I finished the book called ‘Odd Girl Out’. I strongly recommend it to everyone. It is a detailed account of many girls’ struggle with female bullying.

Every time I think of girls bullying, I think of an episode of Seinfeld. Jerry is talking about beating up people as a way of solving problems. Elaine states that girls don’t do that, and Jerry asks how girls deal with issues between them. “Easy,” Elaine replies. “We tease them until they develop an eating disorder and then we move on.”

And while the comment is hysterically funny at the time, it is also so true.

I wish the book had led me to some conclusions on female bullying. But it didn’t. I’m still the same person I was when I picked up the book.

Only now I’m a little more enlightened on the way things really are for girls. I find comfort in knowing that I am not the only one.

At this time in my life, I was very withdrawn. Also at this time, the laws about selling tobacco to minors became much more strict.

I don’t know if this made me want to smoke or what, but one day I was wandering up the dirt road to the corner store and I decided just to see if the girl would sell me a packet of cigarettes.

She did.

So I snuck off one evening at sunset to have a cigarette. I didn’t particularly like the first one, although it didn’t make me turn green and hack and cough the way it does in the movies. I did, however, have a slight head rush afterwards, I was a little bit dizzy, and I thought, Great. This is what Cancer feels like. I’m dying.

But the feeling subsided and afterwards I felt relaxed and happy. At the same time I was anxious because I was ever so sure that my parents would look at me and know, instantly, that I’d been smoking.

But I wandered out for a walk the next night and the night after that, with a can of pop hidden out in the bushes, behind an old shed, behind the public school in town, and I’d sit alone and I’d smoke and I really, really enjoyed those evenings. I was alone, I had time to myself. I wasn’t a loser during my smoking time in the evening: I didn’t have to watch television shows focussed on people with social lives, I didn’t have to listen to the phone not ring for me.

Smoking made me ok during that time. Smoking made me have something to look forward to in the day, something I could have all to myself that no one could take from me. I felt that as long as I had a packet of cigarettes, I would make it through another day.

And thus, smoking became the first vice.

So, after getting to the seventh grade, I became different.

I was no longer loud and boisterous. My oldest brother used to call me Giggling Brigade. He lost that soon after, and looking back, I think that realizing that I was no longer known as the giggler was the first time I realized that my personality had shifted.

I said before that I learned how to draw up into myself. I’m not sure what I mean by that. When I use that phrase, I picture a turtle drawing its head up into its shell, laying on the side of the road trying not to be noticed. I suppose that this is exactly what I did. I used to be the one to always talk to the teachers, the first to raise my hand to answer a question, the one who was always willing to share something in creative writing class.

Eventually I made myself become unknown. I would never buy any clothes that would stand out in public, I would never raise my hand to answer because, my God, what if I had been wrong? The public school me would have been able to laugh it off. The teased me? Would have dissolved into tears and willed the world to swallow me whole.

I remained this way until I started University in 2004. Once I got to highschool, I remained the silent wallflower. I did meet a boy who became my shield, my protector and my bodyguard for three years. That is not to say that I did not love him, that I did not treasure our time together: he had a role on top of the boyfriend role and I actually feel like this minute, writing him a letter and letting him know what all he actually did do for me. I suppose that some boys like the shy, quiet types who don’t have too much to say, who chew on their hands and don’t make eye contact with others. Every time I acted neurotic around people, he would squeeze my hand, arm, shoulder, whatever he could get a hold of, and say “You’re just TOO CUTE!” I learned to become my ridiculous self around him in private, and towards the end of our relationship, it was a major bone of contention. We fought and he would yell out in exasperation “Why can’t you just be yourself around everyone else? Why do you only act normal around me?!”

I suppose that even then, even after the people who tormented me had moved on to new targets and I was safe hiding behind this long term relationship, I was too ashamed to admit to him that I was the one everyone called loser. I was the one people yelled out obscenities at because the cool kids at school would laugh about it. I can’t believe, looking back, that I couldn’t tell my first real love what actually went on in my past. I told him everything, but I couldn’t manage to tell him that.

And even as I write it out here and now, I don’t know what that says about me. Am I forever scarred because of something that happened in public school? Am I forever broken because I was abnormal in the sixth through eighth grade? And even more important: Does it mean that I am fixed now, no longer broken, because I’ve come back into the loud, obnoxious, centre of attention, drunken fool that I once was?

In line with my last post, I’m not really sure what made, or makes, me different than my peers.

When I was younger, I used to bound into a room, owning it, on top of the world. No one could ever knock the giant, goofy smile off my face, and I was forever hollering out to anyone anywhere about whatever was on my mind.

I’m not sure what set me apart from the other kids in my grade. I’ve never dressed like any normal person would ever dress. I’ve always been a jeans and T-shirts kind of girl, and while my peers were experimenting with padded bras and makeup, I was more worried about writing, horseback riding, and the people I knew outside of school. I’ve forever worn hand-me-downs from my brothers and now I actually make it a point to steal their clothing whenever I get a chance.

I’m not sure if it means that I am incredibly confident in who I am, or if it means I am just that socially unaware, but I’ve rarely ever given two thoughts to my appearance. I am generally clean, as is my clothing, and beyond that, don’t expect too much. I’ve always had that ‘take me as I am’ attitude and I’ve always figured that if people were going to hang out with me, it wouldn’t be because of the super posh outfit I wore that day. Perhaps that is where I fell apart socially.

I never really thought that my attitudes and my constant exuberance would interfere with my social life. And yet, in the sixth grade, I started to be different than the other kids. They were interested in ‘going out’ with each other, they were interested in social drama and gossip about the others in the class. I was still interested in the same things I’d always been: Music, riding my horse, my favorite TV shows and on and on. Perhaps that made me immature, or perhaps I was JUST SO MATURE that they couldn’t handle me any more. I like to think it was the latter, although I do hope that not being interested in the same things as your peers is not what makes you mature or not.

I started the seventh grade the same way, at a new school. I figured that my loudmouthed self would get along wonderfully at the new school, that I would meet a whole circle of new friends and that the sixth grade horror would have ended.

But it didn’t.

I hesitate to post here exactly what it was that I went through. I was only ever physically bullied once. I didn’t bother to tell anyone except my older brothers. My brother thought that perhaps my arm had been sprained or broken and so he wrapped me up in a tensor and we didn’t bother to tell my parents. (In hindsight, that was pretty stupid because the school then wondered if perhaps I had initially hidden my glaring bruises and welts because my parents had caused them. That was a whole big mess. Ugh.)

I suppose that the worst thing about it was that people were so loud about it. To this day, I have the attitude that if you don’t want to hang out with someone, if you don’t want to be friends or whathaveyou, to just move on. But people wouldn’t. They were as loud and obnoxious with their comments and their put-downs as I used to be with my attitude towards everything.

So, I did what I could. I stopped talking to people. I quit answering in class. I did what I could to be unnoticed at all times, regardless of anything else. I learned how to draw up into myself so that I wouldn’t hear what people were saying, or notice what they were doing. I went with my Walkman everywhere I went. I never did my homework so that I could have detention and not have to go outside at recess.

I suppose that made me different in and of itself as well.

I’m reading a book right now on the topic of girl bullying, a topic that interests me greatly.

I don’t like to blame things for me turning out the way I did, but I often wonder if my experiences in public school. In short, I was the biggest loser in my school. I say that and people laugh and say I’m exaggerating, but the sad thing is that I am not. Living with no friends was… hard.

I don’t know what made me into the girl I was by the time I reached the end of the eighth grade. I started out in life as the same girl I am now: Loud, boisterous, obnoxious, outgoing, and always laughing. Eventually I became a person holed up within myself.

I realized how much I had changed at the end of the eighth grade. We had been given art folders that we had to decorate ourselves. Because of my intense need to not be noticed, I rarely completed these projects any more. But at the beginning of the seventh grade, I had been my usual self. I didn’t care if people thought that my picture of my beagle puppy looked like a duck with extra legs. I wanted to draw a beagle, so I did. I had used multiple colors to draw my name in big, bold letters. But two years later, my art work was all either random patterns of colors running into each other, or nothing. Because I was so desperate not to be noticed.

I waffle now that I’m older. In certain situations, I’m a total wallflower. In others, I never shut up. I’m the drunken fool laughing and screeching and dancing.I’ve had people tell me that they’re never sure who I am. Its true. I don’t really either. I’m not sure which persona matches me better. The quiet one who sits back and doesn’t mae eye contact. Or the girl whose voice is so overblown and loud that you can’t help but see me in public because that much NOISE is hard to miss.

The problem is that I never know which persona I’m faking. Am I faking the quiet me, and I’m really the loud me? Or am I the loud girl who occasionally pretends to be quiet?

I rode the Chestnut Thoroughbred on Friday morning, and it was everything I had hoped it would be. It was more, even, because I got to ride him in a ring and then I was given the opportunity to go for a hack with him and his owner. We had a lovely time, a lovely chat, and I really felt that I got a good opportunity to meet and understand the horse before making a decision.

He arrived at the Ranch house Sunday afternoon. His first hours here have been lovely: He seems to be getting along nicely. We had a lovely ride together and now he is tucked away in his new stall for the night.

I’ve heard people speak of passion in terms of dealing with anxiety issues and depression. If you can create something in your life that you have a passion for, the ick that exists seems easier to deal with.

I’ve always been an incredibly passionate person. I’m passionate about my music, about writing, about the people who are important players in my life. I suppose with all that to be passionate about, I probably shouldn’t feel like I want one more: But I do.

I am passionate about this horse, about me returning to the ring, about my big ol’ butt getting back in the saddle. Perhaps it can help to stave off The Crazy that much longer. If not?

It will certainly be worth its while regardless of whether I lose my mind again or not.

Depression, Fighting Depression, Horseback Riding, Equestrian, New Horse, Passion

Guilt has been a major issue within my Insanity throughout my life. When I had a relapse of Insanity last fall, after almost three years Insanity-free, I was plagued by guilt. At the time I was living in the Big City, studying Sociology. I had an apartment, a cat, a family who loves me. I had food, I had new shoes, I had comfy clothes to wear. I had a good job with a great boss, I had friends who would cook me dinner and not banish me from the house when I burned holes the circumference of pop cans in their couches.

And I was unhappy. I was so, so lost inside this feeling of being clouded in. I felt that nothing was possible in my life, that forever I would be living in a city I didn’t want to be in, pursuing an education that I wasn’t sure I wanted. My brother was overseas in Afghanistan, and I had just lost my grandfather. My student loans hadn’t come in, I was taking six full time courses, and working enough to try and make the rent. The very small, teeny tiny little part of me that is sane and rational knew that period in my life was temporary.

I felt like everything bad in this world was looming directly in front of me. The task of getting out of my bed was one so great that I attempted it only when absolutely necessary. I had a constant feeling that pure, unadulterated badness was approaching in my life, like nothing was ever ok, that nothing would ever be ok.

I felt guilty over all this because I knew that I had everythign I needed in my life to be perfectly content. And yet still, I wasn’t happy. And that made me feel bad.

Now I am back living at home, I’m officially a graduate from university. I have everything I need or want in this world, emotionally and physically, and what do I feel?

Guilty. I feel bad because I’m so happy and there are other people out there who aren’t nearly as happy as I am. There are still people out there fighting battles with depression and so many other issues.

I suppose that guilt is something I either need to do away with or accept as part of me. Regardless of what my situation is, I seem to be plagued by it.

Depression, Relapse of Depression, Guilt, Happiness, Hopelessness

Today I get to don my cap and gown, and walk across the stage. I’m graduating. Finally.

The fam and I are heading downtown early so that I can be dropped off to get my cap and gown and learn how to walk such that I don’t end up on my face, sprawled across the stage in front of the dean.

I’m thinking that large doses of Clonapin are in order, and if not that, then certainly a large pitcher of beer afterwards.

Graduation, Ceremony, Cap & Gown, Falling off the stage

My mother and I have become addicted to ER on DVD, so addicted that we are going to cancel all the fancy channels on our satellite dish because really, why bother watching TLC when we could drool over Dr. Kovac and Dr. Benton? I mean, really. I’m sure there are hotties on What Not To Wear, but in the long run, our time is much better spent oggling people who aren’t gay.

There have been several scenes from this season that have struck nothing but pure, unadulterated terror into my heart. I’ve watched Abby’s mother be restrained, sedated, carried hither and yon. She suffers from Bipolar disorder and Abby has lived her life wondering what will happen to her mother next. In the episode we watched last night, she had holed up in a motel in Oklahoma, refusing to leave.

This is part of the problem with being Insane, even though at this point, I am completely sane. What if I lose it again?

No matter where I go, or what I do, I will always be a person who is Insane. I have to wonder sometimes, what if I turn out like that? What if, as time goes on, I’m the type of person who ends up screaming and flailing her arms in a hospital emergency room, with doctors surrounding her and demanding Haldol from the nurses?

I’ve never been at that point. At one point hospitalization was discussed, but it was my choice. I chose to go home and have my family care for me until I was better. But what if I had no family? What if I had no mother, no father, no Dixie-Dawg to comfort me and make me better? What then?

My biggest fear is losing my mind past the point where I will be aware that my mind is lost. And this is the problem with being me: No matter where I go or what I do, no matter what is happening in my life at the time, there will always be that fear. That pit of your stomach fear that the Insanity will come up out of nowhere and wrestle me into Its grips. That I will have to fight a battle that I can not win.

This fear does not overwhelm me on a daily basis. This fear does not control me, or interfere with my ability to live my life.

But it is always there, in the back of my mind, and sometiems I really wonder what I would do if it came out and jumped up from behind the curtains at me one more time.

I think a lot about the things that could make me happy in this world. Sometimes I think that really spectacular things could make me happy, like owning my own farm, or owning my very own brand new Dodge Dakota quad cab. Or better yet, a stunningly wonderful husband who is rich and grand and who will bring me flowers every day, and who would buy me my farm and truck.

But those are such big things. Husbands are so time consuming. They come with demands for things like the preparation of food and the bearing of children. Ugh.

I was out shopping with my mother today, and we bought some new Gain fabric softener. It smells ever so nice, like thoughts of kittens and butterflies and cotton candy all wrapped up into one big wonderful scent. And every time I open my dresser drawers, all that will ever enter my head are thoughts of kittens and butterflies and cotton candy. And the detergent aisle of Wal-Mart.

Sometimes you have to focus on the little things. I recently went a little over three months where my entire wardrobe consisted of jogging pants, boxer shorts, sports bras, and oversized T-shirts. I bought this entire wardrobe and wore articles from it every day. I simply did not have the energy to deal with matters pertaining to clothing. Hell, I did not have the energy to get myself out of my bed. So on the days when I did have the energy to get out of bed, it was all I could do to put on something.

The first time I put on clothes after those three months led me to tears. I actually sat on my bedroom floor crying because once I had clothes on — the type of clothes that actually fit, and that consist of more than oversized sportswear you buy in the Men’s section at Old Navy — I was purely exhausted and I had no idea if I could make it beyond the front door or not.

I suppose that after having gone through periods like that in my life, I do have a greater understanding of the small things. Like pants. And fabric softener.

Tonight, while I danced with glee, while I shrieked about the wonder of Gain fabric softener, while I headed up the stairs to collect all fifty pairs of socks, my mother laughed. She called up to me “I suppose its a good thing that you can appreciate the small things in life.”

I have to say that I concur. Yes. Appreciating the small things.

That’s what its all about.

Small Things, Baby Steps, Clothes for Depression, Get out of bed, Appreciate the Small Things, Fabric Softener, Kittens

I’ve learned over the last twenty two years that a lot can happen in this life that you don’t expect or want to happen.

My parents were dairy farmers from 1972 until 2003. Thirty one years. Not a short period of time by any means. Thirty one years during which time my mother literally broke her back working. (Seriously. She broke her back working. But that’s another story for another day.)

When I was little, I was told at school that if you work hard, you make money. And I watched my parents bust their asses for my entire life.

I do think that in many cases, hard work pays off. But it doesn’t pay off when you are a farmer in Canada. I could go on a fifteen page diatribe right now about how our government treats the people who provide our food for us, but I’ll spare you.

The bureaucracy involved in running a dairy farm had worn on my parents for thirty one years. We chose to sell our cows in spring 2003, and the day we sold the cows is not one I will ever forget. The cows moved like poetry in motion, walking beautifully out of the barn and into their truck to be shipped to a dairy in Wisconsin.

The barn remained for several years exactly as it did the day the cows left. I wondered to myself why we, as a family, did not go down and clean it from top to bottom, sweeping, mucking, scrubbing until it was perfect.

I was at a friend’s house last weekend, and she had recently purchased her father’s farm. She was telling me of the work she had to do to make the barn functional again, and I looked at her and said, ‘You know, when our cows left my family did the same thing. We didn’t go back to the barn to clean out a single thing.’

My friend sighed and looked at me and said ‘Well, sometimes you just can’t.’ And its true. Sometimes this life throws a curve ball that you just have no desire to deal with. The milkers, the bulk tank, the stalls, the neck rails: These are all things you used to work with daily, implements that were a part of your lifestyle and your carreer. In farming, those two are inextricably tied to one another, lifestyle and carreer, and they never fully or even partially separate.

I have been puttering about the barn lately, and a few times my dad has come to chat or offer a suggestion here or there. I hope to get things rolling again, not large scale, but large enough that I can work at it and feel that I’ve accomplished something with my time.

It took quite a while for us to heal after the cows were gone. While we knew that ending our lives as dairy farmers was a choice that we made, it was still a difficult one. I cried when my pet cow was led from the barn. I’m sure my parents had moments that pulled at their heartstrings while we were arranging to have the cows shipped South.

I’m amazed at myself because the wounds have healed. I’m no longer bitter and angry at the politicians who were the reasons we decided to stop milking. I don’t tear up any more when I think of my favorite cow, or when I think of the barn cats who used to play and scamper about while I worked.

I suppose it is true that time can heal anything, and I suppose that I am very lucky to say that time has healed this particular hurt, so that I can go on to be a productive and forward thinking person.

Dairy Farming, Career Change, Life Changes, Time, Unexpected Changes, Moving Forward

I’ve been working online with a few different blogs for going on three years now. I really love my time on the Internet: The comments I get, the fact that friends and family can keep up on my life with the click of a mouse. I also find very therapeutic reasons to continue blogging online. I love working out my thoughts in front of me, paging through the archives and seeing where I’ve changed over the weeks and months.

I have a really, really close friend coming down for the weekend and on our last night together in her apartment (Where I spent the best six weeks of my life living as a nomad) she was paging through her paper journals, laughing at the things she wrote years ago. She wants to give her kids her journals one day, to let them know the type of person she was back then, how she became the person she one day will be.

I have to say that I felt a little bit sad about that, because it is doubtful that the pages I’ve written over the last few years will still be up on the Internet by the time my kids are ready to read their mother’s life story. (If I’m still stuck with only a cat at that point, I suppose it will all be a moot point…)

So today I went to Wal-Mart and I fell in love with a spiral journal, with lined pages that have little decorative flowers at each corner. It is a hard cover one with a beige on beige design, and with it I bought a really fancy Bic pen. (My definition of a fancy pen is one that has a push-button thingy. I’m not ready to slip into the world of hundred dollar pens just yet.)

They say that journaling is a really healthy way to work out the arguments you have with yourself, the potential arguments you may have with others. Writing down the problems you’re having can help clear your mind for a better night’s rest and you can look over them in the morning with a clearer mind and refreshed attitude.

I don’t know that I agree with all I’ve heard about journaling. I’ve never been good at it before: I sporadically jounalled through high school just for record-keeping’s sake. Beyond that, I’ve never used it for therapeutic purposes.

As it stands now, I plan to journal for record-keeping again. I want to keep my thoughts and feelings on paper so that in years to come, I can look back on what I was doing and how I was feeling in the eyar 2007. However, hopefully it will allow me to express my more intimate thoughts in a private avenue that can’t be accessed by the whole world through google.

I plan to keep the site updated with my journaling progress from time to time. If it works for me, I generally recommend it because hey! It works for me! At the same time, I also tend to recommend things that don’t work for me because hey! I’m not the only person in the world.

Does anyone here journal? Which purposes do you use it for? And has it helped in dealing with life’s issues, depression, anxiety, decision-making? Feel free to share!

Journaling, Depression, Journal, Anxiety, Life Goals, Blog, Diary

I think that a recurring theme here has been that I have no idea when I should differentiate between being a crazy person and being a normal human being. I never want to be the type of person who has a run-of-the-mill bad day and ends up sobbing in bed, blaming my medical issues. And so, I have trouble knowing what should be taken as a medical problem and what should be taken as life.

The hard thing is that I can’t really pretend that I don’t have the issues that they do. I’m affected daily by my neuroses: Today my best friend was waiting forever in McDonald’s while I fastidiously washed, scrubbed, and completely air dried my hands. I can’t leave a public restroom with even a hint of moisture on my hands because I fear that remaining germs will end up multiplying in the moistness of my hands.

An event occurred today that was not really that big of a deal. It was the type of event that you expect to come into contact with in the country, the type of thing that happens on farms, the type of thing that you should really stop and say, Wow. That’s really too bad… And then you shake your head and you go on about your business.

Instead this event moved me to a state of hysteria; one of those states in which you can’t breath or speak; causing you to choke on your own saliva as it builds inside your mouth.

I’m not sure what to make of my reaction to this event today. I’m not sure if I should run out and find a shrink, or if I should focus more and more on working hard to become a person who is not so affected by her emotions that she ends up choking and gasping for breath.

Is life really what you make it? If I want to, can I avoid this type of outburst if I want to? Of course I want to: These things are upsetting for me and more upsetting for those around me. I think that right now, if I had ten minutes to prepare myself for an upsetting event, I might be fine.

The problem is that life never pauses for us ten minutes in advance, and never whispers in our ears to take several deep breaths before proceeding.

I’m not sure how to make those much-needed pauses happen without stopping the world altogether.

I have no idea when my journey with mental health issues started. I know that I have always been a counter. It is because of this love for all things counting that I am amazed that I once got a pity 50% in math class because I was just THAT BAD at all things mathematical. I suppose I can blame this ineptitude for sending me into the field of Sociology.

I had lots of social issues in public school, and really, I’m sure this surprises no one because who was teased in public school and ended up normal in real life? Not too many, that’s who. I suppose the first time I thought that something might be wrong with me was at the end of grade school, when I spent hours upon hours plugged in to my walkman, drowning out everything else that was around me.

I discovered real writing at this time: Pouring out my heart and soul into notebooks, on the backs of quizzes, on industrial strength paper towels in the barn. I had always been a writer, and until this point my writing had all been fluff. It was the eighth grade that really got to me, really made me wonder about the shallowness of people. Everyone was obsessed with Adidas, Nike, Tommy Jeans, Gap, and so forth.

I guess part of what made me different from other people was my desire to question that. I didn’t understand why people thought that a T-shirt or sweater with one word or another would be any different than any other T-shirt you could buy. To this day, I’m incredibly fashion-unconscious, and I frequently wear a plaid jacket out in the streets when it’s chilly. Because it’s chilly. I do insist that certain things I own are of certain brands, like my car, which is a Chevrolet, and I will never buy a product that is non-GM.

One thing that has stuck with me for years was a dear friend telling me that all the really brilliant people are crazy. Like Van Gough cutting off his own ear. Like the number of rock stars on drugs. Like Kurt Cobain taking his own life. All the really brilliant people are crazy.

Teachers used to really take note of my creative writing topics, and would sometimes criticize me for choosing topics that were too deep and sad. You’re so young, they’d chide me. You should be writing about happy things.

I would share my poetry with some teachers who would ask and who I liked enough. The first time that I thought I might be crazy was when a teacher actually referred to one of my poems as brilliant and deep. She said it really brought imagery to her mind and made her think. Then she told me that I should focus on being a little more happy, she said that I seemed depressed.

The thought of being someone who could be labelled depressed scared the crap out of me at the time. It funny how now I’ve learned to embrace it as an integral part of who I am. I don’t think I would be the same sarcastic person, the same girl with the same outlooks on this life and this world without being crazy. It has added a new perspective to things, allowed me to understand parts of why people do what they do from an angle that I don’t think people can have without that added dimension of being insane themselves.

That is not, of course, to say that I recommend insanity to people as a way to broaden their minds because, Dear God, I really don’t know that it would be worth it.

Amanda