"What Is It With You, Girl?" (February 2012)

  I've been going back and reading my posts over and over to make sure my points are clear and I'm saying what I feel I need to say, but I want to clarify a few things.

  I am fully aware that there are people who suffer from depression worse than I do, and my heart goes out to them.  I'm fully aware that there are people who have had way more traumatic experiences throughout their lives, and my heart goes out to them.  I'm fully aware that I've been pretty damn lucky, and sometimes that's the hardest part of my struggle - What the fuck do I have to be depressed about?  So I'm in the process of figuring out why I suffer from it and how to fix it.  I didn't grow up poor, I was never abused in any way, I was never really bullied in school, aside from the minor teasing I endured because I was a late bloomer, a bookworm, and not very athletic.  (See The Ugly Duckling from Dane's Haus.)  Back when I was growing up bullying was no where near the serious and devastating issue it has become today.
  I take a step back and look at loved ones of mine who've been to hell and back - those who have been exposed to sexual abuse, mental and emotional abuse, addictions and various other tragedies, and I'm in awe at how these people have picked themselves up, dusted their shoulders off, and turned their lives around in order to move in a positive and healthier direction.  It's definitely an inspiration to me, and maybe one day I will share their stories, anonymously of course.
  It's looking like for me it's all boiling down to being chemically imbalanced, and as I move through the grieving process I'm learning that my father's problems stemmed from just that.  "The man who had it all..."  Yet his life never stopped spiraling out of control.  I don't want to end up like that.

Gimme The Drugs Or Something Else Is Going To Give - A Brief Timeline (February 2012)

 I started to write out my past experience going down the psycho-pharmaceutical therapy route, then decided a timeline would be more concise and easier to comprehend. So here goes...

2003

• In the spring of this year I had my first actual breakdown. The stress of being in my last semester of college and assembling my final portfolio, the deterioration of my parents' marriage, the man I was in love with telling me his ex-girlfriend was pregnant and thinking the baby might be his, it all just hit me like a ton of bricks.
• My family doctor put me on Paxil* and things started to get better once it kicked in. I graduated college, landed a job within a month after moving home, as well as entered into a relationship with the man I was to spend the next five years with.

2005

• The Paxil stopped doing what it was supposed to so my doctor switched me to Effexor**. Life continued on as normal. The anxiety had yet to rear its ugly head.

2006

• I quit my job as a photographer, went back to school as a chemistry major and started working in a local pharmacy. My first few semesters went by relatively smoothly and weren't too stressful.

2007

• I got a job at the local hospital as a pharmacy technician and making a little more money, but school kept getting tougher, my relationship started to deteriorate and the stress of my family life kept escalating. All the while, I was taking my meds like a good little girl.

2008

• Cue breakdown Number Two. In April of this year I left my boyfriend, just dropped a nuclear bomb on his world and ran as fast as I could the other way. This was the start of my downward spiral and panic attacks as well.
• My family doctor asked me if I wanted Xanax***, and I said no. (Xanax makes me a zombie, no matter how small the dose.) So he prescribed me Klonopin***, which I take to this day whenever I feel a panic attack coming on. 
• I started seeing a therapist.
• The PA who oversaw prescribing psychotherapy medication in the network I was using kept increasing my dose of Effexor to the point where I had had enough. The therapy wasn't working and I didn't feel like a human being due to the amount of antidepressants I was taking.
• (I'm not proud of the fact that during this time, I was self-medicating as well with anything I could get my hands on - Valium, Vicodin, Darvocet, alcohol, and occasionally marijuana but I've never been a big pot smoker.)

2009

• My depression worsened, I was still engaging in unhealthy and risky behavior, my financial situation was completely in the shitter due to the fact that I bought a car I couldn't afford and had waited too long to apply for financial aid for school.
• I ended up losing my health insurance and could not afford the medication without it, so I weaned myself off, (which I do NOT suggest doing without aid from a doctor, but I had a pharmacology background and was able to do it relatively successfully...again, I couldn't even afford to go to the doctor.)
• I stopped going to therapy.
• I quit the hospital and went back to work for the same company that had hired me out of college. Things were starting to get a little better.
• My beautiful nephew was born.

2010

• My financial situation got a little better and I was doing okay without the meds.
• I felt stronger mentally and pulled my shit together enough for it show on the outside - my work improved, my relationships improved, and the panic attacks and bouts of depression subsided for the time being.

2011

• Pop died in February of this year.
• My panic attacks started again.
• I realized my depression had come back full force.
• Buzzard decided to tell me in December of this year that he loves me and it threw my emotions into complete chaos.

  And here we are in 2012. I decided to get professional help. I see a grief counselor once a week in order to help cope with my loss and learn the tools I need to move on with my life. Tuesday was also my first appointment with an LSW to help me get my life back on track. I will be documenting my progress with both women along this journey to recovery I've finally taken the initiative to start down.

*Paxil is an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.)  Drugs that are classified as SSRIs are meant to give one's mood a little uplifting.

**Effexor is an SNRI, (serotonin and norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor.) Drugs that are classified as SNRIs are meant to actually help relieve the symptoms of depression.   

***Both Xanax and Klonopin are classified as benzodiazepines and are meant to relieve the same symptoms, so I really don't understand why, on a chemical level, Xanax turns me into a zombie yet Klonopin takes the edge off enough for me to continue functioning throughout my day when taken if I need it.

Insanity and the Task of Keeping Myself Occupied - And On A Negative One - From February 2012

     Like I said in my previous post, I tend to spend more time doing things that aren't necessarily healthy in regards to my mental well-being.  So while the list may be short, these activities can be utterly and devastatingly self-destructive.

 Destructive

• Booze
  -I've become concerned with just how much alcohol I've been consuming lately.  But does that make me sit back and consider slowing it down?  No.  Because when I drink it slows down the thoughts running through my head.  Usually.  Sometimes it just makes it all worse, but most of the time it's the former, not the latter.  
• Drugs
  -Luckily, I've never had a problem with this one.  There's a voice inside my head that constantly reminds me that if I start, I will never stop.  I guess that can be considered a benefit of being aware that I have an addictive personality.  Unfortunately others are not so lucky.
• Sex
  -This is probably the worst one for me personally.  I use sex as a means to escape, as a means of self-justification, as a way to prove that someone does want me.  I may not jump in bed with strangers on a regular basis (I used to,) but it's still a big part of my life.  I'm going to safely assume that the endorphin released in my brain during the act of sex does squash my feelings of depression and desolation for a short period of time.  (Ex. - this past week I was at Buzzard's Tuesday night.  Wednesday night Drugstore Cowboy decided to reappear in my life and I ended up at his house.  Thursday night I got a phone call from another previous lover and he came over.  Friday night Drugstore Cowboy called me again and was in my bed within an hour.  So that feeling of being wanted?  Yeah, it's nice.  And I didn't have one depressive episode all week.) 
• Engaging in unhealthy relationships
  -This is another big one for me.  When one feels like their self-worth is in the shitter, they'll take whatever attention and affection they can get.  My weakness is the one I call Buzzard.  I love that asshole with all my heart, and I know he loves me the same, but our relationship is incredibly volatile and damaging at times.  So why don't I just leave?  Because I'm not strong enough.

January was a very hard month for me, with work being slow, I had too much time on my hands, most of it spent in my room, alone, at a bar with a drink in front of me, in the bathtub with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  I'm trying to pick up the pieces of my life and make decisions based on whether or not they will affect me in a positive or negative way, but it's not easy, and anyone who is afflicted by depression can tell you that.

So for now, it's one fucking day at a time.

Ode to Buzzard - If You Ever Really Loved Me

I wrote this a few months ago, and as far as an update on my tumultuous relationship with Buzzard - it is completely, 100 percent done and finished.  It is over.  He is no longer a part of my life.  Maybe one day I'll go into detail, but I'm still in the grieving process over the death of our relationship.  It was ugly, nasty and everything I didn't want it to be, but I am now able to breath, I am able to sleep, I can eat, I can laugh, I no longer have a cloud of doom hanging over my head.


I don't think you really love me.
If you truly loved me, you'd show it.
You'd fight for me instead of pushing me away.
If you truly loved me,
You wouldn't always be keeping your eye out for the next conquest.
If you truly loved me,
You'd realize that sleeping with 100 women doesn't make you a man,
that fighting for one while 99 others are chasing you is what makes you a man.
If you truly loved me, you wouldn't hurt me.
You would put aside whatever "bullshit" you're dealing with
in order to be with me.
I can no longer fight, I have become too weak.
I can't force you to make a decision.
And if you truly loved me,
you wouldn't force me to make the decision to walk away.
So I guess you don't really love me.

If you truly loved me,
you'd step up to the plate and be a fucking man,
you'd be the man I need instead of telling me that you can't be.
Instead you're throwing me away because you're scared.
So I guess you really don't love me.

I can't save you nor do I want to.
You don't need saving.
I hope a part of you dies every time you think about me.

I've told you everything, I've given you everything,
but you don't want it and you've proved that to me.
Because if you wanted it, it wouldn't be this hard.
So I guess you don't really love me.

Through all of this I still believe that love is the strongest force
that propels us as human beings.
You obviously don't feel the same way,
because if you did I wouldn't be lying on the floor
with a broken, bleeding heart
wondering how I am going to survive every fucking minute
of every awful day without you.
So I guess you don't really love me.

I took off the ring and put it away
with all of the other tokens from men who disappointed me.
Just another symbol of failure
to add to my collection.

And That's What the Birth Control Is For... (February 2012)

  A question I've been asking myself lately is whether or not my biological clock is truly ticking.  I'm writing this as my two-year-old nephew is sitting next to me, enthralled by Woody & Buzz in the world of Toy Story playing on the television.  He's been here since about 7:30 this morning, we've watched Finding Nemo, (kind of,) he took a huge and disgusting poop, we've gone for a walk around the block, and lunch isn't for another two hours.  Oh yes, and we've already had a temper tantrum over cookies.

  It's all good though, this little guy is my baby.  He's the love of my life.  Some days the only reason I get out of bed or decide to keep trudging through life is because of him.  He loves his Nah-Nah and I love him.

  But obviously it's a lot different because he's not my baby.  I didn't give birth to him, I can only help out here and there when it comes to raising him; he's mine to spoil because he's my nephew and not my son.  All my life I've dreamed of having kids.  One, two, three, there was a time I even thought I wanted four.  But now I'm starting to think I'm just plain crazy.  How could I dream of even wanting a baby when sometimes it's hard to even look at Nico without wanting to cry?  What is it that makes me want to cry?  The fact that he's growing up without my dad, his PopPop?  The fact that there are days when I'm in such a funk that I hate myself for not being able to fully enjoy the time I get to spend with him?  Maybe the fact that I'm scared of two things - one, that I'll never get the chance to have a baby, or two, that deep down I don't see how I could ever be a good mother?
  While on the phone with one of my girl friends the other night, I remarked at how sometimes I think having a baby would help save my sanity because it would fulfill one of the major problems I'm suffering from - that I feel I have no purpose in life.  It's a reason to be the best person one can be because there's another human being depending on them.  Isn't it?
  It's just hard when last night I was with Buzzard, the man whose baby I'd have without even having to think about it.  Being in the mental state that I am, though, it would not be fair to bring a child into this world.  Right now, that's what the birth control's for.

Insanity and the Task of Keeping Myself Occupied - On A Positive Note - From February 2012

When my mind and body are idle is when I tend to start spiraling downward.  That's when the scary thoughts start creeping into my head, that's when I decide to hole up in my room and not want to see or talk to anyone, even though I'm craving human contact.  But my state of mind won't allow it.

So what do those of us afflicted by depression do try to alleviate the feelings of desolation, isolation, worthlessness, listlessness, or wishing that we could just disappear?  I've taken inventory over the past of things I personally can do to help get myself through the bad times, some suggested by others, some I've come up with on my own, and I've separated them into two categories, the positive and negative.  Unfortunately I spend too much time going through the negative list, but let's start with the positive.  

         Constructive                                               

• Exercise or manual labor
  -one of my dearest friends told me the other night that when he was going through a stressful time in his life, he'd put on his running shoes and just take off, running until he couldn't possibly go any further, to the point of exhaustion.  So the other day the weather was nice, and instead of spending the afternoon in bed, I got in the car, headed over to a local recreation park, and started power-walking (I don't run) with 311 blasting in my ears.  I walked over five miles, and when I was done, I was tired, my muscles were sore, and I was proud of myself.
• Creative projects
  -After the first of the year I decided to organize all of my photography work, everything I've shot since 2001.  It took me about a week.  I took every disc with photos on it, loaded them on my computer, compressed every file and condensed what was once a giant pile of over 30 discs into maybe 10.  Everything is accounted for and organized nice and neat.
  -I started this blog.  I need to do something constructive with my time, and whether people read it or not, I don't care.  It's for me, but I do hope it can reach out to others going through the same thing.
  -One day not too long ago I took the initiative to rearrange all of the furniture in my bedroom, all by myself.  I cleaned my room from top to bottom, washed and re-hung my curtains, and rearranged the prints I have hanging on the walls.  I had also purchased a new television, set it up all by myself, built another bookshelf, and reorganized my books and photo albums, over the span of about two days.  Little things like that give me a sense of accomplishment.
• Long and short term goals
  -Back in the summer I opened up a savings account with two goals.  The first was obviously to start saving money, because I hadn't been for a very long time.  The second was to save for a trip to Las Vegas coming up in March to be a part of every die hard 311's dream - 3-11 Day 2012.  As of right now, I have a sizable chunk of money in that account, the tickets for my 311 weekend are sitting in my desk, and my flight and hotel are booked for Vegas.
  -I started taking better care of my car once I paid it off.  I keep it clean, and have been steadily getting it fixed back up, because, I think we can all agree, having a nice ride makes us all feel a little better.
  -As far as short term goals, mine are just to get through the Goddamn day sometimes, hopefully without crying.

Unfortunately sometimes these constructive ideas/projects/goals truly are just short lived.  Even though I have this amazing trip to Vegas planned, my depression clouds my thinking and I almost forget that I am going to see my most favorite band in the whole world for an entire weekend in the biggest party city in the world.  That's one of the bitches about depression.  It will drag you the fuck down no matter how hard you try not to let it.

"When I Put My Finger, On Your Trigger..." From February 2012

The triggers of depression are so widespread that sometimes it's hard to keep track of them all. Major things such as a traumatic experience like the sudden loss of a loved one (which also has the power to launch someone who has never dealt with depression into a dark hole for a very long time,) relationship problems or work related stress to trivial things like hearing a certain song play, someone looking at you the wrong way, the slightest change in your routine.

I used to think I could handle change with no problem. But these days all it takes is something as little as an appointment being canceled or someone deciding to tailgate me on the turnpike, and the panic attacks start.

When and why did it get this bad?
Last February, I lost my father in a car accident. His life was wiped out in a split second. I briefly detailed it in a post titled Time Doesn't Heal from another blog of mine. I grieved and grieved, and am still in the process of grieving. It's not something one can get over in a day, a month, even years. So my main trigger has been the fact that my father is no longer here on earth. I cannot call him on the phone, he does not come by the house anymore, he is gone and it's permanent.
One of the hardest things is watching my nephew grow up and knowing that my father is not here to see it. Sometimes it's difficult for me to even look at that sweet little boy without wanting to burst into tears. This first year it was the birthdays, the holidays, even little things like seeing a special about the San Francisco Giants on television or hearing Rocky Raccoon by the Beatles. I can either smile about the memories those things invoke or go in a corner and cry from the overwhelming sensation of loss. When I'm talking to someone about it, I attempt to explain to them the scope of having lost someone so quickly and tragically - that every little thing, from the big stuff to the small stuff, from the joyous moments to the sad ones, are magnified a million times because of the void that now exists in my heart.


For example: Last summer I started dating a really nice guy. We enjoyed each other's company, he was smart, attractive, we got along very well, my family really liked him. And out of no where he dumped me, his reasoning being that, even though I was "so awesome, beautiful, so laid-back and fun," he couldn't put aside his issues in order to pursue a relationship. This devastated me. Usually I can bounce back from a rejection, but for some reason this one took a little longer. And in the back of my mind all I could think was that if Pop were still around, he'd hug me, dry my tears, look at me and say, "Angel, he's a fool." But Pop wasn't here to do that this time.


So the tragedy myself and my family has experienced over the past twelve months has pushed my depression into overdrive. There's more that goes along with it, of course, that I will write about in detail at a later time.