Category Archives: Depression

December 13, 2023

Full Moons are for Finding Yourself

By Steph

Again.

And again.

Maybe the Universe knows we’ll always need reminding.

Five years ago in August, I was in a really bad place. Sick. Alone. Getting a divorce. Either losing custody of my children or losing them to their own adult lives. All painful in different ways, but that’s not what I want to talk about today.

Today, I want to talk about beauty. How amazingly, awesomely, breathtakingly beautiful it is to be in love…with yourself.

There is no doubt in my mind that I will journey through that dark, hideous place of pain and fear again. That’s the way humans, and this human in particular, are built. So, this isn’t me saying I’ve cured my depression or healed my trauma or that I’m not going to be sick anymore.

This is me saying: I will survive it. Whatever it is that sends me to bed with heating pads or ice packs, with pillows soaking up my tears, I. Will. Get. Back. Up.

This is me saying: It’s worth it. The pain, the hurt, the worry, the fear, the illness after illness after illness; it’s all worth it.

This is me saying: I DESERVE MORE than survival.

This is me saying: I don’t care what people think about me. What I care about is how people treat me.

This is me saying: I lost my health, my partner of 16 years, and my children all in a matter of months, and yet here I am. (Yes, y’all, I’m still me, the “motherfucker” at the end there is silent.)

This is me saying: I’m stronger now than I have ever been. And as someone with depression, I was strong to begin with. You have to be when you spend your life fighting your mind for your life.

I’ve spent a lot of time alone in the last few years, and time alone is time to think. I need it like I need air. I notice so much more now that I can listen. I worry less now that I can feel without judgement.

Our intuition has been shit on for so long, it’s almost like those of us with “feelings” trained ourselves not to notice them. Because when you say, “something doesn’t feel right” or, worse, “I’m getting a weird vibe” or even “what’s wrong” to someone who doesn’t want you to notice any of those things, what do they do?

They tell you that you’re fucking crazy.

What happens when you ignore your feelings though?

I spent a lot of my thinking time out in the woods. When I say “woods” I hope you’re picturing hundreds of acres in the Ozark Mountains, because that’s what I’m talking about. Where people can and do disappear. I figured out that if my gut said, “something isn’t right” that I should scoot my happy ass back to the house where I most likely won’t get eaten by a bear.

Obviously (to me) these kinds of feelings are part of us for a reason. The older guy from town who was cute but who I always, always, always avoided? In prison for violent crimes against women. That look some people get when you accidentally make eye contact? That glimmer of meanness that makes your skin crawl? The feeling that you’re being lied to, or manipulated, or that something just isn’t right?

Guys, we’re not all crazy. Some of us, okay. Me? Probably, but I LIKE IT.

Actually, I LOVE IT. I’m 44 years old, and I fucking LOVE myself. I’m hilarious, often unintentionally which makes it even better. I’m brutally honest, but I never intend to hurt anyone with my words. I’m smart sometimes and some ways, but also hardheaded and can be incredibly stupid and so, SO naive. I’m frequently oblivious because I’m so caught up in living. LIVING, do you understand what I’m saying? What you are doing RIGHT NOW IS YOUR LIFE!

The full moon was a while ago, but that’s when I lit some candles and watched the shadows of flowers dance on my ceiling and then danced with them. I’ve been thinking this post since then. I had come to a point where I felt like I was moving backwards. I’d been so at peace and then my peace shattered, and I felt like I would too. But I’m not made of glass, and neither are you.

Life isn’t a straight line. People say that about grief, but I think it applies to life too. We’re always going to be picking up the pieces of ourselves, and we’re always going to be putting them back together in a better, stronger, more beautiful way.

11 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in chronic illness, CPTSD, Depression, disability, invisible illness, joy, kids, love, Mental Illness, random bullshit, thoughts

February 6, 2022

Is Everything in Question?

By Steph

If I post this right now, I will never need to stress about sharing anything because I will have already posted the most irrelevent and ridiculous shit. If I was you? I might skim this one. (But say hi or something, damn.)

I just heard a song called Loner by Maggie Lindemann and seriously, it would be my anthem if it wasn’t so…exposing.

So, here’s what’s up with me, let me know what’s up with you in the comments. I can do that because I expect two people to have accidentally read this far, but it’s also totally possible that tomorrow I won’t remember that I have a blog.

Shit, I just remembered that I came here to write a music review because I have to post something, submit something, do something (but did I really, doubtful) and I want to talk about Our Current Reality? Because what is even happening right now. I cannot with everysinglething. I mean I was more capable when I was publishing things. Now, all the things seem insurmountable. Or are insurmountable. Is it unlikely, or have I convinced myself I’m actually terrible?

There’s a Halsey lyric that doesn’t go “…need someone to come along and tell me ____ all right, is this okay?” That’s not it, but you yeah. (I should probably tell you that I use the wrong words a lot now. If I end a sentence with “so.” then you should know the rest and I gotta conserve my energy, and I don’t know the word.)

I need someone to do that but I don’t trust anyone so I probably wouldn’t believe them anyway.

I have questions.

How was I relatively ok when the kids were little? Was it that everything was so immediate with children that I didn’t have time to have a breakdown? Taking care of them gave me some sort of structure in my life? That’s funny, because I can hear myself saying, “Kids need structure and routine!” Was that part of it?

Well, this fucking pandemic definitely didn’t help anything, right? You’re supposed to stay home, you know, and my body wouldn’t handle a serious illness, so. Also, I don’t drive anymore and live on the edge of the forest.

Shit! My back is killing me, of course my neck always hurts, and I keep getting distracted. This is what happens with anything I try to do, I either get sick or get distracted with something else and then forget what I was doing or I suddenly realize that I’m just sitting here with my head in my hands again.

I initially was going to punish myself for not…being better/submitting literally anything/doing one normal human thing by writing a music review (which isn’t punishment even but it’ll make me feel stupid so). I had to stop and think about what I came here to do.

Okay, so I guess I won’t tell y’all everything right this second. Or even anything.

10 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , | posted in Blogging, chronic illness, Depression, Mental Illness, never take my advice, random bullshit, thoughts, writing, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor

January 28, 2020

"You're A Break in The Code"

By Steph

Holy shit.

Wait…you can love the messy parts of yourself?

It should be at like 4:12-4:38. Just listen. (I’m so fucking specific, but not totally committed to the idea that I did that correctly.)

Admittedly, I’m a pretty obsessed Halsey fan and also a bit high. But I’ve listened to that 30-second statement at least six times now and I still don’t know quite what to do with it.

Clutch this brazen, tantalizing idea tightly to my chest, hold my breath, picture myself laughing too loudly and talking too much; writing blindfolded or on my skin, in the dark or in a bathroom; dancing because I have a body, singing because I like it, listening, really listening to music all day long, stopping only to make my own?

Or drop it before it burns me, this foreign thought, forgiveness, appreciation even, of a chaotic mind, a rollercoaster ride, a river of tears; give back this moment of not-wrongness that is not mine; apologize (again) for being crazy, broken, volatile, for being at all; try not exist too brightly, feel too hard, want too much?

It took me 40 years to even like most of me. I’ve never thought that I could–maybe should–love the side of me that is impulsive and inappropriate and creative and damaged and yes, passionate, about so many things. The side that cries as easily at the beauty of a sunset as at the coldness that crept into love’s voice. The part that needs to “calm down.” The unreasonable side; the “crazy” that I make jokes about because it’s easier than trying to explain what mental illness feels like. The side that feels everything, all the time.

I can love…my temper, my inability to stop saying, “fuck,” my awful dancing and worse voice, my nervous talking, oversharing, failed parenting, broken heart?

What I really want to know now is:

WHO TOLD ME I COULDN’T?

No piece of me is perfect. But I am not in pieces.

I am not a broken thing to be discarded. I refuse to only love and cherish my shiny best-self, the self that’s seemingly so easy to love. Because THAT me couldn’t exist without THIS me. I don’t get to pick one or the other, and neither do you; it’s all or none, my best and my worst, my past and my present, my heart and my mind, my laughter and my tears, my opinions and my insecurities.

All this, this mess, this disaster, this madness, this me? It’s not what I ever thought I ever should be. It just is. It’s me. The whole damn thing. Brave and fearful, weak and strong, obnoxious and honest, funny and ridiculous, hideous and beautiful.

I don’t see any reason to start using my head now; generally, that fucker is trying to take me out anyway.

5 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Depression, joy, Mental Illness, random bullshit, thoughts, total chaos, writing

April 15, 2019

“Stay with me, my blood”

By Steph

Have you ever felt like holding yourself together is all you’re capable of? I’ve been holding myself tightly, arms crossed over my always-sick stomach. What if I let go and I just…crumble? Fall to my knees, sob, and just howl my anguish. I’m afraid that if I let go of this fucking pain, it will destroy me. I won’t get back up. So I don’t let go. I try not to think. I push my thoughts aside however I can. Of course I’ve cried, probably a million times. But something about this pain, these tears, feels different. This pain tastes like eating hot coals, one after the other, until I burn up from the inside out.

You know that game we surely all played as kids, where we pretended the floor was lava? That’s what my mind is like these days. I’m balanced on the tiniest of throw-pillow islands with boiling, steaming red grief surrounding me. I’m burned no matter which way I turn, and so I stay on this pillow, stuck, raw and blistered.

I keep picturing myself like this:

I sit in a lawn chair in the middle of my house while strangers wander around talking quietly and judging my things. Someone asks, “How much for this chair that caught your daughter when she fell asleep standing up after claiming she wasn’t tired?” And I say, “That chair is not for sale STOP TOUCHING MY MEMORIES I’ll take $50 for the pair.” And so it goes until my home this house is empty except for me and the past.

The guilt is eating me alive. At the same time, I’m screaming in my head that this isn’t my fault. The irony: My mental and physical illnesses are destroying my life and there’s nothing I can do about it because I’m mentally and physically ill.

14 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in chronic illness, Depression, Mental Illness, parenting, thoughts, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor

August 3, 2018

Feckless Joy

By Steph

I get up and, immediately dizzy, wait, holding on until I feel steady. I look down as I walk and think I look strong. Maybe it’s the Nike Swoosh across my toes. Maybe Pop’s old blue PJs, rolled up above my knees, or the racerback tank with the hollow-eyed skull on the front. For this minute, I feel not-broken. (Maybe.)

I think, “maybe I won’t cry today.”

Quieter, I think, “this is fine.”

“I can go on, like this.”

No more tests, no more doctors—wait—I’ve already taken my medicine this morning.

(I need water, I’ll get dehydrated, always forget, shit.)

Okay, so no more new doctors. No more tests. I’ll take what I’m taking, this is fine.

This, I can do.

Maybe I won’t cry today?

I fill up a big glass of ice-cold water and the thought, “What is Joy?” floats into my head, an abrupt intrusion, and unlike the butterflies that have been landing on me all morning, it doesn’t fly away.

I drink deep and get my notebook and pen, no idea what will come out other than “What is Joy?” and maybe (probably) not even that.

As I walk toward the door, my head feels heavy, like it’s a bowling ball I won’t be able to carry much longer.

I sit and, turning to a new page, glimpse yesterday’s list of things not done, remember today’s things that won’t be done, all the many things always coming undone…

I shake off, push down, smother out the rush of worry these thoughts bring.

No. Not now. (They’ll wait.) I inhale cancer-causing, anxiety-eating smoke and start writing, not about Joy, at least not as could be recognized.

Soon, though the notebook is resting on my thighs, the arm holding it in place aches and starts to tremble. My handwriting becomes illegible as the fingers of my right hand protest at holding a pen for—what? Three minutes?

Another butterfly lands and quickly leaves.

What is Joy.

I sit back, exhausted, feet burning, back and neck and tailbone hurting so much now, too much, and fuck, what was I thinking, writing, both arms from elbow joints to finger tips on fire, screaming in pain and my bowling-ball head, not one to be ignored, tentatively joining in, tapping out a subtle beat.

Fuck.

Loud, I-am-the-boss, I think, “No. Not. Today.”

Quiet, I think, “please.”

What is Joy?

A momentary illusion of strength.

A fragile bubble burst too soon.

A daily dream that is my life-mare.

I don’t know this “Joy” except as it flits in, then out.

Another butterfly, tasting the blue truth of woven cotton, fluttering away.

I shake my bowling-ball head at feckless Joy, scared off by salty tears.

Someone says, “It’s all in how you look at it!”

I look.

“Looks pretty fucking shitty,” I think, sour.

Someone says, “Stay positive! Other people have it so much worse, you know.”

Someone says, “You know she’s faking it. Just wants attention.”

Someone says, “It’s not like she’ll show up. Why bother asking?”

I say, “These butterflies keep thinking I’m a flower.”

15 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in chronic illness, Depression, stuff I made up, thoughts, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor