I do not know Merry. But I do know, all too well, the damage fibromyalgia and depression can inflict on a life. This could easily be me. You can go here to read Merry’s story and donate if you can.
Steph
Category Archives: thoughts
Blog for Mental Health Project
“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”
Ever since I heard about this project, I’ve been determined to contribute.
I start a post, then I stop.
I write a post, then I delete it.
I did not realize how difficult it would be.
One of the hardest things about depression, for me, is explaining it to someone who doesn’t have it. I’m no Jenny Lawson or Allie Brosh, and this is hard. I’m still thinking about a cop-out. I just gave you links to two of the best bloggers in the universe, who also happen to have struggled with depression, so…does that count as a post?
No? No. Ahem. Okay.
People who don’t suffer from depression mostly don’t understand it, and even people who mean well often don’t “get it.” They don’t know why you can’t just “get over it” or “look on the bright side.”
Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me it is just not that easy.
Depression is like this crushing weight, this mantle of sadness that you can’t take off. And it is so heavy. You don’t want to wear it, because it makes everything seem pointless and it drags the ground wherever you go. You try to stand up under the weight of it, but it is persistent, and it pulls you down and down until you feel so small and insignificant that you think you might disappear. And if it is really bad, you think everyone might be better off if you did.
Depression is sticky, like a spider’s web, and you’ll try and try, and you might think you finally got it all off, only to find that you can’t breathe and you can’t see and all you can feel is guilt – guilt that you’re crazy, and sticky, and always crying. Guilt for not being strong enough to throw off the cloak and clean up the webs. Guilt for being weak and for being in pain and for just wanting to hide.
Depression is like this bottomless pit and you just keep falling. You might reach out and try to stop the fall – or you might be so far down in the dark that you don’t think you’re worth saving.
Depression is a bubble that you can’t pop. You’re inside it, and you can see the shiny world outside, but you can’t quite reach it. So you go around in your bubble and pretend that you are really a part of the world, but you know you are separate. The bubble won’t let you feel the sun on your face and the laughter around you sounds flat and unreal.
I was diagnosed with depression as a teenager. Twenty years later and it’s still a bitch. But I’m still here. I might just be putting one foot in front of the other some days, but I’m still here, and I’m still moving forward.
http://acanvasoftheminds.com/2014/01/07/blog-for-mental-health-2014/
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_prevention.htm
When you share my posts, it brings me more joy than I can express. I know that bc I've spent the last hour trying to express it.
Sit Down, Charlie Sheen, I’ll Take It From Here.
As I’ve displayed my Freshly Pressed badge so prominently (to the right, if you hadn’t noticed) I’m sure you’re all aware that My Grandma’s Room was an editor’s pick this week.
Normally, I’d make a self-deprecating joke here, but unlike the majority of my posts, that one was really heartfelt and I’ve been crying all day wishing I could tell my Pop that I Won The Internet, so that he in turn could regale everyone he met with stories of my Writing Prowess, Innate Wisdom, and General Success At Life. All of these tales would be highly embellished, and neither of us would care.
Instead, I will tell you how I became all Writerly and Such. It’s an inspiring story, I’m sure. *insert hysterical laughter*
I’ve been a huge reader all my life, and last year I started re-collecting all my childhood favorites, like Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, and Nancy Drew.
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Much like Anne Shirley, I was a pain in the ass as a child. I was overly dramatic, I sometimes lied (confession: It was me that cut the hair off all my Barbie dolls. I cannot and could not ever play the banjo and I never wrote a song called Eagle. Also, I’m ashamed that I didn’t come up with a better name for my song which didn’t exist.), I liked to read more than play, and I was bossy as all hell.
I haven’t changed much.
Anyway. In the third grade I started a newspaper for the kids on my block and sold copies for 5 cents a piece. It wasn’t a particularly long-running endeavor, mainly because as Head Writer, Editor, Copy Maker, and Boss Lady, I was too good to hawk my own wares on the corner and my friends grew tired of it quickly once they realized they weren’t getting paid. Nine year olds have no work ethic anymore. Especially for unpaid labor.
My next brush with fame came in the fifth grade. On the same day that I opened a package of gum and won ten dollars, I also won 3rd place in a statewide essay contest. Best. Day. Ever!
I don’t remember what the essay was about, but I do remember that I got to meet Bill Clinton (just the Governor then, not the President, although I’m sure I probably had something to do with his election).
You’re welcome, dude.
Also, they served really disgusting food at the banquet.
Not too long after that I tried my hand at fiction, penning The Big Black Bucket, which was a story about chickens living on a farm and plotting their escape.
Yeah. Let that sink in for a minute.
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Those Chicken Run assholes. I wrote it first, dicks.
Fast forward through years of bad poetry, bad decisions, and one too many people saying, rather accusingly, “But you’re so funny on Facebook…” and here I am, reading lots of awesome blogs, writing nonsense, and enjoying myself immensely. THANK YOU!!
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Please stop me if I start referencing tiger blood, in any way, shape, or form. Thanks, guys.
When you share my posts, it brings me more joy than I can express. I know that bc I've spent the last hour trying to express it.
Baby Girl
She’s got this little round belly and this confidence that just goes on forever. She sings at the top of her lungs and dances with complete abandon. Watch me! Look at this! I made this song for you! She is all that is beautiful and if you ask her if she is smart she will yell, “YES!” and then tell you all she knows, and some things she doesn’t. She knows she is funny and isn’t afraid to tell a joke, and even if no one else gets it, she will be the one laughing the loudest. If she wants a hug, she will just open her arms and know that arms will enfold her too. She knows she is loved. She knows she is precious.
She will always be beautiful to me. But I want so much, so, so much for her to keep this ability to see the beauty in herself. When she has lost her chubby baby belly, is that when she will start judging the way her body is shaped? At what point does the world teach her to lower her voice, her eyes, her head?
I want to wrap her up in her innocent self-love so that it stays with her always, so that she never, ever wonders about her own worth. I don’t want her to lose her golden-fine little girl hair only to gain her mother’s insecurities.
I can’t stop the world from affecting my child in ways that I will not always like. But I can show her every day a woman who is not afraid to laugh, to love, to sing loudly, and to dance with abandon. A woman who loves herself, as she is.
When you share my posts, it brings me more joy than I can express. I know that bc I've spent the last hour trying to express it.
My Grandma’s Room
When I was a little girl my grandma’s room was full of wonders.
On her bedside table, then as now, sat a small white lamp and a thick black bible, well-worn even then. How many uncountable times did my grandma sit on the side of that bed, slowly turning brittle pages, seeking comfort, or peace, or giving praise?
My grandma’s dresser was no dainty bit of vanity. Made of heavy wood with drawers down both sides and carved doors in the center, it was strong and beautiful and I swear, those doors called to me. To be allowed to sit before that chest and hold a lap full of silk, the faded ink of love letters, the glitter of glass beads, and all those memories, her memories, in my hands…
My grandpa’s wardrobe was taller, more imposing, less accessible. But when he swung wide the big double doors, even a child could see it was full of dreams. Medals of honor and badges of war – curious jewelry to a child – shared space with carefully rolled papers and a violin. His maps to castles in the air.
On my grandpa’s nightstand, then as now, sat a small white lamp and, nearby, a guitar. How many uncountable times did my grandpa sit on the side of that bed, strumming with nimble fingers, seeking comfort, or peace, or singing praise?
My grandma’s room is much the same, then as now. It’s in a new house and some things have changed. My grandma still sits on the side of that bed. She still has that old black bible. My grandpa sang his last song this year, and now I sit on the side of that bed, finding comfort, seeking peace, and, as I look to those carved double doors full of memories and dreams, I give praise.
We Don't Chew Glass 