2019, The Triumphant Year

It’s New Years Eve and, like many, I’ve been doing a lot of reflection. Looking back, I cycled through many adjectives before I could find the right one to apply to 2019. I landed on triumphant. When looking at the year as a whole, 2019 was not exactly good. There were important moments of joy, but there were just as many important moments of heartache, and even near tragedy. I worked hard this year; at work, for grad school, on myself. I not only went through changes, I went through complete transformations. All in all though, 2019 was a triumph for me. Here, I have included a brief reflection on the events of this year that made it so damn triumphant.

The Joy

On January 23, 2019, my sister’s divorce was finalized. This may seem like a weird event to include in the “joy” category, but believe me, it was the right choice. Sometimes marriages need to end. My sister’s marriage was one of them. And when it did, I got my sister back in a big way. This event also started out our theme for 2019 with a bang. This year, my sister and I decided, the theme would be “Taking out the Trash.” Basically, that’s our asshole way of goal setting. The goal being that we would spend 2019 ridding our lives of anything toxic that no longer served us. And we totally did. Toxic relationships, toxic thoughts, toxic habits; we systematically deleted as many as we could from our lives throughout the course of the year. And believe me when I tell you, I felt a sense of increased joy and freedom with each deletion.

On the other side of the coin, I opened myself up to new kinds of connections this year. I brought new people into my life. And, in 2019, I built connections with these new people by being genuinely myself. As someone with a lifetime of low self esteem under my belt, I attracted a lot of people based on how I could serve them. I made many friends and relationships over the years by being a people-pleaser. I became a pro at morphing myself into exactly who each individual wanted me to be (a pattern which widely led to our theme this year, see above). In 2019, I quit doing that. I worked on building my confidence. I committed myself to being honest, to allowing myself to take up space. And, as a result, both the old relationships I kept, and the new relationships I made, are stronger, more loving, and more supportive than I’ve ever experienced.

These people are what brought me joy in 2019. I traveled with them, I traveled to see them. I had silly drunk dance parties with them. Explored new outlets for creativity and worked on fun projects with them. Stayed up all night talking to them. Sang Celine Dion with them. Watched every single movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe in order with them. Taught them. Learned from them. Laughed with them. Cried with them. Leaned on them for support. So, to all the people who helped make 2019 a triumph for me, thank you. Thank you so much.

The Tragedy

Whereas some of the highs I had in 2019 were the highest highs of my life, I also experienced the lowest lows. The first half of the calendar year was the last half of my 2018/19 school year as a teacher. That was a really difficult school year. I had a high population of students with childhood trauma, a high rate of suicide attempts among my 8th graders, rampant issues with homophobic bullying in my school (that my school district handled inappropriately regardless of how hard I fought for change). By the end of it, I was questioning whether or not I still wanted to be a teacher. Those questions immediately sent me into an identity crisis, as teaching is all I ever planned on doing, and all I ever felt I was good at. The school year ended with me witnessing an episode of gender-based violence in my classroom that triggered my trauma.

When summer rolled around, I really should’ve taken a break. Taken care of myself. But another stressor I’ve been struggling with is money. So, I taught summer school and I enrolled full time in grad school for the winter, spring, and summer semesters. Overall in my life, I’ve used work and school as a coping mechanism to avoid thinking about my inner turmoil. If I’m busy, I’m not thinking, so I have to stay busy. In 2019, this habit almost broke me.

Then the 2019/2020 school year unfortunately started with more triggers. On September 9, 2019, a student from our school was kidnapped by a member of the community. She was held and raped inside my school building which was open after hours for a community event. The man was caught and is being appropriately sentenced. But this event made my place of employment a rape trauma trigger that made going to work almost impossible.

When October rolled around, I was primed for a breakdown. October is always already a difficult month for me. I was raped at a Halloween party in college. Therefore, as much as I love it, the Halloween season is an incredibly salient trigger for me. All of the sights, sounds, and smells of Halloween spark flashbacks that plague me all month long. Combine that with the triggers I had already experienced this year, and I walked into October on a razor-thin edge. Then, on October 19, 2019 I was volunteering at a Halloween event in Detroit. I basically volunteered to pick up litter and empty cups off the tables so I could get free entry. I was in my own world, cleaning up the balcony of a ballroom at the Masonic Temple while a goddess of burlesque performed down below, when a drunk man I had never seen before grabbed me. My official insignia as event staff didn’t protect me from being dragged into a shadowy corner as anonymous drunk asshole attempted to stick his tongue down my throat.

I fought him off.

I went and told my supervisor.

Security found him and, no questions asked, kicked him out immediately.

I thought I was fine.

10 days later I almost killed myself.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know the rest.

The Future

Both the joys and tragedies of this year taught me a lot. They actually led to some of the most important transformations I’ve ever been through. Every single thing that happened in 2019 helped me understand myself, my needs, and my mental illnesses much better. They convinced me to seek help and make the changes that I desperately needed to make. The therapy I engaged in was the best choice I’ve ever made for myself, and I am looking at starting a new year, and a new decade, in the best emotional, mental, and relational space I’ve ever been in.

And, for 2020, my sister and I have officially decided on our new theme: I Come to Slay. In other words, 2020 will be a year of continued deference to my best self, my strongest needs, and my most important desires. I will take up space. I will be assertive. I will love myself as much as I love others. I will try my best to make positive changes in the world.

I’m ready for you, 2020. Let’s do this.

While writing the first draft of this post, I got very overwhelmed by the magnitude of what has happened in the world in 2019. From the most recent Prime Minister election in Great Britain, to India’s anti-muslim actions in Kashmir. From the climate crisis, to the continued indigenous rights violations and trans-violence happening world-wide. I look around and the world is a scary place. The state of affairs in the wider world is causing a great deal of trauma among many populations and gives me anxiety almost every day. That being said, I felt as though ruminating on all of these things I can’t control isn’t exactly the type of healthy reflection my therapist was talking about. So, if you are interested in educating yourself more about what’s going on/want to learn more about how to help, I’ve provided a list of links below:

India/Kashmir

Climate crisis

The bigot Great Britain just voted into its top job

Trans Rights

Indigenous Ally Toolkit

SOME of the many important issues impacting indigenous populations

One very small piece of mass incarceration

Literally every voice in this publication is worth learning from

Force of Nature

Look into my eyes.

Is there fire there? Do you see how the spark has returned?

I let my spark go out. It got put out.

Years ago.

When the kindling that once resided at my core was dampened by the dark void that swallowed it as I looked deeply into my own eyes reflected in a mirror over a dirty bathroom sink during one of the worst moments of my life.

But it’s back, I can feel it.

It started at the base of my pelvis. And caught. Traveling up my spinal column, flooding my senses with a sense of assuredness. Gusto. Moxie.

And others can see it too.

“You have that spark in your eye.”
“I love when you give me that fiery stare.”

“You look beautiful, full of energy.”

Look into my eyes.

Is there fire there?

Strength

A redwood.

Tall.

Steady.

Thousands of years old.

With stabilizing roots stretching down, extending their plump, life-gathering tendrils towards the molten core of

Me.

You.

Everything.

A volcano.

Fierce.

Willful.

The force of which cannot be stopped. Cannot be tempered by any man.

It bursts forth with the power of an exploding star.

And then, as its grit settles softly into the nooks and crannies of existence, it whispers:

“You are strong.”

Darkness

I was halfway through writing a post about why the capitalist consumerism of Christmas bums me out when I stopped mid-sentence and burst out laughing. Oh my god I thought, I am so morbid.

I immediately thought about a conversation I recently had with my sister.

I am a writer. I have been a writer since I started crafting my own letters and narrating my own stories to picture books in kindergarten. That being said, I’ve never shared my writing with anyone. I have a bachelor’s in history. I’ve written history. I’m getting a masters in curriculum and instruction; I’ve written curriculum. But my personal writing, the contents of my brain, and my heart, and my soul; I’ve never shared that.

And now I am. With this blog. This is my first taste of uncensored sharing of the deepest part of my brain, and my heart, and my soul. And it scares me. And I know people are reading it. Not that many people, but still, people. But I am getting zero feedback. Not negative, not positive, just none.

Well, that’s not completely fair, nor true I guess. There have been a few who have reached out and thanked me, told me they’re proud of me, and told me to keep it up. I appreciate that feedback so much! Knowing I have support at all has been key to keeping me going.

But I’ve not gotten any specific feedback. No critiques, no comments about how certain things made people feel, or how they may have been changed because of what they read, or how they connected to something I said. And that makes me hella anxious.

I don’t know how people are actually reacting to my writing.

When I voiced my concerns to my sister, her answer was so simple I had to mull it over for a few days before I was able to accept it as true. Basically, she said there is nothing wrong with my writing. It is honest, it is unflinching, it is dark. And people have a difficult time processing through the kind of feelings this writing makes them feel.

I knew she was right. It made sense. My darkness has been present my entire life. I remember my mom freaked out when I was in preschool because I said my favorite color was black and she thought I was depressed (I don’t really remember if I was yet, but hey).

The reality is, I’ve always been drawn to thinking really deeply, realistically, and morbidly about things. I’ve always been drawn to dark colors, late-night discussions, cemeteries, and the quiet solitude of large bodies of water at night. My curiosity is ignited by decaying buildings, bones, skulls, fungus. I relish the intellectual challenge of true crime, against the background of the crimes themselves.

It probably isn’t a coincidence that I’m also terrified of most of the things I just named.

I have no idea where that morbidity comes from. Maybe it is just my depression manifesting in my personality. Maybe I am just a pessimist. Either way, I’ve slowly come to realize how my darkness can make others uncomfortable. My sister is right, darkness scares people. Darkness brings up feelings people usually try to avoid. Sure, I have set my own darkness free and am glorying in the freedom I feel because of it. But a lot of people are perfectly happy suppressing their darkness and keeping it positive.

I guess it makes sense the masses wouldn’t want to consistently have to confront something they fear so much.

I realize that, just because I’m ready to talk about this stuff, that doesn’t mean everyone is.

I guess I hope that one day, we will progress as a people to regard the darkness with less fear. For, why should darkness be so scary? Why are we so terrified of the unknown? Why do we literarily apply the color black to evil things, “the dark side?”

In the meantime, dear readers, I realize the emotional rollercoaster I’ve taken you on. I thank those of you who have returned to more than one of my posts. I will work on sharing more of my triumphant feelings associated with my mental health journey to lighten the tone a little (at least more so than I am now). And I promise I won’t ruin your holiday with a rant about my critical analysis of the Christmas season.

All I ask in return is that you allow yourself to spend more time with your darkness. Ride the wave of that uncomfortable feeling, let it all out, and see where it takes you. Allow yourself some time to really process through an intense emotion, and see what you find out about yourself in the process.

Love & Happiness to you all.

Self Love

Self Love. This is a concept I hear about all the time. I see the memes, I’ve read the suggestions, I see the posts on Instagram by women claiming to have figured it out. But I still never “got it.”

Self Loathing. That’s a concept I’m much more comfortable with. I am a perfectionist. The only person’s expectations I have never been able to exceed are my own. Good has never been good enough. There would always be something more I could be doing to please everyone in my life, even if it destroyed me.

I’m learning that the cognitive distortions leading to these negative thought pathways are ingrained habits. And habits are hard to break. So, when I thought about Self Love as something to which I should be striving, I could never picture it. I was never able to conceptualize what it would be like to love myself, really love myself.

Until like two days ago. I captured a tiny, fleeting glimpse of what Self Love feels like and how I can define it for myself. And it changed my life.

On Sunday night, my husband went out to spend time with a friend. It is really important to us in our relationship that we have friendships and people outside of each other. Space like this is a healthy thing for us. That being said, alone time is a struggle for me. I am such a people-pleaser, I crave human connection so I can reassure myself I am worth something.

So, when my husband went out on Sunday night, my default setting was immediate loneliness. As if someone had flipped a switch on my heart and my brain, I automatically started thinking about all the people in my life who I miss. All of my friends who have moved far away from me in our adult lives, and all the things we used to do together that would fill me up.

And then I stopped myself. I told my brain no. I refused to allow myself to think those thoughts.

Instead, I asked myself, “If you had access to those friends right now, what would you choose to do and with whom would you do it?”

That’s easy, I replied to myself. My best male friend and I used to do this thing when we would hang out on chill nights in. He’s one of my best friends because he is a verbal processor too. He likes learning about and discussing interesting new things, making connections to prior knowledge, coming to new conclusions, just like I do. So what we would do when we were together was watch David Attenborough narrated nature documentaries on Netflix, on mute, while we listened to music. Phones in hand, we would rapid google any questions we had about animals, we would search up new music to sample, and we would have discussions that I swear could solve all of the world’s problems.

That’s what I wanted to do on Sunday. And, although the sadness at the distance between me and one of my best friends was still there, I had a sudden epiphany that I could do all those things by myself too. Sure, I wouldn’t really have anyone to verbally process it all with, but why does that mean I can’t listen to music and watch nature documentaries on mute? Why can’t I conduct my own solo inquiries into things I’m interested in? I can do that. So I did.

I ordered myself pizza. I put Our Planet on Netflix. I put on a Spotify playlist full of music my husband isn’t really into. I googled a bunch of random things. I drank wine. I had a whole lot of fun.

And the realization about Self Love I mentioned before? It crashed over me like the sun-warmed waves of Lake Michigan in August. What Self Love means to me is finding the thing you love to do, that you don’t need anyone else there to enjoy. It’s the space in my life I can fill, the interests I can engage in, without anyone else’s presence necessary.

Do I still miss my Colorado-stationed best friend? Obviously. Do I still wish he was around to do these activities with? Without question.

And, I found something in myself that I really loved on Sunday night. An ability to feel full, to feel good enough, to feel like I have something to offer myself, to feel like I have worth, regardless of someone else’s opinions of me.

I still don’t have all the answers. I still am not able to truly sit here and say I love myself completely. The self-criticisms are all still up there, rattling around my brain. But, I know what Self Love looks like now. I know how to access it. I know what it means to me.

I hope that anyone reading this will also take the time to figure Self Love out for themselves. Because damn, it feels good.

Why “the Holidays” are Hard When You Have Depression

Disclaimer: I was raised in a white Christian household in a Judeo-Christian community in America. I don’t assume that I speak for anyone who celebrates any other sort of holiday in any other sort of cultural community.

As I sat on my couch on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, trying to write a post about my feelings towards Thanksgiving this year, I was literally paralyzed with anxiety. No words would come out. My interior monologue reached a level of chaos that resulted in my brain short-circuiting. I had to put my computer away, pour myself a glass of wine, do some yoga, watch an episode of Modern Love on Amazon Prime. That’s how anxious Thanksgiving made me.

Disclaimer #2: My anxiety had nothing to do with Thanksgiving itself, although I know that is a reality for many. If you would like to know more about how I’ve tried to decolonize my brain and my thoughts on Thanksgiving, don’t talk to me, read and learn from the actual source. You can access indigenous voices on the topic here and here. Challenging my white family members on our views of Thanksgiving does make me anxious every year, but I see it as my duty and I don’t allow myself the right to complain about it.

Then I realized I was anxious for many reasons that are indicative of our cultural stigmas around mental health, our societal culture of “toxic positivity,” and norms around what is and isn’t acceptable as “small talk” with people you don’t see very often. Luckily, my Thanksgiving was actually pretty amazing. There were fewer people there than usual. The relatives that did come are people I see fairly often (who are already updated on my life). None of my worst-case-scenarios came true and I was able to take breaks when I was feeling overwhelmed.

That being said, I decided I should still write a post about my feelings leading up to “the holiday season” this year, as I have a feeling I’m not alone in this anxiety. So, below you will find some of the things associated with the holidays that make them so damn hard when you have depression.

“How are you?”

I hate this question. As a culture, Midwestern Americans especially ask this question as if it’s another greeting. A mere synonym for saying hello. The problem is, I have met very few distant acquaintances/extended family members who actually are interested in how you are doing. Instead, the expected response is a simple “good” or “fine” or, if you’re feeling spicy, “living the dream.” Then we get to move on with a surface-level conversation, re-breaking the ice that formed between us over the passed months of little to no contact.

The problem is, I’m not good. I don’t feel fine. And I am definitely not living out my dreams right now. I am depressed. I just spent 48 hours in a psychiatric hospital because I made, and almost acted on, a suicide plan. I am taking a two month leave from work. But when people ask how I am, they are generally not looking for me to unload on them about my depression. They don’t want to hear the details of my low self-esteem and PTSD. When people ask “How are you?” they are looking for the culturally accepted stock-answer that will help them break the ice and feel more comfortable.

This cultural norm makes me feel trapped. I no longer have the emotional capacity to pretend everything is fine to make others feel more comfortable. Forcing myself to paste a smile on my face and make small talk like this is forcing myself back into the bottom of the well of my depression. It makes me feel disconnected, alone, invisible. Since my mental breakdown, I have decided I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to lie and say I’m fine when I’m not. And if my answer makes the questioner uncomfortable, maybe don’t ask how I am if you don’t want to hear a genuine answer.

And, ultimately, why? Why would my genuine answer make someone uncomfortable? Why would a family member, who claims to care about me, who is asking how I am, feel uncomfortable with me talking to them about my depression? Knowing my depression makes others uncomfortable is part of what kept me from opening up about it in the first place. This need to hide my depression and appear is if everything is fine for the sake of others’ comfort is part of what forced me on the island that led to my suicidal ideation in the first place.

Catching Up

Last year, at my family’s Christmas Eve party, I announced that I was the 2019 recipient of a prestigious award in public teacher terms, especially as a 4th year teacher. This year, at my family’s Christmas Eve party, I have nothing to announce. My only “news” going on in my life right now is my mental breakdown.

I only see many of my family members twice a year: for Christmas and for our family reunion in the summer time. We are not unique in this pattern. “The Holidays” are a popular time of year for making announcements as most people can count on getting their family in one place for in-person communication and celebration. Even sans important announcements, these infrequent meetings usually result in a great deal of catching up. I can expect a lot of questions about my life, my job, and the general goings-on over the previous six months of not seeing each other.

Let me be clear, the practice of asking about your family members’ lives is not a bad thing. The problematic part is our cultural stigmas about what types of “news” people often feel comfortable sharing and/or hearing about. Telling my family about an award I won was exciting and exhilarating. I announced it with pride, confidence, and (dare I say) swagger. On the other hand, having a mental breakdown, spending time in a psychiatric hospital, and taking a leave from work; all that doesn’t seem like news I should be sharing. It’s too negative, too dark.

When I think about answering my relatives’ queries with the truth about what is going on with me, I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Like I somehow failed (especially in comparison with where I was in my career last year). Furthermore, the topic of mental health isn’t something many families I know talk about openly. I’ve operated within a dynamic my entire life where we only talk about happy things because we don’t want to bum anyone out or make anyone uncomfortable.

This seems harmless. If I don’t see someone for a while we obviously want to keep our time together positive and fun. Unfortunately, this is an example of “toxic positivity.” According to Psychology Today, “The phrase “toxic positivity” refers to the concept that keeping positive, and keeping positive only, is the right way to live your life. It means only focusing on positive things and rejecting anything that may trigger negative emotions.” Forcing ourselves to only share positive things reinforces feelings of shame and failure when you are going through something that isn’t positive. Feeling ashamed of my depression is part of what made it so difficult for me to seek help. Feeling like my loved ones don’t want to hear about my darkness reinforced my need to pretend everything was fine. This led to those same feelings of isolation and invisibility. My depression is part of me. I don’t want to be ashamed of it anymore.

Hugging

If your family is like mine, everyone expects a hug hello, and a hug goodbye (I also have 27 first cousins, and my family events run 100 people strong so this process takes some time). I love my family very much. I am not a hugger.

Being forced to hug family members as a kid was the earliest messaging I received that my body is not my own property. I have anxiety. Part of my anxiety is an extreme discomfort being touched by people with whom I don’t have an intimate relationship. Regardless of my feelings towards hugging, I grew up in a socio-cultural environment where it was considered rude if I didn’t hug even one family member in both greeting and farewell. If I refused to hug someone, my elders would be disappointed in my “attitude.”

The knowledge that I will be forced to hug 100+ people that I barely ever see is daunting. Attending a family party means knowingly walking into a situation where I will be forced out of my physical comfort zone against my will over and over again. Additionally, the knowledge that my natural boundaries around physical touch is a disappointment to my family members increases my feelings of shame and failure about my mental health.

I do love “the holidays.” Like many people I know, some of my favorite childhood and family memories center around this time of year. But I also have depression and anxiety, and navigating the holidays and mental health is difficult. If you’re reading this and you have a family member that suffers with mental health issues, think about what it would take to be an ally to them as they navigate the social politics of family functions this time of year. Although spending time with family can be stressful, it was also my family that made my Thanksgiving so pleasant as the people in attendance chose understanding and support over commitment to social norms. And that’s all I can really ask for.

Chosen Family.

Angela Bowers Photography
Northville, MI

Chosen Family: People who you care about and consider family.

This term has emerged within the LGBTQ+ community to describe the support systems queer folks build themselves (often after being rejected by their natural families).

It is a term I want everyone to know. There is power in this term.

As a culture, Americans often put a lot of stock in the “nuclear family.” One mom, one dad, and their biological children. This cultural value has crept its way into every american’s brain through politicized homophobia in our government.

When we move away from thinking about the “nuclear” family and towards the “chosen” family, we empower ourselves to find love and support within a wider, more complex and interesting community.

These are pictures of my sister, my nieces, and me. A different kind of chosen family than you were probably thinking after reading about the term’s connection with the LGBTQ+ community. I am not attempting to co-opt the term from the LGBTQ+ community. Nor would I like to detract from the conversation about family and acceptance for LGBTQ+ folks. And, for all intents and purposes, assuming there has to be romantic love between parental figures is indicative of our cultural heteronormative indoctrination.

These are my nieces. But in a lot of ways I have been a parental figure to them since they were born. I have changed their diapers, helped sleep train them when my sister was at her wits end, comforted them through cutting their first teeth, taught them new words, done my best to instill values of open-mindedness, kindness, and inclusiveness within them, and sometimes I’m the only one that can get them to eat.

My sister and I also have had a yin and yang connection since I was born (her fiery aries personality clicks perfectly with my wishy-washy pisces). We have been each other’s unconditional support system for eternity.

These family portraits mean so much to me because they represent one of the most important familial connections in my life. This is why I survived and continue to survive 💕

The Utility of Astrology (from the point of view of a Depressed Atheist)

I am a pisces sun, gemini moon, and pisces rising. I barely know what that means. To be honest, I don’t even know if I used the correct verb in that sentence (is it “I am a…” or “I have a..?”). I don’t really “believe” in astrology, literally speaking. But I love astrology. And I believe there is utility in astrology. I follow meme accounts on Instagram. I have a pisces symbol tattooed on my left wrist. I’ve been known to drop the occasional, “You’re such a [insert sun sign here].”

But I am also an atheist. I have never been spiritual, or religious. My parents tried their best to make me a Christian, but I was never a believer. I am pretty cynical about belief-systems in general. So why? Why would a self-identified [depressed] atheist be interested in astrology?

Astrology provides me with a language to talk about myself in a positive light.

I have been working really hard recently to improve my self-image. I’ve always had low self esteem. One of my goals is to develop more self-compassion and self-love. In all the emotional work I’ve been doing, I always get tripped up on a lack of language to speak about myself positively. After a lifetime of self-criticism and self-doubt, I haven’t spent much time trying to define the things about myself I like.

Horoscopes and internet literature about astrology and sign-based characteristics use affirming language. They cast a diverse range of personality traits as strengths. The weaknesses, or personality flaws, paired with each sign are typically described through a narrative of self-acceptance. By seeing yourself in these descriptions you feel good about yourself and a connection to other people with a common identity.

Astrology allows me to communicate about my feelings without having to be too vulnerable.

When I see things on the internet that express feelings that I identify with, it’s exciting. This isn’t a unique phenomenon. The flourishing of our meme and gif culture is evidence of our desire to see our inner-most feelings represented through a clever reference or image evoking a common feeling among those who see it.

I’ve never been very skilled at sharing my emotions with anyone. So, when I see a meme that explains one of my feelings by pointing to my gemini moon, it feels validating.

Then, being able to share that meme allows me to share that intimate part of myself in a risk-free way. And anyone who takes the time out of their day to look at my post has the potential to feel a little bit more connected with me (I thought about this because of a meme shared on Instagram from my favorite astrology meme account @crabintwinsclothing). I don’t know if that emotional quality I have really is due to my moon sign. But either way, does it really matter?

Astrology is a conversation starter. And I suck at small talk.

I really have a difficult time meeting new people. I am super awkward at introductions. I don’t do well with small talk. Unfortunately, we live in a world where small talk isn’t altogether avoidable (and I don’t want people to think I’m a dick).

Luckily, the pisces tattoo – easily visible on my wrist – often becomes a great ice breaker (frankly, all of my tattoos are conversation starters, whether I want the conversation or not. But that’s a separate issue). When people see the little black symbol, they automatically have a connection to it. I’m not fluent in astrology, but for the most part its present enough in our culture for me and any random stranger to have some kind of conversation about it. Or, when I’m desperately casting around for a topic of conversation to fill the billowing silence I see the tattoo out of the corner of my eye and latch on. I’m fine being the quirky girl asking you about your sign. In this way astrology serves the same purpose as any other label we choose to apply to ourselves. Queer, feminist, atheist. It helps us drive connections with others who have the same interests, ideas, and identities as us.

I am an atheist. There is no god or afterlife I believe in. But I am also depressed. And as a depressed-person, I reserve the right to use whatever tool I want to drive connections between myself, my community, and the world. Maybe astrology isn’t “real.” Maybe it is “basic” or “trendy.” But if it helps me feel alive, then who fucking cares?

An Insomniac’s Requiem

I have struggled with insomnia as long as I’ve struggled with depression. Puberty hit and my brain became my worst enemy. High school and undergrad for me were a stream of foggy mornings after spending nights staring at my alarm clock, doing the mental math to figure out how much sleep I could get if my brain would just shut off. I operated for decades on 2-4 hours of sleep if I was lucky. I had a small collection of friends who were fellow insomniacs. We would stay up all night texting, attempting to chase away the darkness consuming our overtired brains. There were many nights I didn’t sleep at all.

Since starting medication to manage my depression in December 2018, it seemed I finally had my insomnia under control. Balancing out my mood resulted in 8-10 hours of sleep nightly. I fell in love with sleep. I learned what it felt like to conduct my days well-rested. I became a nap enthusiast. I even slept in on the weekends. I forgot what it felt like to wander the house like a ghost, listening to the sounds of the blissful sleep gracing everyone else with its presence.

Since this newest, and rather more intense, depressive episode, my relationship with sleep continues to shift. Since the beginning of October I had been over-sleeping. I came home from work and immediately would fall asleep on the couch, only to wake one more time to eat dinner. I would put my head down on my desk and sleep during my prep hours at work. On weekends I wouldn’t even get out of bed. Although I realize this isn’t the healthiest relationship with sleep, I would take it any day over insomnia. I was enjoying my oversleeping. Relishing in my blanket nests I built in various places around my house. Finding comfort in the blissful oblivion of my subconscious mind. That is, until last Friday.

Last Friday, insomnia came rushing back to me like your least favorite ex that you keep bumping into when you’re at Target and it’s been 3 days since you’ve washed your hair. And I’m realizing for the first time the connection between my insomnia and my depression.

My insomnia and my depression feed each other. They’re best friends. Business partners. Lovers. As I lay here frustrated at a time of night I would so much rather not see, my brain careens down a darkening path that makes me feel sad, chaotic, and out of my own control.

Thoughts I’ve been trying to avoid stream across my mind and multiply. I feel alone. I feel sad. I feel hopeless. I feel disconnected. I feel empty. I hate my brain. I hate myself. I feel annoyed that I’m here, awake, having these thoughts when I could be sleeping. When I should be sleeping. I just want to fucking sleep.

Me and my cat, Detective Olivia Benson, after a particularly good nap. Look how happy we are.

An Open Letter to My Loved Ones

From a Suicide Survivor

I am one person who has made a suicide plan I didn’t act on. I wouldn’t begin to assume that I am able to speak for anyone else who has experienced depression, suicidal ideation, and/or suicidal attempts. That being said, I decided to turn this letter into a blog post in the hopes that someone, somewhere is helped or feels a connection to it.

Since leaving the hospital, I have found that my support system has had a difficult time supporting me in the ways I need. In my opinion, societal stigmas surrounding mental health has created a culture of silence. This culture is so instilled within us, it often makes it terrifying for a would-be supporter to approach their loved-one going through depression. So, in the spirit of being more open about my emotional needs, I wrote a letter to my loved ones about how I would like them to support me:

Dear Loved Ones,

I understand that it must be difficult to approach me right now. What I’m going through must seem confusing and scary. I know you are trying to be there for me, but you may be struggling to know what to do. Therefore, I created the following list of things you should know as you think about supporting me:

This has nothing to do with you.

I love you very much. There’s nothing more you could have done to have prevented me from being suicidal. Those were not thoughts I shared out loud with people. And when I did share them out loud, the people I shared with responded appropriately. We followed protocol. I went to the hospital. I am alive. If I had confided in you about my suicidal thoughts, I believe you would have gotten me the help I needed.

Reaching out to remind me I can confide in you is much appreciated, don’t expect me to respond.

I want to hear from you. I want a heartfelt reminder that I can talk to you. That my mental health issues aren’t going to scare you away. That you love me and would be devastated if anything happened to me. This is helpful as I experiment with talking about my emotions and allowing myself to be needy. I want to know if you’re open to talking about mental health.

That being said, I don’t owe you anything. Please do not be offended if I don’t confide in you. Please don’t feel as though I’m snubbing you if you find something out on my blog and I didn’t tell you in person ahead of time. I got to this point because I have devastating issues talking about my struggles. I am sharing exactly what I can, with whom I can, when I can. I want more people to know more about me and my journey. But I can only share information in my own way, at my own pace.

I am desperately needy for your time and attention.

Acts of Service and Quality Time were tied for my top Love Languages. I am feeling very raw, emotional, and needy right now. I feel a deep sense of loneliness. Worse still, it’s a loneliness I created myself. I am so fixated on being the perfect friend, and not being a burden, that I don’t confide in people. Therefore, people don’t ever know when they need to be there for me. Well, right now, I need you to be there for me.

I understand what it’s like to be busy. As a teacher, I realize that “time” is everyone’s least favorite four-letter-word. I have struggled giving my loved ones my time in my adult life. I want to change this. It is one of my personal goals to give my quality time more freely to those I love. You may not have the most time to spend on me, but if you would be willing to pencil me in, reach out, set something up, even if it’s just lunch.

When we spend time together, we don’t necessarily have to talk about suicide, depression, or mental health. I would actually probably rather not.

Not everyone is comfortable talking about mental health. Not everyone is ready to hear the nitty-gritty of all my baggage. I may not even be ready to tell you that stuff. So when I say I need your attention, I literally mean I want to hang out. I want to have good conversation with eye contact and minimal distractions. I want to watch and discuss true crime documentaries while eating ice cream out of the container. I want to get weirdly invested in trashy competition shows that mean very little to our lives. I want to come up with ridiculous business plans that we will never follow through on.

I won’t be able to commit to certain activities for a while.

Sometimes when I’m depressed, I can’t stand being in public. It makes me feel like there is a spotlight on me. Like someone flipped over a rock and exposed me at my slimiest. Sometimes, in the middle of a depressive episode I will get a burst of energy. And I want to spend time outside. I want to feel like I’m part of the world again.

The thing is, I can’t guarantee what I’ll be in the mood for at any given time. Therefore, please be patient with me if I need to change plans at the last minute, or if I attend the beginning of an event and then have to leave earlier than planned. Please don’t take it personally if I bail. Or if I come, but am not the most animated and energetic version of myself. I appreciate you and your invitations to anything you want me to attend. Please keep them coming. Please realize that me declining your invitation doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It just means I’m not feeling able to fulfill the social expectations of that event at the moment.

I know that all of this is difficult. A big part of the difficulty is that we’re both grieving the fact that I nearly took my own life. I’m sad about it. I’m sure you’re sad about it. We can be sad together, and then we can move on together too.