Depression with a View.

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One of the unfortunate side effects of experiencing depression is that you actually understand depression. When you hear of people locking themselves in their room for weeks at a time, or having nervous breakdowns at intersections, or finding an answer in the end of a rope, you think to yourself: yeah, I get it. 

It’s a tad jaded, maybe, but it’s just the way it is. And I suppose somebody needs to get it, right? After all, if there weren’t people like me, support groups wouldn’t exist. 

In a twisted sort of perception, I feel fortunate. I am someone who has gained a type of emotional intelligence, albeit a wretched, cursed one. And with the understanding comes an ability to possibly help someone who finds themselves in a place I once was. I’m not saying I pulled through those moments in the most graceful of manners, or that I’m some type of expert, but I still pulled through. 

And at the end of the day, I guess that’s what matters.

Or, it is what matters. Which will be something I’ll remember the next time I’m smothered by the dark, because I’m not naive enough to say I won’t be. Who knows, I might be the girl you see having a breakdown at an intersection. Look for key signs: Texas license plate, New Jersey hair, and a North Carolina-born tendency to insert the word “y’all” after “fuck.” There will probably be a lot of angry, fist-to-wheel action, too. 

There are other times, though, when I wish it didn’t get it. I wish I was more emotionally simple, so I could hear these things and be bewildered instead of empathetic. Then I wouldn’t have to relive or rethink any of those parts of my personality. I could just feel sad. That’s all. Not contemplative, or so complex I wanted to rip my skin off, just sad, like a majority of people do. In a twisted sort of perception, I think those people are fortunate. 

They don’t understand what it’s like to fantasize about suicide. What a blissful thing this must be. 

But I wonder, which of us fares better when we have to deal with our loved ones falling apart? Does an understanding of the deep make it easier for us to cope? We have no questions of “why” and we don’t try to rationalize. It just is. And we know the person will probably, in the end, be okay. But, does it bring our own flaws too close to the surface? We get to remember - “oh, yeah. I’m poisoned.” For those who don’t know how it feels to self-loathe into an anti-social puddle, they can find relief there. They can feel lucky, and reassured. But, is the issue so far removed that a lack of understanding makes it harder to sympathize? “They’re just being dramatic,” could be a common thought. They might also worry, excessively, overbearingly so, causing anxiety-born stomach aches and smothering tendencies. 

And one of the questions serious depressives hate to answer on a regular basis is, “are you okay?” 

Because on the days where it’s hard to hide, by the sixth time we’re tempted to point a finger in the askers face and go, “no. The fuck I’m not, buddy.” Or maybe that’s just me. Because my personality also has the genetic flaw of being from New Jersey. 

Anyway. I suppose neither of us, the empathetic or sympathetic, really come out anywhere near “the top”. We still have to watch someone we care about struggle inside themselves, and no matter how far or close that feeling may be, it’s universally one thing: hard. 

The 20 Nothing’s.

“Are you an anxious person?” someone who barely knows me but read my blog asks. 

“Well, fuck,” I think, “is that the vibe I’m giving off?” Right now I’ve resigned myself to the fact that yes… yes it is. 

I’ve been writing myself lately, writing exactly the way I speak even. And to be completely honest it’s a confusing, odd, difficult, mind bending time in my life. I’ve moved to a new city, am suffering from post traumatic graduation disorder (PTGD), and harbor a general feeling of listlessness. I’m not ashamed, that’s just life. I happen to have it on good authority that this is, in fact, normal for someone of 23 - or as I so fondly like to refer to this time as, the 20 nothing’s. 

We are everywhere. 

Bachelor degree’s in hand, we stick them in frames to collect dust while we wonder - alright, now what? We’re most likely serving your table or frothing your cappuccino, silently resenting the fact that you seem to be a real, functioning adult who didn’t need 20 minutes to decide if you wanted skim or whole milk. Oh, and look, you can actually afford the fuckin’ grande. 

It’s not our fault, this lost feeling of whatthefuckdom. The truth is the value sets have changed. Before, our society was mainly programmed to the following: graduate, occupate, consummate, procreate. Get your education, ensure salary to pay the mortgage on your single story rancher, find a good spouse and make a darling little family. Maybe in some minds that still bodes true, but for the most part the only programmed focus is: me. 

We want to be happy. And we’re not settling for less. 

“I just want to wait until that something amazing comes along, cause I know it will,” my friend with an economic degree in the back pocket of his line-cook pants perfectly puts it. 

The house, the family, the cubicle. It’s all been put on the back burner for now. Those ideals cycled out of style to be replaced by the sublet, the friends, the freedom. No longer are we ruled by the idea of milestones and checkpoints, rather we know that when we get there, we’ll get there. It can be as simple as that - can be. Because while the value sets have shifted more to experience then expectation, the knowledge that eventually we have to get there still creates pressure and thus our angst. 

“I mean, I make enough money and it’s fun, but I know it’s not life fulfilling,” my friend continued. 

Fulfillment. It’s the bottom line for us. 

While we may inwardly wrestle our conflicting hedonist and ascetic notions, we’re still content in our discontent. These barista and bartender gigs aren’t cutting it forever, but they’re cutting it for now while we figure out how we want to fill that greater purpose - a purpose that’s only inside of us, and no longer in material facades. 

Listen to Yourself and Get the Fuck Out There

You have to be your own motivational speaker. 

There’s a reason those preachy, big lettered pamphlets are called self-help books, and it’s because they are exactly that - a self. The self of the writer, scribbling out advice they’ve learned from going through their own fury of problems. 

If I were to write one, it would read something like this: “Put this down, listen to yourself, and get the fuck out there.” 

This genius idea for a self-nonhelp book comes after performing a social experiment on myself, one fueled by the simplest conversation between not so simple people. 

“Seriously, I give the best fucking advice,” a voice over the phone says, “too bad it doesn’t do shit for me.” 

“Yeah,” I reply, “I never take my own advice.” 

Such truth. Such bullshit. 

Why don’t we take our own advice? Are we all such masochists we’d rather struggle in discontent, or is it just easier? To fix a flaw you need to recognize the imperfection, and no one likes to see their issues under the harsh light of honesty. Words come easy but actions come hard, and never harder then when you’re in  your own personal pit. 

Cause depression… it melts movement. 

Steps becomes viscous on the floor and hands slide off every day tasks. Grey haze over eye sight and it’s all a noir film, waiting for your hollowed out eyes to intake the baneful workings of a world moving without you - a world that just doesn’t get it. 

(Except it does.) 

I was dangerously close to being guilty as charged, dancing between white and black, flicking in and out of my own noir reel. 

“I never take my own advice,” an echo resounds, and I think - fuck this. What would I tell someone in my position to do? What would I tell my friends? It goes something like this: 

If you’re unhappy, change it. 

If it scares you, do it. 

If you’re lost, embrace it. 

And so, I did. 

Like a marionette on strings I pulled myself from bed, groggy and heaving from having to push the weight of the world off. Toes dragged on hardwood through rooms, limbs robotically hinged into position, smiles reluctantly pasted themselves into place. The day wore on. There was always a shadow overhead. And despairingly I thought - maybe it’s not that simple. 

Except that was day one. 

Day two was easier. 

Day three, just easy. 

Day four, a breeze. 

By day five it was abundantly clear that the disgustingly cliche notion of “positivity yields positivity” was true. I call my friend back - 

“Hey, I took my own advice.” 

“Yeah? How’d that work out?” 

“Incredibly,” I brag, “you should do it.” 

“Yeah… I know.” 

So close out this blog, listen to yourself, and get the fuck out there. 

If she were ever a ticking time bomb, now was the time. Each step under her ground was delicate and the cracks on the sidewalk reflected up into her mind. “It’s all a cycle,” she reminded herself, “it won’t last. Nothing really does.” It was this perspective that slowed the flame on her fuse, but as the heat inched closer she wondered how long a concept could halt reality…
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If she were ever a ticking time bomb, now was the time. Each step under her ground was delicate and the cracks on the sidewalk reflected up into her mind. “It’s all a cycle,” she reminded herself, “it won’t last. Nothing really does.” It was this perspective that slowed the flame on her fuse, but as the heat inched closer she wondered how long a concept could halt reality…

The False Factors

While there are many uncertain things in my life right now, there is one question that weighs upon me most: Where do I want to move? 

If you’re one of the few people that have tracked this for awhile, you may wonder: what happened to New York City? The place where dreams come true and the sky is an architectural awe? 

 

Well, I’ll tell you what happened. My desire to move there was fueled by three things - my best friend, my cousin and the lure of easy street. 

My best friend lives there. It was her dream; work in fashion and live in New York City, a lofty goal that she accomplished by fasting on Ramen and holding 12 stepping stone jobs. It was appealing to think of moving somewhere and automatically being handed back my best friend, someone that when the stress of a new city crumbled in would rush over with a pint of ice cream and complete empathy. 

My cousin… that wasn’t as innocent. My relationship with her is deeply rooted in my psyche; gnarled veins I didn’t know to lay coiled on my spine until recently. With a 14 year age difference and her fabulously wealthy lifestyle, I idolized her. I didn’t think about her money coming from her parents - all I saw were the Manolo Blahnik pumps and a care free smile. I thought she was wise, and now I see this for what it really is: naivety and stubbornness only found in those who have always get what they want. A Manhattanite to the tee, she urged me onto the decadence of the city.

And then there was the lure of easiness - a thing no one equates with New York. But I, a hood winked fool, thought that my cousins connections would let me stroll into the door of whatever publication I may so choose.

HA.

I received some hopeful emails, a promise of a spring meeting or two, but the funny thing about the most powerful people in an industry is that they are cunning. And they can tell when a girl like me, whose emotions are usually smacked across her face, is confused and doesn’t know what the fuck she wants. Which leads to another funny thing about them: they don’t fuck with uncertainty.

The factors added up, and with nowhere else on my radar they were the only one’s that could accumulate into any type of sum. They seemed the right path to follow, even though in my gut I knew New York wasn’t going to be the place for me. I remember eating at a restaurant there with my best friend and mulling over the thought of moving.

“It just seems like a place where you’d fit in and do so well,” she pointed out. I looked out at the street, a never ending stream of cars and people and noises and light, and all I could say was:

“I just don’t think it would ever feel like home.”  

Boo.Hoo.

I’m over this whole moody-broody thing right now. I’ve been sitting around, feeling so fucking sorry for myself. 

“Ugh! I live at home!”

“Ugh! I live in New Jersey!” 

“Ugh! I can’t find a job!” 

“Ugh! I don’t know what to do with my life!“ 

WHOA IS ME. 

Boo-fucking-hoo, right? Welcome to the bane of almost every post-college graduates existence. I swear, sometimes I forget that you know, there are 7.5 billion people on this Earth and a whole shit ton of that make up are twenty-nothings as well. 

And probably twenty-nothings with a lot less luck than I have. I mean, at least my parents are awesome enough to take me back in. And at least they’re also awesome enough that I only need to work one pathetic serving job instead of three. 

Besides, I need to adjust my perspective. I should actually finish those thoughts and not cut them off midway, where it sounds like the ranting of a basement-dwelling pothead. 

“I live at home! (cause I’m saving money to move somewhere else!)“ 

“I live in New Jersey! (cause as much as you’d love to deny it, thats where the fuck you’re from!)” 

“I can’t find a job! (cause you’ve barely looked!)“ 

“I don’t know what to do with my life! (cause you’re only 22 years old!)“ 

I need to be my own motivational speaker - make up my own positive affirmations. Without them, the dark swallows me. And when the dark swallows me, I am in the no man’s land of my soul and not a single thing or person can touch the light that buries itself out of sight. 

Sigh. I should really relish this time. I can sleep until noon, watch all three Lord of the Rings in a day, take off on weekend road trips. When a 9 to 5 pops into the picture, my days of reckless lethargy are gone. I will have to be a fully functional human being… 

….Gross. 

Forgotten But Aware.

Apparently, I’m not a blogger. I always forget I have one. I become consumed with living my reality instead of writing it. 

Plus, I’ve discovered that I tend to use this as the ultimate platform for word vomit. My last entry is a prime example. Feeling blank and not having the guts to verbalize it to anyone, I turned to the grandest audience of all - the internet. And true to my dramatic personality, I missed not one beat of sounding like I was going to recede into the bleakest chasm of my being and never return. 

But, I’d never allow myself to do that. I’m capable of it, but I won’t allow it. 

With such an emotional make up, I require a necessity to my composition: awareness. Without awareness, I’ll completely fall into myself. I’ll step into that cavern where hope is extinguished and cheer denied and never come back. So I must always know: this is only you, being you. And you will bounce back. 

An astrology book I read over the weekend put me this way: “The highs experienced by the June 22nd individual can be as euphoric as a religious experience or drug use. However, the lows are just as profound.” 

Never has a complete stranger written such truth about me.

I figure that as long as I remember that another high is coming, I’ll always be able to survive the murk of the lows. Of course, I can’t even remember that I have a blog….

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