Tag Archives: depression

Why I’ll Start Writing Again

Whoa, I just read what I wrote almost a year ago– That’s some dark stuff there.

I didn’t remember having written that, but looking back I understand what was going on.

That’s the power of blogging.

Well the old me is back, the real me, the one who uses a pseudo-pseudonym and wants to write 24/7, even when I’m dreaming.

The truth is I never really stopped writing; it was just very dark and lonely and unsuitable for this blog’s audience.

So it was on Tumblr.

Naturally.

I don’t want to go into details about the past, but my marriage is as good as it’ll ever be.

I am less interdependent so if that relationship goes down I think I might skip a beat but probably not 2 and definitely not 3.

Now I no longer commute for work. My boss got me an office a few blocks from my home, so I could concentrate on sales, and I no longer have to wait for coworkers to leave the room before I can write.

I’m all alone here, just me and the Internetz.

And the phone. That rings every now and then but I’m not sure how it works. I think it’s trying to tell me something.

Oh! My faithful subscribers. How I’ve missed thee. If only you could know the anguish our separation has wretched me with. I shalt never leave thee again!

Unless I die. In which case, leaving thee is entirely involuntary and should not be held against me.

Unless it’s suicide.

If I kill myself you can be mad at me. But not if it’s accidental, like an overdose. Stuff loses its strength over time. They don’t make it like they used to.

Anyway, let me tell you what my office is like.

It is on the second story behind an art gallery which sells weird ethnic art, like the African pieces my boss had at his office. I imagine that subconsciously it largely influenced his decision to choose this location.

There is a winery next next door and the mother of the owners is a new friend of mine from my church. My friend also owns the vineyard so in a way it makes me feel special somehow even though it has little to do with me.

In my office, there is a tiny window out of which one can view happy little people- “kids” i think they are called- playing in a park-like setting, around a beautiful fountain surrounded by red and yellow sycamore trees.

The window has bars over it in the old Spanish style and is a small reminder that whilst i am at work, i am to think of myself as a prisoner and partake in none of those joys which i may observe below.

My one point of social interaction is when i walk to the post office every day, or when i get lucky, the FedEx drop off.

The clerks at the post office know me now and they are like 100 times nicer than the ones in DOWNTOWN SANTA BARBARA- yes, I HOPE YOU ARE READING THIS you mean clerk who made shipping packages from there a living hell.

(Just that one clerk though- all the other ones were nice, especially Daniel and Michael. I think they are vets). (War vets not animal vets otherwise their career counselors should have told them).

Everyday the bell at the post office tower chimes out a song. Lately it’s been a lot of Christmas music, which some of us find tastefully offensive. But mostly it’s old American classics, the same kind that used to play in my 65 Mustang’s AM radio.

My office kind of has more space than i need and no walls. My boss let me have his old glass desk so i need to rearrange the computer stuff onto that but i’ve been meaning to do it for 6 weeks now and i just can’t seem to bring myself to do it.

I have what they call lazyphoria.

The office is very cold but it has a brand new climate system which no one knows how to program for heating, only for cooling.

Sometimes i bring my guitar but i can’t play very loud because i’m afraid the other tenants will hear me and ask me to perform for them. Then my boss might find out i’m using the office for concertos and then he’d want to get me a bigger office. But i like this one just fine.

There is a skylight on the ceiling.

Well duh, it’s not like there would be a skylight on the floor… *clears throat*

I guess that counts as a window too. I can see some form of rusty pipe and sometimes clouds, but today the sky is blue- like a tepid sky-blue.

Once, down the hall, the hatch to the roof was open and I climbed the ladder because no one was around and the hatch was open, beckoning for someone to climb up through it. There were only more pipes and roof gravel.

Downer down the hall there are a couple of architects who mostly just look stuck up but are actually quite decent, i imagine, and a married couple who are masseuses, (am i saying that right?) and they are just about the nicest people one could ever meet.

Downstairs there is the shared girls’ room, which ought to have but does not have a mirror, because i assume the other tenants are too ugly an no one wants to remind them of that.

Someone is building a tapas bar so i have that to look forward to.

Perhaps then i shall make a friend or two.

But knowing me, i’ll probably just observe them and then write about them.

So now you have something to look forward to too!

 

 

 

 

 

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The Last Day of My Life at Bar Happiness

If at the end of your life, you were given the option to live one day out of your life over again, just one day, just for the next 24 hours, what day would you choose?

Who would you spend your last day with?

More importantly, how do i come up with these questions, and why do i try?

We were eating at California Pizza Kitchen, one of my favorite places (even though today they put bacon on my veggie pizza and brought me the Seasonal Sam Adams instead of the Draft) when my mind drifted to when we ate pizza in Florence.

Next my mind drifted to when we visited Lago di Garda in northern Italy.

And I then asked myself
How do I work this?
And I then asked myself
Where is that large automobile?
And I then told myself
This is not my beautiful house!
And I then told myself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Sorry, mind drifted again.

(Letting the days go by… Water flowing under-)

And I thought,

Same as it ever was.

j/k ok sorry, i thought, i would love to live that day over again.

The day we spent at Lake Garda.

Bar Happiness
Happiness Bar at Lago Di Garda where you can literally drink up happiness.

So naturally i asked my husband the question at the onset of this post: what day would you live over?

His answer didn’t shock me but it was a wake up call.

“I would choose the day my mom told us she was expecting my brother.”

Aww! How sweet, right? Wait. There’s more.

“Because everyone was there. My brother, in my mom’s womb, my sister, my dad and my mom.”

Everyone was there.

As in- everyone that matters?

Everyone you would want to spend more time with?

Everyone who isn’t your wife (aka- ME)?!?

Wait- there’s more.

“I was going to say our wedding day but my sister wasn’t there.”

I wish i was making this up.

But it’s practically verbatim.

Then of course i proceeded to get all teary-eyed, after which his usual reaction of having no idea what’s going on with me- the “did I say something” script.

I tried not to dwell on it and changed the topic to pizza.

Then he asked me the same question.

“What day would you choose?”

I was embarrassed of my initial choice.

I ransacked my memories for alternates.

I came up with a couple other memories i could do over.

Both with him in them.

“It’s not important,” i said, dipping my pizza crust in ketchup.

He insisted to the point that i figured he must be thinking i must be thinking of some other guy, all the while i was really thinking, ‘don’t let him know you love him more than he loves you, don’t let him know you love him more than he loves you.’

I had to come up with a better answer fast.

“You know, i haven’t really thought about it. Rather, i need to give the answer more thought.”

So now i’m thinking, whatever day i would want to live over- i probably haven’t lived it yet.

Cause if all my favorite memories are post-marriage, and yet my marriage-mate essentially does not see me as part of “everybody,” then perhaps i’ve overrated my life thus far.

Maybe, if God gave me the choice, i’d just say, “uh, thanks, just shut me in a cell with an ocean view instead. That way no one has to spend any more time with me.”

Italian Audi
Or maybe i’d just ask God to please let me drive around Lake Garda in an Italian sports car listening to The Talking Heads.

Because if i’m not “everybody,” then I must be some form of opposite of that.

Perhaps, “nobody.”

At least not anybody important.

The good thing now is, i’ve got two cats that really look up to me.

Sure, i’ve had more suicidal thoughts in the last couple weeks than i did in the last 6+ months, but it’s hard to leave or kill yourself when that would disturb your cats’ daily rituals.

Also, i’m not sure my alter-ego would be able to update this blog as well as i do.

TBH, she’s kind of neurotic.

Psychological Displacement

Ever feel psychologically displaced?
Lately my opening lines have been optimistically poised in the form of questions.
I’m not 100% sure what it means to be psychologically displaced- if it’s a cool term I just made up a couple minutes ago or if it’s a real thing.
Let’s assume I’m making it up, that way I can take full creative liberties.
Psychological Displacement is when you can’t find your anchor inside you- the one that tells you you’re real.
For instance, some minutes ago, my co-worker and I were toying with the idea of taking a class together.
I was going on about how much I miss school, and she was going on about how dumb she is, so we flipped through the community college’s course catalog.
Of course, we had to focus on courses without pre-requisites, but I was still excited.
Then I couldn’t find anything that interests me.
There’s got to be a thousand courses in there, and not one makes me feel anything.
This is very unusual.
Am I depressed?
But I can’t feel it.
Then again, I am sucking on a butterscotch lollipop.
My mind is usually very active.
I often find myself telling me to shut up.
Especially at 4 AM, I wake up and it’s like I’m a tiger running at full speed through a jungle, except that the monkeys hanging along the way are all people nagging about something.
But at this very moment, nothing or no one engages my attention.
I could plan a vacation, but that usually implies flying (flying+me= panic attacks).
There are a few tasks I could work on in the office, but that usually implies working.
I probably need a good novel.

image
The other day I almost kidnapped a hen on this street. That was sort of exciting.

I don’t follow too many people on social media.
It depresses me when other bloggers don’t engage.
I probably need something like a friend or something.
My husband texts me usually every day but he’s really busy and doesn’t get my jokes.
It’s ok I guess. He tries.
Well not the jokes.
He doesn’t even pretend to get them.
Hardly anyone does.
Idk maybe I’m not amusing.
Maybe my cuteness is an illusion of mine.
Or delusion?
At church all I ever want to do is draw.
I sit in the corner so no one sees me.
I think I’m going to start going to an English-speaking congregation on the side.
Maybe I’ll make new friends.
Or at least I’ll get to draw new people.
The thing missing in me is passion.
Everything seems to have already been done.
Overkilled.
I still take great pictures.
But it seems like it’s enough that I see them.
I have no pressing need to share them, like before.
Maybe I’m lonely.
But not for people in general.
I should’ve had a sister.
My ex-psychologist once told me life screwed me over by not giving me a sister.
I have these friends: B. and C.
B. is my best friend.
But she is the female personality version of my husband.
Super ultra mega busy.
She’s always there when you need her, but it better be important.
C. is easy to talk to and very creative.
But she doesn’t open up to me about her own life problems, so she’s more of a therapist than a friend.
R. is another friend.
We communicate in the same wavelength but unfortunately she’s 15.
Starting to get a bit too mature.
Other than that I don’t have close friends.
Just acquaintances and cats.
Maybe I need to change my entire approach to life.
Maybe drinking isn’t the answer.

Advice on Befriending a Married Person of the Opposite Sex

If you are a married person,  don’t invite your spouse’s ex-BFF to dinner telling your spouse last minute when said ex-BFF has only kept in touch with you but ignored your spouse for the last five years.

And if you are the ex-BFF, don’t keep in touch with your ex-BFF’s spouse for five years after you called your then BFF to tell her she is a whining, self-serving hypocrite while she was at school and you’ve  made her cry in public and then ignored her for five years.

Just saying.

Exciting News. I guess.

I remember the Golden Age of blogging.
Back then I’d get up to 2 page views per day.
Once I even got 4 likes.
Nowadays I’m lucky if I have one visit per week.
Blogging is in a way Survival of the Fittest, I suppose, but I just refuse to quit.
My third grade teacher told me I was going to be a writer and I’m sticking to that.
Still… Some days I can’t help but wonder what she saw in me.

Sure, we got the house alright, and that is super exciting and all, and I would have shared the news here first…
With the loyal readers who are intimately familiar with my dramatic backstory…
How I was so poor after college and totally suicidal and then pretty much homeless six months ago, living on less than $1000/month (trust me, that’s nothing in Southern California)…
And now in what seems close to a miracle, suddenly a homeowner.
And not just any home…
A creek runs through the back yard (or would run through it if we weren’t in a drought)…
Tons of squirrels…
Lovely neighborhood in which we literally saw Magneto walking down the street the other day.
The town is a haven for painters, playwrights and musicians.
I fit in.

Yes, I am happy, and I want to tell the whole world.
But my loyal readers are more of an abstract concept than real people, so this happy ending didn’t get the momentum I would’ve enjoyed.

I was going to post the following pics on Facebook but my husband says it is insensitive of me cause a lot of people at our church are losing their homes.
Yeah.
I’m so insensitive.

image

As you can see, the house is plagued by giant pink happy cloud monsters.
image

...again, under attack.
image
Our realtor brought us this house warming gift.
image

This isn't manipulated. There actually were two giant birds on our bodies.
image

Random anonymous new homeowner's (cute) feet.

I Think I’m Depressed

I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I was depressed as a side effect of my ADHD for so many years.
Then I learned how to manage it better.

There’s always a choice factor.
What to do, what to do…
Something positive, something destructive…?
Being positive is more fun but after a while you realize, or rather, I realize -I forget I’m the one who gets distracted, not you, necessarily, unless I’m boring you, which I think is safe to assume I probably am, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt- I realize that either way, happy, angry or sad, the fundamental problems persist.

I hate it when people aren’t straight up with me so I will try to be straight up with my reader.

It is wearing being tied to someone who basically has very little time for you.
A lot of people think I have so many advantages over them because I read a lot, use technology more, because I was born in the U.S., because my husband has a steady job.

I have no one to talk to when I’ve had a hard day.
Except my cats.
Sure I have a lot of friends but I’m not particularly close to any of them.
Not to the point where they’d support me if I ever needed a place to spend the night.
Of course not.
Why would I need a place to sleep?
I have a hard working husband and my parents are still alive.

It’s like I’m isolated on so many levels but none of them tangible.

How do I get support for things no one can see?

Have you ever tried to sort a Rubik’s Cube and all the little squares fall out?
It happens to me.
Every single time.
Since I was 8.
I feel like one of those Rubik’s Cubes I broke.
Waiting for someone to either come and fix me or throw me away.
Some quasi-genius child trying to get into classes for gifted white kids from Santa Barbara even though she has a free life pass.
Whatever happened to her?
Oh wait, that was me.

The question lingers…
Am I depressed?
Am I suicidal?
Am I fully functional?
Yes, no, and yes.
Am I lying to myself?

image
Stanley the stapler is my BFF.

Read similar

A Post About My Friend the Amazonian

I have a girl friend going through a divorce.

Well, I guess I always have a friend going through divorce.

What can I say, there’s too much hate in the world.

Though none of them would say that straight out.

“I hate my husband.” or “I hate my wife.”

But how they raise their tone of voice when they’re explaining every way in which they’ve been wronged… The only thing further from love at that point is revenge.

Nevertheless, I’d be the last person to argue the benefits of staying in an abusive marriage.

I mean abusive psychologically or physically.

Most of my friends don’t think you should leave your husband if he is being psychologically abusive; only physically.

Then again, most of them aren’t suicidal.

But this post isn’t about me, it’s about my friend.

This friend is the human version of Wonder Woman.
Works full-time. Babysits her siblings’ kids. Volunteers helping people with special needs and doing heavy duty construction work. Gets up early on her days off to go to the gym. Is always out to dinner with a different party of people who all think she’s great at everything.
I don’t know anyone under 30 who doesn’t think she’s fabulous.

We aren’t very much alike.
But, like me, this friend has a dark side.
And similar to me, no one really knows about it.

Except us two. And now all my subscribers. We are the only ones who know each others’ dark sides.

I can’t say she’s my best friend because if I did, she’d probably stop talking to me within a couple weeks.

(I’m jinxed, don’t ask).

And besides, she is such an over-achiever I don’t usually feel I can be myself around her.

She’s the only person on earth I can talk to freely about men, but I can’t, for example, just break out mid-sentence into a song, the way I do with my less mature friends.

Her personality type is very similar to that of my husband’s: self-confident, stubborn, well-learned, routine, eloquent, righteous for the most part, good joke-tellers, the kind of people who lead a conversation in a room full of people who have very little in common with one another.

The kind of people who are right 99.9% of the time.

And if they’re not, they are so smart they will reason with you to the point that you become convinced that they are.

In other words, quite wonderful people, indeed.

In any case, what I’m trying to get at is, I haven’t been very cheerful lately, in case you have not noticed.

I had some great post ideas for this blog this week, ranging from, “How to Cheer Up Your Cat” to “How to Tell If Your Cat is Lethally Poisoned.”

Naboo is doing a lot better (assuming I not only have subscribers, but that they care about my cat) and she is under medication for another week or so.

image

It was just a tough week in general but God I can’t stand optimists when all I want to do is sulk.

So usually this girl friend and I spend most Saturday mornings together.

But then she texted me a little while ago about how exhausted she is but how great she feels and I’m just like aaaaaaaah stop please and then I made myself throw up.

Just kidding. I really didn’t. But the reflex was there.

She always has these super exciting stories about all the guys that hit on her.

Mine ran out about a year ago; I don’t know what happened.

Maybe I stopped flirting.
Yeah.
That’s it.

I was afraid that if I spent tomorrow morning with her I’d just look irritable and bitter.

She can’t stand people like that.

That’s part of the reason she’s getting divorced. (5%?)

It’s not like I have anything new to say.
I mean, “My cat was sick but she’s fine now,” what- that takes up four seconds, no? Thereabouts?

“I still don’t have a new job prospect.”

“I still can’t afford to move to another place.”

And then she’ll go on and on for the next 2-4 hours about all the men she’s trying to avoid because she just has this magnet personality but is not interested in anyone except the one she’s interested in, whom she cannot have and even if she could she wouldn’t want him.

Ok, she doesn’t say, “I have a magnet personality;” it’s just something I infer as an observational listener.

And then what am I supposed to say?

“Someone called me last week but I guess it was a wrong number.”

“Have they called again?”

“No.”

Then we’ll just stare at the surfers awkwardly for a minute or so and she’ll mention she doesn’t find any of them attractive.

Of course not.
Why would she?
She’s Amazonian.

 

 

bipolar bear cat toss

When Someone Says “I Don’t Admire You”

Has anyone ever told you they don’t admire you?

How is one supposed to react to a comment like that?

Is throwing things at them out of the question?

What if the person is a really close friend, relative, or someone you really look up to?

What if you’ve looked up to this person for years, confiding in them, trying to please them, and all of a sudden you come to find out this whole time they’ve simply been putting up with you, that they think they’re above you in every way…?

What if you have to live with someone who has such a low opinion of you?

Wouldn’t you want to throw things at them too?

I’m not saying anything sharp or heavy.

Something big enough to get your point across but that doesn’t leave a mark.

bipolarbear-cattoss
Don’t forget to use your death-ray stare against your aggressor as you throw a fluffy object at him.

 

People- we all tend to say stupid things when we’re angry, and if we’re always angry, we’ll only say stupid things.

“Stupid” in the sense that they don’t contribute anything positive to this here world of ours which is already in a sorry state, and the mean comments could have gone without saying.

Ok, yes, he doesn’t admire me. I’m not admirable. So what?

I’m already trying as hard as I can to be a good person.

The inability to impress someone who means a lot to me only discourages me. It kind of makes me want to run through traffic or off a cliff.

But one person’s opinion can’t be my whole world.

My opinion of myself always has to carry more weight than others’ opinions of me, because aside from God, no one else understands my circumstances.

That is why it’s so important to have a healthy self-esteem to begin with.

Every morning, wake up and thank God he made you so great.

Some people think love and admiration go hand in hand.

Others think you can love someone without necessarily admiring them.

Both points of view seem valid.

In other words, I have no idea. I just know it hurts.

Coming North by Ave Valencia

Coming North

This is the story of a girl who fell in love.
Hard.

Everything she ever wanted in a person, she found in one man- without even looking.

He was serious, responsible, witty, knowledgable, respected, hard-working, just, good-looking and an heir to profit- everything she wasn’t.

They had things in common: chess and Casablanca, theater and church, even vegetarianism. But ultimately it was their goals that brought them together.

They married between purple mountains and a turquoise mediterranean sea on a warm summer morning and moved to a far-off deserted castle the very next day.

Together they worked the harsh rebellious soil til it gave fruit. Date and plum blossoms began to bloom everywhere sunlight fell. The birds returned. They sang for her.

The years passed and they had not had children. This was irrelevant to her but one day a mid-wife checked the now-woman’s belly and told her she was barren. The woman was only momentarily disturbed, for she lived in a placid bubble of serenity. She had a calico, a German Shepherd and a lamb named Noah.

But her husband had no such bubble.

One day a horse-cart rode up on the side of the road and a traveler gave the man a letter. The man read it every day by the fireplace for six months before finally telling his wife that his grandmother was ill. They must move back to tend to her.

“Why can’t she move here with us?” asked the woman. “After all, she is from around here. I bet the country air would do her good.”

The man’s countenance had grown cold and rigid over the last six months, only she barely now noticed it.
“We are going back.”

The woman cried but silently now for she perceived her opinion made no difference.

When they arrived at Grandmother’s house, the woman tried to get along with everyone but she did not feel she was really a part of that family. Having no land to sow, she took to studying, but books can be an expensive hobby. Grandmother quickly regained her health and started boarding all sorts of young single men to help with the rent. But she continued to split her family’s cost of living with her favorite grandson.

The woman knew not what to do. On the one hand, she had no money. She managed to get a relatively “normal” job where she quickly learned to delegate her tasks to her handsome co-workers. But she did not have peace.
She no longer knew her husband. He seized to live for her.

Then came a pleasant surprise, for it turned out the woman was carrying twins.
She kept the pregnancy to herself, afraid her husband would take it the wrong way. But of course eventually the twins were born. They were two tanned baby girls with brightly colored eyes, bearing much resemblance to her. Only they both had tails.

“What is it that you have done, Wife? These cannot be mine!” exclaimed the husband.
“Oh but they are! Believe me! No one else’s could they be!”
This argument went on for years and years during which time the girls grew beautiful and intelligent while their parents (for the husband was, in fact, the biological father) grew further and further apart. At one point the man stopped believing in love altogether- not moral love, for this story isn’t about conventional love, but affectionate love.

The woman was lonely and by way of turning down various real suitors, she began to have conversations with imaginary ones.

“How was your day today Honey?”
“Again? Don’t waste your thoughts on that.”
“You are with me now.”
“You are right, we should go there In the summer, but I bet it’s more fun in the winter.”

At first her daughters didn’t notice. When they would hear her she would pretend to be singing. But eventually one said to the other, “Who is mom talking to?”
And the other replied, “To herself.”

From then on they grew anxious around her and encouraged her to stay inside, afraid she would embarrass them. They were a lot closer to their father by then.

So the woman took to writing and every time she picked up a pen and paper, this is how she’d end:
“I use you. I cannot see without you. You are my North.”

No one ever read what she wrote and upon her death- for she died of sadness- her letters were cremated along with her body. But somewhere in the world there is a soul who will live a happy, productive life because she evoked a final prayer for him on her deathbed:
“…He was my north.”

Coincidentally for WordPress Daily Prompt: Unconventional Love