Right Here! Direct from the Lamp!

It always takes a random death or shake up for people to remember what a terror depression is, but as soon as the fray begins to fade, people forget that there are still a large number of us who deal with depression every single day.  That there are still a large number of us who have been affected by depression's wrath, and our lives -while potentially decent now- have been altered eternally.

I've been at my new place of employment for a whopping 4 1/2 months people say to me all the time things like: "You are always so happy." or "Do you ever stop smiling?"
They are mostly right. I am always pretty happy and I do smile more than most people.  I even laugh so often that my abs are sore when I come home from work, but no one knows that I struggle with depression.  No one knows that every day I fight demons that I cannot escape - no matter how hard I try. 

We all fight demons. We all figure our shit out differently than the next guy - some of us never actually figure it out.  Some of us cannot deal with what we are dealt.  I usually have an okay time with my demons; they each have names and places where I keep them, but not everyone is so fortunate.

Perspective is the hardest thing to keep with us every day.  It isn't something we set on an alarm and at 12:30 every afternoon we are reminded to keep ourselves in check and to quit being so judgmental or harsh.  It isn't something we can put in our wallets and when we go to the store the cashier will ask "Do you have your Perspective Rewards card today?"  Perspective is one of those unsung heroes that rescues us sometimes when we least expect it.  Like during the tragic loss of Genie.  :(

I have always considered myself lucky to be someone who suffers from depression.  And not because I like the looming gray cloud over my head, but because it reminds me to keep my perspective in check.  It reminds me to appreciate a really good day.  It reminds me that when I have anger or hate in my heart that maybe someone else is suffering too and I should just let it go.

Yes, sometimes it takes someone else's tragedy to shake me back into reality for a moment, but when it takes my perspective to a whetstone and sharpens it up, I can be nothing but grateful. I suppose perspective is my phenomenal cosmic power. 

I will miss Robin Williams for a great many reasons.  At 31, I got to be alive for the heart and soul of that man's career.  He will forever be my Genie of the Lamp.

Right here direct from the lamp.  

Right here for my very much wish fulfillment. RIP Robin Williams.  My Genie.

Everything & More

When you are four until you are eighteen you are constantly asked: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

 At 31, I suppose people think you have your shit together. As if you should have decided what to be for the rest of your life.  Most people decide in high school or their first years of college what they want to do for the rest of their lives.  I feel bad for those people.  I have no desire to do one thing, in one attitude, for the rest of my working life.  Every single aptitude test I have taken in the last 5 years has come up inconclusive. Even the acclaimed Myers-Briggs test - that men & women put on their online dating profiles: ISFJ or whatever.  I was every single letter at a complete 50/50 split. 

Then I took a 2-credit college course that is designed to guide you toward your career path.  The course was a complete waste of time for me.  I left more confused than had I not taken the class.

So I came to my own conclusion: I want to do everything!

I want to help people and rescue animals. I want to see things I have never seen before, and do something that makes my anxiety on the verge of overload.  I want to be a teacher, a writer, an editor, a coach, a waitress, a secretary; an unlimited number of things- just because, well... I can.  I don't understand the limitations people set for themselves.  Or why they choose a career based on a paycheck rather than their own happiness. 

Of course, money is the "bff" of happiness in most instances, but realistically, I don't want my 9-5 to be so miserable that I have to drink when I get home or take it out on my kids or spouse.   I want to wake up each day and not only love what I do, but live for what I do.  And for me, there are not boundaries to what that contains.  Yes, I am in school for Journalism and Political Science, but does that mean those two aspects of my degree will define me?  Absolutely not, thankyouverymuch!

Maybe all of this makes me naive.  Or flippant.  Or even a bit flaky, but I honestly don't know that those things concern me.  If at the end of the day I can lay my head on my pillow and know that I am doing what I love, then what else is there?

Shoulder Jousting

I am currently at a mental standstill. Like when you get on the teeter-totter and your weight is the same on both sides. Neither of you can go up or down, yet your feet have lifted off the ground.  You just kind of sit there... in limbo.

I have a cartoon angel and devil sitting on each of my shoulders coaxing me into and out of a not-so-fun dilemma.  I can only consider myself completely human when I listen more intently to the devil.  He just has way better tips for being a bitch.  The angel is way too nice and wont do me any favors at the end of the day.

While I would love to indulge those of you who actually read this babble with the details of the said "dilemma," I cannot.  It wouldn't be appropriate to reveal intimate secrets on the internet.  I am a way classier girl than that.  At least I try to be.

What I can say is that I have made so many choices for my daughter that have only partially benefitted me, but were always with her best interests at heart.  I didn't neglect her certain things in this life to make her suffer or to rub it in other people's faces.  I did what I did, because it is what is best for her and I. 
I get to say "her and I" because this is a team effort. This life consists solely of her and I.  We have been doing it alone -together- for over 2/3 of her life. I am sorry if I think about her and not you.

People always think they know better than me what is best for the life I have created.  Most people lead incredibly selfish lives and don't stop to think that different people are in different situations. Or that while they might struggle, someone else's struggle is completely different - eventho they could be like a distant cousin.

I guess that what I mean most of all is that, while I listen to this battle of epic proportions going on atop my shoulders day in and day out, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much for people to take a step back, close their mouths, and stop judging me and my choices. 
I try my very best not to judge your decisions and your misgivings - knowing all good and well that you, too, have your fair share of cartoonistic spirits goading you into troublesome dealings.  Lord knows, it is quite a feat.

"...Humble Pie for fifty bucks and a case of beer..."

For those that know me, saying that I am headstrong is a bit of an understatement. I am stubborn, reclusive, proud, and even too honest. 

Above all of those sweet adjectives is my lack of ability to apologize - unless I am in the wrong.  If I am in the wrong, then by all means, I am sorry; However, if I did nothing offensive, then you may not want to hold your breath and wait for an apology.

Denzel Washington once said in Remember the Titans, "I don't scratch my head unless it itches, and I don't dance unless I hear some music. I will not be intimidated. That's just the way it is." And like Coach Boone, I do not apologize unless I have done something wrong.

In the last month, I have apologized three times (ugh... THREE TIMES!) for offenses that were not a fault of my own.  I cussed, a stamped my foot, I facepalmed several times, and I even growled in anger at people assuming I should do such a thing.  Apologize for something I didn't do?  What kind of world is this?  A crazy one, let me just say.

This is not to say that when someone bumps in to me I don't say "Oh, I am sorry!" because I do.  Or when my kid is in someone's way at the grocery store and I apologize for her inability to pay attention.  And these reasons are not a fault of mine, yet I will still apologize, because I am kind and it is the right thing to do.  I am overly conscious of my surroundings.

This month's monumental apologies came more or less from me eating a piece of humble pie, and sucking up the fact that people sometimes get offended by the things I say. When I am not in the wrong, this is not okay for me.  I am blunt and a bit corrosive.  I often use sarcasm to replace my ire, and apparently people are sensitive.  

I am soooooo not sensitive.  

People's every day emotions don't make sense to me and to be honest, I don't want to understand them. I do, however, understand that just because I am not affected doesn't mean that others are not affected as well.  I get it.  Which is where the pie eating came in in the first place. 

So here's to being 31 *Raises glass* and turning over (okay... like slightly lifting) some new leaves.  And putting some of my predispositions and my pride into a lawn and leaf bag, dragging them out to the curb, and letting Waste Management take them away.

Imaginary Love

I may not be the best kind of friend, or girlfriend, or fiance, or wife.  I may not be the "Mother of the Year" or the "Employee of the Month" but what I lack in those areas, I make up for in knowing exactly who I am.

I don't need a series of relationships to define me.  I don't need to prove to the world how in love I am or how my bff is better than yours.  I don't need to post endeless pictures of my perfect life to try and prove to people that I am happy.  I don't need to post status updates every five minutes that no one cares about.

-----

The mirror would show you the mess you are, if you would walk by slowly enough to see your reflection. 

The mirror would tell you stories of your disasterous life, if you would just look at it directly instead of seeing only what you want to see.

The mirror would show you that you are not perfect and that is okay.

The mirror would tell you that your scars are what defines you.

I'd be afraid of the mirror if it told me the truth too.  

The truth I didn't want to hear.

The truth I didn't want to see.

The truth that you are made up of pretend things.

The truth that you have no substance.

The truth that you are a bad friend.

The truth that you are selfish.

The truth that you have created the world you live in on imaginary love.

The mirror would show you, if you just stopped to look, that you are a mess, just like everyone else. 

The mirror would remind you that it is okay to be a mess. What are you trying to prove anyway?

How much better you are than everyone else?

How much more you have to offer than everyone else?

You are no better than anyone else.

The 'you' in the mirror would remind you of that, but you are too afraid to look.

I would be afraid of the ugliness too.

Old Yeller

Last night, in 45 degree weather, I sat behind homeplate watching my daughter's softball team bring home a win - their second of the season.  Softball brings her this great amount of joy.  Not only does she love to see her friends a few nights a week, but she also loves learning about this game.  In years past it hasn't been like this.  She was a decent hitter, but not great in the fundamentals department.  She liked playing but it wasn't her favorite thing to do.  Lately her love of the game has been radiating from her fingertips.

For me it is quite the opposite.  This year marks my 26 years in the game; I have been playing since I was 5.  I was practically born on a diamond.  While my three older brothers played baseball, I was dragged from field to field, with a layer of dirt covering every inch of my skin, and a small bag containing Matchbox cars and a shovel. 
The ball fields have been my second home as long as I can remember.  '
And I love being there. I love eating horrible, highly-caloric foods.  I love sitting on the bleachers for so long that I can't stand up straight afterward.  I love listening to the coaches acting like this is the ALCU championship game when in fact it is a recreational league and you win a free trophy that was Made in China for .01 cent.  I love when it is 45 degrees outside, I am swathed in a blanket, yet somehow I get completely sunburned.  The sights, the attractions, the foul balls, the popcorn, the bright lights... I love all of it.  With the exception of the "playing" part.

Over the last few years, softball has become a chore instead of a love.  When it is rainy out, I become super excited that maybe my games will get cancelled.  When it is a holiday and we are off that weekend, I do mental cartwheels because I don't have to go to ball.  This is exactly how I know that I am done playing on leagues.  When it stops becoming fun there is a problem.  I suppose the same could go for realtionships, but that sounds like a topic I could blog about all on it's own.  I have just recognized the probelm early on and decided not to beat a dead horse.

I am going to retire from softball.

Not like I will get some kind of pension from it or cash out my 401K, but I will hang up my cleats and stick to watching ball and coaching my daughter - who is becoming an good little ball player.  I am proud of my daughter.  She has that spark that I seemed to have lost.

And I am okay with having lost it.  I still love the game. I love being knowledgable, rooting for the Tigers, and playing catch in the yard or hitting grounders to her in an attempt to improve her fundamentals. Even drawing maps of diamonds on computer paper and explaining to her "turning two" or why an out was forced or not.  Baseball is in my blood and I am certain it will be until I die.  My love for the game hasn't gone anywhere.

My love for playing the game, however, has been dragged out back and slaughtered.

Five more weeks...

Every Tuesday night, part of my soul dies.

This semester has proven itself to be the worst of my educational career.  My collegiate pilgrimage, might I add, is proving to be the longest relationship I have ever had.

It's okay, because I truly love school.  Nothing makes me happier than a fresh college-ruled binder and a brand new black ball-point pen.  New folders, new sticky notes, new text books, new friends in new places, and new teachers to make me even more excited than I was the semester before.

I have thoroughly enjoyed every single second of my time in college...

Until now.

From the very first day of class on Tuesdays this semester, I knew that I was in trouble beyond trouble. 

I have a mouth. That is something that does not take a brain surgeon to grasp.  I like to openly express myself when I feel I am being mistreated or when I feel like you are being a dick.  Sometimes I just lack the filter portion of my brain and will openly say what I am thinking whether I am completely ostracized for it or not.
Even my daughter says "You know when you say the first thing that comes to your mind?  Normal people don't do that."
Thanks, Bird.

So this professor.  5'2", 172 years old, with a PhD from Yale.  He looks like he may have crawled out from underneath a pile of hippies at Woodstock.  The fact that he doesn't smell like Patchouli is utterly surprising.  On the first day of class he asked if anyone minded if he went barefoot. After slipping off his strappy sandals, he wandered around the classroom during his lecture with his toenails that look nothing shy of those greenish/yellow potato chips you sometimes find in the bag. Yes...Those.  And he looks like this:

This past week he told me "He should plan my demise." Also that I go around slandering Mormons and I just "can't do that."  I also know nothing about love if I don't know the true basis of where passion lies.  The guy is a complete nutter, yet I paid him $308 dollars to tell me I am stupid and above all, incompetent.  

I am willing to bet that I could pay a bunch of people $200 to do the same insulting. Maybe even $100.  That's a pretty good price for boosting one's self-esteem.

I've been counting down every week.

Five more weeks, five more weeks...

 

*Update: I got an A+, over the allotted percent in this class.  Phew.