Tired of Fighting

 Maybe the pharmacy changed the manufacturer for my anti-depressant. Maybe I need to spend more time outside. Maybe I'm not eating right. Maybe I need to exercise. Maybe I can fix this.

These are all the thoughts that are burning through my mind tonight, at 10 pm, as I try to decide what to do next. I am crying, for no reason, because that's what depression is. I am fretting about how my friend won't respond to my small talk texts because maybe she doesn't like me anymore, or so my anxiety says. So I do what I have been doing for years, the only surefire way I have to combat these feelings: I write.

I am so very tired of fighting depression, but I will not surrender to the despair. I take out my battle weapons: my writing, my water, my family support. I sit up and roll my shoulders back and I type. And in this way, I am fighting my war. 

The tears have stopped flowing now. This one thing, writing my truths-- this, I can do. This has held me up for years. This has given others insight and opened my online community up to hold me up and keep me fighting. I need that support now. 

What else is there to say? I tell myself to keep writing, keep spilling ink because at 10 pm at night that is what I need so I may sleep peacefully. I need the familiarity of thoughts on screens and the familiar click clack of keys as my words take form. 

Some people turn to substances, and I thank my lucky stars (or, more accurately, my parents and community) that I have found this productive way to express my pain, my stress, my battles. I don't know how far my words will reach tonight, but they are giving me peace. 

I started typing this post in tears and I am ending it with calm. The storm has passed, flowing through my thoughts into this post that maybe no one will care about but still it has given me something. It has given me freedom from the clutch that is depression. 

Depression, anxiety, and mental illness take over every part of life. I worry about my depression as I sit numbly, staring at videos and trying to escape into another headspace. I think about my ADHD when I walk, convinced that exercise will help; the doctor said so. Even the things I do not do because of my mental illness, my battles creep amongst everything I do. They scurry out at random times, taking hold of my mind and sending me spiraling.

But not writing. Writing is my sword and I am fighting back. When I am in my writing headspace, my mental illness is my audience instead of my conductor. It sits quietly before me, waiting to hear how I will transform my pain into truth. Into stories. Into love.

I am here. I am transforming and I am understanding. I am living. I am writing. And I will keep writing, because writing is my best friend and my battle partner, carrying me into peace.

Dear Past Me, Dear Future Me

As many of my readers, friends, and family know, I am a mental health advocate with lived experience. I suffer(ed) depression, anxiety, a misdiagnosis and overmedication, ADHD, and other issues connected to those diagnoses. 

It's been a while since I've written about this, been a while since I wrote on this blog at all. Maybe part of me was afraid to reengage with the demons of my past for fear they may return to haunt my present. But that is far from the truth. As Oscar Wilde once wrote, "Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future."

And so I would like to take this time to write a letter to my past and my future self, and any other individuals out there who might need these words. This one is for us.

Dear soul, dear person, dear lovely precious star of light,

Hello. It's me. I don't know who I am to you, or who you are to me. You might be a friend of mine from high school or college, someone I shared awkward glances with from behind my tortoise shell glasses. You might be the child of a friend of a relative of my mom's, and maybe this blog has spoken to you because you too are feeling hopeless. But you are reading this, and in this moment, we are connected. It's me. I'm here. 

I'm a preschool teacher!

I come from a family of educators. My dad is a college professor in American Jewish studies, and my mom has taught and subbed in elementary school for as long as I can remember. When my sister and I were growing up we had a little playhouse outside we converted into a mini classroom, complete with an old fashioned desk, a chalkboard, and dusty, cobweb covered workbooks. I was always the teacher and Shayna was my student (other than the times she wanted to be the cleaning lady). The schoolhouse was later converted into a chicken coop, which was later donated along with the chickens when I left for college. But some of my fondest memories stem from my aspirations to emulate my parents, to teach, empower, and engage.

Around September of this past year, I was enrolled in a graduate program for developmental positive psychology at Claremont Graduate University. I tried to convince myself this was a good fit, that teaching would be too draining and I wanted to work in research or the clinical practice. After a few emotional days and what I would consider a full breakdown, I decided to reexamine my choices. (For a longer description, see the full post)

I majored in psychology at Pitzer College and managed excellent grades and strong extracurricular activities. My main work experience came from the Autism Center at Claremont McKenna, which led me to the graduate from at CGU. What I discovered while at CGU was that while I loved working with the kids and engaging with behavioral psychology concepts, the research, academics, and statistics were not suited for me at all.

So I took a break, a gap year if you will. I had rented an apartment in Claremont and my lease lasted a year, so I stayed. I decided to try and find my path.

One reason I love my apartment in Claremont is the proximity to Starbucks. There's a small shopping center about 500 feet from my door, which includes the Starbucks I went to on a regular basis in my undergraduate time. What I also found was a daycare/preschool called Kiddie Academy, right next door to my favorite Starbucks, just a stone's throw away.

My mom encouraged me to apply, but I was hesitant. I was convinced teaching would give me burnout, a defeat even more intense than my breakdown from the psychology master's program. But here's the thing about burnout:

It's harder to burnout when what you are doing lights you up.

Joining the Health Club

New Election Cycle, New Me

You've probably heard of new year's resolutions. You know, the time of the year you are definitely going to lose 20 pounds, go to the gym, wake up early, and cook a three course meal every night? Yeah, that idea. Well, I'm starting some now, on a Tuesday in November.

Living for the Future

Graduate School Anxiety and Overall Stress

As you may have heard, I am starting graduate school at Claremont Graduate University in Positive Developmental Psychology. I am pursuing my masters at the moment, with hopes that perhaps I would continue on to get my doctorate. And it's time I admit something: I am scared. I am terrified. I am overwhelmed. I am vulnerable.

Starbucks Routine

Enjoying a drink during a long hot day of touring London

For those of you who have not heard, I will be attending Claremont Graduate University, pursuing a masters in positive developmental psychology. (I have a blog post about it, if you are interested in reading more.) I moved back down to Claremont a couple weeks ago, about a month ahead of classes starting, in order to settle in to my new place and get my routines set prior to the stress of my new graduate program.

It's been about two weeks, and I'll be honest: it's lonely. Not in any terrible way, but at night, when it gets dark and all I have for company is my kindle and my knitting, it's lonely. 

But I'm finding ways to make it work-- ways that include my favorite morning blended ice drinks at the nearby Starbucks.

Speaking Up, Speaking Out

My journey of de-stigmitization

Dedicated to my inspiring sister, Shayna

For my younger sister's high school senior project, she decided to record and present stories of mental illness in an attempt to further de-stigmatize our community discussion around mental illness. I could not be prouder or more impressed by her final project and presentation, in which she also spoke of her personal struggles with chronic anxiety and the pain she suffered watching me suffer all those years ago.

Shayna spoke of the pain she held onto as she was forced to stay silent, hold in this family secret of how badly I was doing. We told no one of my diagnosis, out of fear of judgement and isolation. Shayna had to spend long hours in the waiting room of doctor's offices, alone and lonely, holding so many secrets and the stigma and forced to grow up before she even hit puberty.

When you want to give up on life: Advice from a Suicide Survivor

If you are struggling, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is open 24 hours everyday

1-800-273-8255 and https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

I am a suicide survivor. I survived years of suicidal ideation and one small attempt. And I am here to tell my story.

http://eponis.tumblr.com/post/113798088670/everything-is-awful-and-im-not-okay-questions-to

Okay, where do I start? Well, I think this would be something that those of you who read my blog would assume. Which is weird. The same way you could assume I enjoy reading and knitting and stickers make me smile you can also assume I've tried to take my own life.

But I am here and I am living. And I am eternally grateful to my parents, my support system, and whatever other divine forces and human commitment kept me moving forward into the future and into the woman I am today.

A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear younger me,

I'm sorry for what you are going through. I am sorry I cannot say anything to make it go away because it will be years before that even begins to be a possibility. I am sorry you are in pain. I am sorry that even if now, I promise you, with absolute certainty, it will get better, you will not believe me. I'm sorry you have to deal with this.

I guess I could tell you it will all get so much better, that a light will turn on and the dark cloud will leave and you will have life. I suppose I could make those promises knowing now that it will come true. But in your state, all I can tell you is to wait.

Wait through the dark years, the fog, the confusion. Everyone says high school is the worst, that turning 13 is just a death sentence for your emotions. I don't know what to say other than I believe you. And please, for both of us, just hang on a little longer.

When the nights get dark and scary, remember you have a family and a community behind you. Define yourself by your strengths, your creativity, your writing. Prove to the doctors and the world that your life matters. That despite everything, you are still breathing. You are still waking up every morning and pushing through another day when all you can see is gray and black, depression and fear. 

Mental Illness: My Story

I wrote this piece for my creative non-fiction class last semester. I've wanted to share it for a while, so here you go. Enjoy, stay strong, and my love goes out to all of you.

Home

Trigger Warning: Depression, Mental Illness, Suicide, Self-Harm

  

Note: I will be discussing very heavy themes such as suicide, self-harm, and mental illness. Please always remember to take care of yourself and know that your mental well-being is more important than any article or written piece

I grew up in a small town filled with pretty girls and awkward boys, in a town of cookie cutter homes and old money, in a town filled with painful secrets hidden behind lip glossed smiles. The kind of town you can drive through and think about the beauty but not the unspoken truths lurking underneath. I grew up in the picturesque county of Marin, just north of San Francisco, where the homes have ocean views and everything looks perfect. Everything is just so.

In a town of basic white girl living, where Lulu Lemon stores sit next to hipster coffee shops and expensive electronics stores, Marin county does an eerily encompassing job of hiding our insecurities. That is, until said insecurities and silent struggles cause our fellow community members to overdose, or cut their wrists, or jump off a bridge. At that point, we admit they were having a tough time. That this was a lifelong struggle, and they had expressed this pain before. Their family didn’t know what to do. This was just so sudden. No one ever saw this coming.

Why I Stopped Doing Stand-Up

"Self-deprecating humor is the lowest form of comedy. And I can't even do that right." - unknown

From my stand up days. Yes, I had blue hair.

Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, I'll stop what I'm saying and mumble something about how I could totally write a stand-up bit about that. That's not just me being fanciful-- I actually used to perform stand-up comedy at a local open mic bar.

At the time, I was 19 or 20 years old and one of the two female performers who would regularly pop in to the twenty or thirty person open mic. I couldn't drink, but the open mics were taking place at 10:30 pm, so I was plenty delusional and weird anyway.

I tried different styles, I got laughs, and it felt good. I would heckle the other comics (basically boo or shout something from my seat). I could be myself, I could be sarcastic and weird. And it was fun.

In my last post, I wrote about my journey sophomore and junior year to becoming the woman I am today. Stand-up comedy was a gateway to self growth, but it was something I had to leave behind.

The Weakest Link

"A chain is only as strong as its weakest link." - unknown

If you know my family at all, one of our defining attributes is a love for travel. I have blogged every summer for the past few years (Summer 2015, Summer 2016, Summer 2017). Blogging was often my way to contribute, a tradition that began with my dad chronicling Eastern Europe 2012, a trend that I continued. While my dad's posts were mainly educational, I liked to blog funny thoughts I've had and random quirky anecdotes.

My sister is the photographer. My dad is the professor. My mom is the second grade teacher. I am the writer. We each bring our unique gifts to travel, and that's what makes our family vacations so wonderful. But it wasn't always this way. My family is currently traveling through India for 10 days (without me). Considering that I hate crowds, noise, scents, spicy foods, overstimulation, anxiety producing situations, lack of food, exhausting days, and so many other trademarks of India, I am happy to be here in Claremont, organizing my sticker collection and admiring Shayna's photos.

But as I consider what it means to be a part of such an adventurous family, with parents who are willing to accommodate my sensory needs and my anxieties, I feel truly lucky I am able to make it work. But it was a journey to get to the peace of mind I am at today.

My mother is proud of me

One of my favorite slam poems is a short piece by Kait Rokowski titled, "A Good Day." The poem describes what a good day is like for someone with depression, how the overwhelming pain can show how simply getting out of bed is an accomplishment in and of itself. The fight with depression, anxiety, and mental illness is very real, and it is a fight that is so often unseen and unrecognized.
One of my favorite lines is both funny and very truthful. 

My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.

Living in recovery or remission from depression and mental illness means you must celebrate the little victories. And the external validation, the kind that comes from big awards and presentations, is replaced with casual recognition of your perseverance and offhand compliments about how well you are doing.

The Optimist with a Half Empty Glass

I assume you all know the old adage "Glass Half Empty/Glass Half Full". The idea is, when presented with a glass filled halfway with liquid, do you describe the glass as half empty, or do you say the glass is half full?


I always hated this test.

The Struggles of ADHD Medication (Part 2/2)

About a week ago I wrote part 1 of this post expressing my frustration around the lengthy and difficult monthly process of attaining my much-needed stimulant medication. (And to anyone wondering, yes, I did get my medication. Emotional Labor sold separately).

The second part of this post, what I am writing here, regards the abuse of stimulant medication. 

To start, I am not attacking anyone who illegally purchases Adderall or Ritalin to cram for a test. Coffee is a stimulant, and a regular part of American daily life. I'm writing this post at Starbucks with a mocha by my side. My argument is not against using stimulants or against the choice students make to do whatever it takes to get the A. 

Yes, I take ADHD medication. No, you can't have any. (Part 1/2)

One of the most ironic issues with taking medication for ADHD is that I forget to pick up my ADHD medication because of my aforementioned ADHD. With my other medications, such as my anti-depressants, I am able to have them delivered to my mailbox with little to no hassle. However, because my Concerta and Ritalin are controlled substances, AKA they're intense uppers for the Neurotypical individual, I have to jump through hoops to get my daily meds.

I have to remember to email the doctor to prescribe the medication. Following which I have to remember to go to the pharmacy when it is open and make sure my prescriptions are called into the right location. And sometimes the pharmacy won't have the medication in stock, because it is a controlled substance, or I will forget to check a certain box on the psychiatrist's site and the whole process starts over again.

I will admit I have never been outright asked for my medication. I know it happens, especially around finals week, but I make a point to surround myself with people who aren't into that. That being said, two events/encounters in the past week have led to my frustration with this culture around ADHD and college and the implicit suspicion that I am actually normal.

I am brilliant; I am flawed.

About a month ago, I had a pretty long text conversation with my uncle about feminist critiques of the protagonists of coming of age novels such as "Catcher in the Rye". (Because, you know, that's the type of small talk you get with me). My argument, largely based on a piece by Roxane Gay titled "Not Here to Make Friends" revolved around the double standards of personality traits in literature depending on gender. For example, characters such as Holden Caufield in "Catcher in the Rye" are read as dark, moody, mysterious, troubled, while women are painted as unlikable, threatening, and I'll just say it, bitchy.

Slipping

Update: I have found a medication issue was most likely the culprit for my depression. Thank you everyone for your support, and I look forward to returning to stability in the next few days :)


My last blog post was about a month and a half ago. Given that I would ideally be posting on a weekly basis, this is a long time for me to go without blogging. I could give you the typical list of reasons: I was busy, I was stressed, I was overwhelmed. All that is true, but something deeper has been lurking-- I am afraid I am slipping.

When I say "slipping", I mean slipping back into old habits. Slipping back into depression, or into anxiety about the possibility of slipping back into depression (yeah, the anxiety/depression combo can be brutal like that). Slipping for me indicates a loss of control. I know something is wrong, I know I may be headed down a spiral, but I feel helpless to get myself back on my feet.

Say it with me: Mental Illness is a lifelong struggle. There is no cure for depression and there are no guarantees in the world of psychiatry. There are things that work, and those differ from person to person. What works for me might not work for you, and what works for me one day may be completely useless the next.

Here is a list of what has worked for me in the past month. Some days are better than others, and each item on this list has helped me in one way or another. What's cruel about depression is that it forfeits your desire to fix things. It seems impossible until it is done, but once you try it, it doesn't seem so bad.

(Re)Defining Success

In the past three days, I have cried three times (at least). Not for any major reason-- no one close to me died, and I couldn't even blame it on PMS. I've cried on the phone with my parents, I cried walking back from Starbucks. Heck, I'm crying right now. And that's okay.

Let's back up a bit. I'm on my third week of classes of my senior year of college. On paper, the classes sound perfect for me. I'm in Creative Journalism, Conspiracy Theories Theory, Study of Lives Psych course, and Cognitive Film Studies. I've got a couple regular babysitting jobs and my knitting is looking better than ever. My friends are back from abroad and I'm living on campus (albeit, in a significally smaller space than I am used to.) Some days, I still feel like I am breaking.

I tell myself to think positive, that this will pass. And it will, and I know that. I make sure I am taking my medications, eating right, and drinking water. I shower daily and get dressed and I go out. Even if I struggle to go through the motions, I am still miles ahead of the me that's still lying in bed.

Some nights I miss my parents and my sister because in the end, I am still growing up. I missed a lot of years in high school due to misdiagnosis, and my social skills are lacking. College can be lonely, even when you are a senior. That's okay.

How Fidget Spinners Give a Bad Name to the Fidget Toy Game

I love fidgets. I love fidget toys and I own an excessive collection I have picked up from Groupon, Amazon, and elsewhere. And you know what? I hate fidget spinners and everything they stand for.

Study time feat. my fidget cube