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.

Fighting Off Depression

We're living in a weird time. I started out counting our lockdown in days, then weeks, and now we are slowly beginning the second month and it is all more of the same. I've been doing a pretty good job lately of keeping my anxiety, ADHD, and neurodiversity in check-- I know what I need for myself and my mental well-being, and to the best of my ability, I accommodate. But a few days ago, I entered the battle of depression.

I never understood the term "fighting illness". I never liked the idea that someone loses a fight because they are not strong enough to battle any longer, and yet, it is the best metaphor I can use right now. Because I am not depressed, or slipping quietly into a depressive episode. I am strongly, bravely, and exhaustingly, fighting. 

My body and my mind wish to go quietly. I found myself crying for no reason, breaking down because my mind had nothing left to give. A gray cloud of depression very much hung over me, surrounding me in fear and sadness and overwhelming darkness. But my spirit fights on.

One of the most profound moments in my depression journey came a few months ago, before the pandemic, before the lockdown, when life was still so normal. 

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. 

Life Updates: September 2019

Alright, it's been a while since I've posted. A lot has happened. A lot has changed. For the sake of clarity for future posts, let's talk about my life.

I started this blog because-- actually, I'm not quite sure why I started this blog. I liked writing, I liked sharing stories of my life in (and now post) college, and I wanted to share that with whatever small audience I might have who was also interested. This blog has given me a lot of closure for certain aspects of my life, such as what I call "the dark years" in high school when I suffered severe mental illness and misdiagnosis (full post here)

I want this blog to be a place where I can share my truths and my life, the good things and the tough stuff. Here's a little of both, in the last couple months.

No Going Back

Every so often I will feel the itch

The regression, reminder of time

gone by. I will remember what

it was like in the dark days, before

I knew what it meant to see light.

My fingers crawl to the phone, wishing

I could text my mother, call my father.

Hear the love and care in their voice,

when they tell me I am doing good.

I do the little things to reach accomplishment;

arrive early to my flight, despite 

having ADHD. I make friends with flight

attendants, despite my social anxiety.

I live every day because I am here,

and part of me wonders if I'm supposed to be.

Rebecca died a long time ago. I killed 

that part of myself, so I could move on,

move forward, be reborn. A better version

of the me that used to be.

See, that's what no one tells you, when

you feel as though you're out of options.

You don't have to kill yourself to be reborn.

You just have to know you are worthy 

to keep moving forward.

I haven't written poetry, not in a long

time. I miss the way my fingers curve out 

beautiful symbols and meaningless tales.

I wonder if the poetic part is still

here, trapped somewhere beneath 

my pressed down darkness. 

We keep a part of ourselves, so we can learn. 

We remember so we may move forward, one foot

in front of the other, knowing we are making

a change, and knowing there is 

no going back. No going back to the 

dark places. My demons have shriveled up,

curled back into a cave, a faraway place

that has no place in my soul. Today,

the light outshines the darkness.

I made it this far.

I will make it farther. 

There is no going back.

Rivi D

July 2, 2019

How Good It Can Feel to Feel Good

Recently, I have been taking mental note of times when I feel good. Not just okay, not just fine, but truly, genuinely, good.

For me, these moments can be fleeting, but I am grateful nonetheless. They are afternoons of winding yarn and listening to a fantastic new audiobook. They are times when I feel inspired by a new project or plan. I am setting up a life for myself in Berkeley, CA, so in August I will be moving there. Thinking about that, planning my move, looking for apartments, and setting up job interviews and opportunities-- all of this gives me joy and fulfillment.

For quite some time now, I have been feeling down. Not clinically depressed, not panic attack level anxious, not the struggling dependence of ADHD, but just somewhat off. I didn't realize it fully until recently, and not until tonight, as I am writing this, am I recognizing the complexity of what I have been going through.

Social media will have you believe I am knitting up a storm of beautiful projects while laughing with my family on the weekends and holding it all together working part time at a local preschool. But that was hardly the case. Because life is never how it is on social media.

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.

Seasons of Love

How do you measure a year?

Rent, the stage musical as well as the movie version, has shaped a lot of my beliefs around living and what it means to exist. (Given my liberal arts education, I can of course look back and see the problematic aspects of the storyline, but for the sake of argument, let's set those aside for now.)

One of the most famous songs from the musical, as well as in general as a Broadway tune, is "Seasons of Love" (or you may recognize it by the chorus, "525,600 minutes/525,000 moments so dear/525,600 minutes/How do you measure, measure a year"). Here's the movie version if you want to check that out.

I've been reflecting on that idea a lot lately, especially since I have begun documenting and essentially scrapbooking my life in my journals and planners. And as December 24, 9pm, Eastern Standard time approaches (Rent reference), I thought I'd reflect back on what made up my year of 2018.

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.

What We Talk About When We talk About Mental Illness

Roseanne, Kanye, and Mental Health Awareness Week

Photo Credit: What I Be Project by Steve Rosenfield

October 7-13 was mental health awareness week, with NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) starting a CureStigma campaign. You may have seen posts on social media of friends or acquaintances posting about their struggles or their allyship/offers of support. If you hadn't seen or heard, I don't blame you-- I had to google it prior to this post. I had heard the term "mental health awareness week/day/month" floating around, and I figured now was as good a time as any to share my personal thoughts.

In addition to NAMI, the constant news cycle reminds us of how prevalent and even marketable serious mental illness is. Kanye West, for example, was recently at the white house, rambling about our country's problems, his solutions, men, male energy, alternate realities, the 13th amendment, and more. He mentioned the Unabomber and prison and bipolar disorder. In general, it was an extremely disjointed and fantastical discussion. (If you are interested, here is the full transcript)

Roseanne Barr, an up and coming (and subsequently fallen) reboot star was recently on the Joe Rogan podcast. She discussed her infamous tweet, her personal history with serious mental illness and psychiatric hospitalization, and the fallout from her drugged out post. I have not finished the full episode yet (it's a two hour podcast), but it is available here if you are interested.

This is a lot to dig through. This is a representation of not only our attention seeking culture, which values the extreme, but also is subsequently a version of how we understand mental illness, specifically psychosis or other dissociated forms of reality. 

To be fair, it could be worse-- at least we're not talking about mental illness because someone with a firearm took that constitutionally protected firearm and used it to murder innocent people. And at least these people in the spotlight are successful in some regards. They are creative geniuses despite their demons. There are so many angles to approach this question of celebrity culture and mental illness.

What is a self described mental health advocate to do?

Finding my Path

Withdrawing from my CGU Master's Program

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out. 

This is a tough post to write. This is the post where I will be talking about my choice to withdraw from my graduate program at Claremont Graduate University, a highly competitive and intense masters track for Positive Developmental Psychology. This is not easy to admit, and yet for some reason I still am writing it. Because there is power and truth in personal vulnerability.

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.

Rivi Graduation FAQ

I've been getting a lot of questions as I near my college graduation, so I figured I'd put together a list of questions and answers to help better illuminate my post graduation feelings and plans.

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.

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.

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.