I have battled with depression and anxiety my whole life. No, seriously, even as a child. As a child, I didn’t know what it was called or how to put my finger on my sadness. Also, let’s face it – kids can be assholes. So as a child, that’s what I marked it up to – I was always bullied, called names, left out, etc. As an adult I can see that all those things were true, but the pain was compounded by the fact that I had this disease.
I had lunch with my good friend Marcy quite by accident the other day and I told her I wanted to get back to writing. In the past few years I haven’t been able, but lately…well, let’s just say I have some extra time on my hands.
She asked me, “What do you want to write?” Some people want to write plays, musicals, historically inspired erotic fan fiction – but for me, I liken myself to a Mexican-American Erma Bombeck. I observe the world and write about it, framing it through the lens of my humor and compassion.
We talked about Jenny Lawson’s book “Furiously Happy.” If you are unfamiliar with her, she is an author (obvs) with bi-polar and OCD (along with other challenges that currently escape me). However, she has used it to frame her world and survive through laughter. I’ve read half the book (again, haven’t had much time), but I plan on picking it up again. It’s hilarious.
While conversing over a mediocre, Union purchased Baja Fresh bowl, we talked about my depression and anxiety. And Marcy plainly said, “Maybe what you write about, for right now, won’t be that funny.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t a direct quote, but it was something like that.
Maybe, what I write about, is just my truth.
I liken my depression and anxiety to the flu. I don’t know when it will hit, how long it will stay, or how much it will knock me on my ass. Some days I can leap out of bed and face the world with confidence. Other days, I’ll need to force myself out of bed and still others, I’ll need to be coaxed like a newborn baby fawn because facing anything other than my pillow seems overwhelming.
On Wednesday, I sat with my mom through a series of medical appointments to support her. As I waited for her at one appointment, I noticed a woman staring at me. She was surrounded by bags, some of which just seemed to hold more bags. Sans earbuds, she was dancing to a Mariah Carey song in her chair looking happy. A personal party of one.
After a phone call with her mother, she stood up and began murmuring to herself and jabbing the air as if an imaginary punching bag was in front of her. It was this mix of air boxing and dancing, accompanied by a constant stream of babble that I could not make out.
And I, like anyone else might, thought, “Damn. This bitch be cray.”
But as I watched her through my peripheral vision (because staring mouth agape is rude), my heart broke for her. Here was this woman fighting….. what? A secondary personality? Memories of horrors past? Her inner demons?
And then selfishly I thought, “Shit. Just depression and anxiety ain’t that bad.”
Like her, I know I cannot help my condition. It is in my DNA, genetics, and brain chemistry. But, at the end of the day, I can hide my struggle (as I have done for many years). I am not prey to my brain commandeering my body in the produce aisle while onlookers stare and judge me with their carts full of kale and cage-free organic eggs as I jab the air singing “Eye of The Tiger.”
Sometimes, you just have to be grateful for where you are in life, even if where you are is not where you want to be. I am loved. I have friends. I have family. I have laughter. I have good insurance for antidepressant medications.
Despite the struggle, I have gratitude.
Where Were We? 