On Control:
How do you extricate yourself from a
situation in which you're willing to give nothing up? If you cared less
about the outcome, you could just walk away. If you cared more about the outcome, you could take steps to rectify things. Instead, you're in a perpetual state of blah.
You
won't confront it. You will sit back and watch it fall to pieces
without wielding any control, and you will probably laugh about it in
the end because the outcome truly does not matter. But having no control
is a double-edged sword. You make no choices, but you may not like the
aftermath.
On Fake People:
I'm not good at spotting these people. Ali has a gift. She can size a person up in seconds. It's uncanny. I'm wildly
unsuccessful. When people are nice to me, I assume it's because they
like me, or because they are kind people. It turns out, this is not
true. Who knew?
Perhaps I am exceptionally naive. I
look for the best in people. Maybe their best blinds me to their worst
... because as soon as Ali points out the fakeness, I'm appalled. How
could I have missed the sidelong looks, the gossip behind hands, the gloating?
Ali, in short, protects me from the Kim Kardashians of this world.
On Girl World:
Outside
of high school I didn't know this world existed. I can be in a room
full of people, and am completely oblivious to the undercurrents of
metaphorical cat claws. The fake people (see above) are the main players
in this world that I only recently discovered. They are malicious and
manipulative and their minds are distorted by their own strange
hierarchies; hierarchies that, predictably, center around boys.
But this is what makes us girls: we don't stick together because we put boys first. It's just like Lana del Rey said.
They aren't worth it. They never have been. There are a few in the bunch who are good, solid men. The rest are just boys; immature, hollow things who, when measured against something meaningful, are found lacking.
I
wish girls had such a credence as the boys do: "Bros before hoes." But
our culture doesn't allow it. We can't afford to treasure our
girlfriends more than our boys because there is a stigma against independent women. Something must be wrong with her, if she is still alone at the age of 28.
Girl world is an understandable, though sickening, product of our need to be wanted, adored even. It's easier to cut a rival down than to take the higher road.
In conclusion:
I'm not a fan of shallow people.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Grievances
"Emotions that are not acknowledged or expressed tend to escalate."
-Dr. Redwood
I know that I'm coming out of the darkness when I want to write again. I'm good with words, but only on paper. In person I am awkward and clumsy. Only on paper am I ever eloquent.
Back to the point: when I am in the darkness my thoughts go unexpressed, which is why I think I lash out at some of the least deserving people. I pick fights that I cannot win.
When my dad was alive, I fought with him constantly. We were ever at odds, my father and I, being much too similar and far too stubborn. The difference: he let his anger go (mostly through yelling), and I implode on myself.
I hold grudges.
Grudges are, simply put, ridiculous. Even I, a master at grudge-holding, can admit it. The problem with grudges is that they can only hurt you, never the object of your resentment. People often don't care what you think of them, or they are unaware of your animosity. Instead the grudge only eats at you. Any mention of their name angers you. Any glimpse of their face puts you on edge.
It's tiring!
And what is the point? What good does it do you to embrace the bitterness? Why should someone have that power over you?
How many bridges have I burned by holding grudges? And yet I still can't find it in myself to be nice to people I don't like. Perhaps that makes me a bad person, but I have so little energy, I can't justify wasting it on people who care nothing for me.
My people are few, but they are my people, and I am fiercely loyal to them. So to those of you I love, and to those who love me back, let me say thank you for putting up with me when I am at my worst because at my best, I would most definitely die for you.
-Dr. Redwood
I know that I'm coming out of the darkness when I want to write again. I'm good with words, but only on paper. In person I am awkward and clumsy. Only on paper am I ever eloquent.
Back to the point: when I am in the darkness my thoughts go unexpressed, which is why I think I lash out at some of the least deserving people. I pick fights that I cannot win.
When my dad was alive, I fought with him constantly. We were ever at odds, my father and I, being much too similar and far too stubborn. The difference: he let his anger go (mostly through yelling), and I implode on myself.
I hold grudges.
Grudges are, simply put, ridiculous. Even I, a master at grudge-holding, can admit it. The problem with grudges is that they can only hurt you, never the object of your resentment. People often don't care what you think of them, or they are unaware of your animosity. Instead the grudge only eats at you. Any mention of their name angers you. Any glimpse of their face puts you on edge.
It's tiring!
And what is the point? What good does it do you to embrace the bitterness? Why should someone have that power over you?
How many bridges have I burned by holding grudges? And yet I still can't find it in myself to be nice to people I don't like. Perhaps that makes me a bad person, but I have so little energy, I can't justify wasting it on people who care nothing for me.
My people are few, but they are my people, and I am fiercely loyal to them. So to those of you I love, and to those who love me back, let me say thank you for putting up with me when I am at my worst because at my best, I would most definitely die for you.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Maudlin Thoughts
Sometimes I think I write characters who have so many legitimate problems because my own problems are so intangible. If I had heart disease or diabetes, there would be proof that I was ill. I would be able to see the symptoms. Instead, my sickness is in my head. I can't see those symptoms; I can only feel them... And I'm left wondering if the people I care about think I am making things up. Sometimes I wonder if I'm making things up.
Someone told me recently that I need to find what's making me so miserable and get rid of it. But I've had these problems for so long now that I have started to believe that what is making me miserable, what has me locked so tightly in fear and sadness, is that my mind is actually broken. Is such a thing even possible?
There is no one thing that has made me depressed. There isn't a handful of things. It isn't causal. It isn't even rational. There is only disease. A disease that no one believes; that few understand. Because unless you've lived through the terror, or felt the agony of watching your life, as you stand utterly helpless, fall to pieces around you, you cannot understand how painful depression can be. You can't understand how words cease to make sense, how actions seem always a way to hurt you, how you can be surrounded by people, people who genuinely care about you, yet you feel completely alone and hated.
Depression feels like dying. Every time you close your eyes to sleep, you wish you would never wake up. And then you do, and it hurts. You make yourself bleed just to remember that you can, that you are still human, even if you are soulless. And, dear God, you can't stop crying.
I think Kay Redfield Jamison said it best:
"Depression is awful beyond words or sounds or images; I would not go through an extended one again. It bleeds relationships through suspicion, lack of confidence and self-respect, the inability to enjoy life, to walk or talk or think normally, the exhaustion, the night terrors, the day terrors. There is nothing good to be said for it except that it gives you the experience of how it must be to be old, to be old and sick, to be dying; to be slow of mind; to be lacking in grace, polish, and coordination; to be ugly; to have no belief in the possibilities of life, the pleasures of sex, the exquisiteness of music, or the ability to make yourself and others laugh.
Others imply that they know what it is like to be depressed because they have gone through a divorce, lost a job, or broken up with someone. But these experiences carry with them feelings. Depression, instead, is flat, hollow, and unendurable. It is also tiresome. People cannot abide being around you when you are depressed. They might think that they ought to, and they might even try, but you know and they know that you are tedious beyond belief: you're irritable and paranoid and humorless and lifeless and critical and demanding and no reassurance is ever enough. You're frightened, and you're frightening, and you're "not at all like yourself but will be soon," but you know you won't."
I was, like Dr. Jamison, diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder. I have felt the opposite of the spectrum and can say with great sincerity that it is not worth it. I would trade every one of my manic episodes for any semblance of normality. If I never had to be depressed again, if there was any glimmer of hope that the horror was over forever, I would gladly give up the mania. Mania is fleeting. Even hypomania lasts only months. Depression makes every second feel like hours. And I will never get that time back. It's gone. I can't even remember most of it. It's a memory of darkness, like everything was cast with a vaguely gray shadow, punctuated every so often with my wretched misinterpretation of life actually proceeding around me.
This is the fourth time this has happened to me since Kelly died, and I'm only 26 years old. If there is any mercy in this world, I beg I get some time to heal before the next one hits.
Someone told me recently that I need to find what's making me so miserable and get rid of it. But I've had these problems for so long now that I have started to believe that what is making me miserable, what has me locked so tightly in fear and sadness, is that my mind is actually broken. Is such a thing even possible?
There is no one thing that has made me depressed. There isn't a handful of things. It isn't causal. It isn't even rational. There is only disease. A disease that no one believes; that few understand. Because unless you've lived through the terror, or felt the agony of watching your life, as you stand utterly helpless, fall to pieces around you, you cannot understand how painful depression can be. You can't understand how words cease to make sense, how actions seem always a way to hurt you, how you can be surrounded by people, people who genuinely care about you, yet you feel completely alone and hated.
Depression feels like dying. Every time you close your eyes to sleep, you wish you would never wake up. And then you do, and it hurts. You make yourself bleed just to remember that you can, that you are still human, even if you are soulless. And, dear God, you can't stop crying.
I think Kay Redfield Jamison said it best:
"Depression is awful beyond words or sounds or images; I would not go through an extended one again. It bleeds relationships through suspicion, lack of confidence and self-respect, the inability to enjoy life, to walk or talk or think normally, the exhaustion, the night terrors, the day terrors. There is nothing good to be said for it except that it gives you the experience of how it must be to be old, to be old and sick, to be dying; to be slow of mind; to be lacking in grace, polish, and coordination; to be ugly; to have no belief in the possibilities of life, the pleasures of sex, the exquisiteness of music, or the ability to make yourself and others laugh.
Others imply that they know what it is like to be depressed because they have gone through a divorce, lost a job, or broken up with someone. But these experiences carry with them feelings. Depression, instead, is flat, hollow, and unendurable. It is also tiresome. People cannot abide being around you when you are depressed. They might think that they ought to, and they might even try, but you know and they know that you are tedious beyond belief: you're irritable and paranoid and humorless and lifeless and critical and demanding and no reassurance is ever enough. You're frightened, and you're frightening, and you're "not at all like yourself but will be soon," but you know you won't."
I was, like Dr. Jamison, diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder. I have felt the opposite of the spectrum and can say with great sincerity that it is not worth it. I would trade every one of my manic episodes for any semblance of normality. If I never had to be depressed again, if there was any glimmer of hope that the horror was over forever, I would gladly give up the mania. Mania is fleeting. Even hypomania lasts only months. Depression makes every second feel like hours. And I will never get that time back. It's gone. I can't even remember most of it. It's a memory of darkness, like everything was cast with a vaguely gray shadow, punctuated every so often with my wretched misinterpretation of life actually proceeding around me.
This is the fourth time this has happened to me since Kelly died, and I'm only 26 years old. If there is any mercy in this world, I beg I get some time to heal before the next one hits.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Update
Half a year has passed ... which is weird. More people have died. What a surprise.
Besides that, however, there has been relatively little happening. I took a semester of classes. I applied to a shit ton of medical schools. I have been accepted to none of them. My mom bought a house. My sister ditched a loser. My doggie, sadly, gained more weight. Her yo-yo dieting is starting to worry me. My health is pretty normal, and my husband is just as obsessed with golf as ever.
I'm thinking of rearranging my bedroom. Does that count as news? Oh, and Olen and I started a new workout program. He likes to kick my ass. I think it makes him feel good that I lift about 10% what he does. I started this new medicine that makes it so I can breathe like a normal person. Running became really easy after that.
Mostly, I'm just hoping that another half year from now I will be getting ready for med school, buying books and scrubs and such. If not I will probably be curled up in a little ball, crying away my life.
I learned recently that I am really quite a terrible gardener. My thumb is so far from being green, it's practically red. Last summer I couldn't keep my plants alive to save my own life. In my defense we went through an incredible drought, and my hydrangeas were babies, but still. Shouldn't the scorched flowers in the front yard be a reminder to TURN THE WATER ON. Apparently not. And when I did remember to water, I would forget to stop, effectively drowning my plants for 12 hours straight.
Now that it's winter, I am occupied by killing my indoor plants. You'd think it would be easy to keep a cactus alive. Everyone else seems able to do it. I've killed not just one, but two, and one other desert plant besides. My rubber tree plant is currently hugging the table beneath it due to starvation (no light = no sugar, and the blinds have been closed for weeks). My peace lily is brown.
The only plants that survive my house are the fake ones.
When spring comes, if my plants are still alive I'll be lucky. If not, I'm forfeiting my right to work as a gardener. Trust me, the plants will thank me.
Besides that, however, there has been relatively little happening. I took a semester of classes. I applied to a shit ton of medical schools. I have been accepted to none of them. My mom bought a house. My sister ditched a loser. My doggie, sadly, gained more weight. Her yo-yo dieting is starting to worry me. My health is pretty normal, and my husband is just as obsessed with golf as ever.
I'm thinking of rearranging my bedroom. Does that count as news? Oh, and Olen and I started a new workout program. He likes to kick my ass. I think it makes him feel good that I lift about 10% what he does. I started this new medicine that makes it so I can breathe like a normal person. Running became really easy after that.
Mostly, I'm just hoping that another half year from now I will be getting ready for med school, buying books and scrubs and such. If not I will probably be curled up in a little ball, crying away my life.
I learned recently that I am really quite a terrible gardener. My thumb is so far from being green, it's practically red. Last summer I couldn't keep my plants alive to save my own life. In my defense we went through an incredible drought, and my hydrangeas were babies, but still. Shouldn't the scorched flowers in the front yard be a reminder to TURN THE WATER ON. Apparently not. And when I did remember to water, I would forget to stop, effectively drowning my plants for 12 hours straight.
Now that it's winter, I am occupied by killing my indoor plants. You'd think it would be easy to keep a cactus alive. Everyone else seems able to do it. I've killed not just one, but two, and one other desert plant besides. My rubber tree plant is currently hugging the table beneath it due to starvation (no light = no sugar, and the blinds have been closed for weeks). My peace lily is brown.
The only plants that survive my house are the fake ones.
When spring comes, if my plants are still alive I'll be lucky. If not, I'm forfeiting my right to work as a gardener. Trust me, the plants will thank me.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Memories
Why is it that when summer finally gets here, I find myself dreaming of the fall, of changing leaves and cool evenings that smell of burning wood and snap weather? Fall is a favorite of mine. It reminds me of new school supplies and my decade-long love affair with Harry Potter.
Harry has gotten me through some hard times. Harry was there through thick and thin. Harry knows what it's about. When his story ended, I mourned.
Truly, I moped and cried for days, feeling that an era of my life had ended.
Anyway, the point is that I am yearning for fall. I don't know why that should matter to you except for the fact that I am actually looking forward to something. It's strange, I know. I'm sure you're used to sad, whiny, annoying Deidra. But she is no more!
At least for now.
I've been feeling nostalgic lately. Nostalgic for a lot of things, but here are some of the memories that keep popping into my head:
1) Riding in Trish's new car to QuikTrip, listening to Maroon 5's Songs About Jane, to buy lemon lime slushies to make margaritas. Classy, I know.
2) Trying to practice piano, but my dad cannot resist coming in to play his own songs so that I am forced to wait while he plays himself.
3) The smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of cicadas, especially with skin smelling of chlorine and barbecue chicken baking in the oven.
4) The first time I ever felt my heart breaking. The sounds of Free Bird and the lyrics that still hurt to listen to, for so many more reasons now than just heartache.
5) Friday night. Mario Kart 64. Mazzio's pepperoni pizza. Disney original movies.
6) That particular smell of fried food and dirt that accompanies the State Fair, how my mom and dad could not resist playing that game where the coins fall of a ledge until all their small bills were gone.
7) The look of frosted Zima and the feel of plush carpet beneath my feet at the Beller's. Always watching the same movie, Babe's in Toyland, because they had no others to watch.
8) That magical feeling that I can't describe other than to say, "It reminds me of the mountains," or, "It's like that scene in Zelda where Link learns to play the ocarina."
There are more; many, many more. But you're probably bored.
Harry has gotten me through some hard times. Harry was there through thick and thin. Harry knows what it's about. When his story ended, I mourned.
Truly, I moped and cried for days, feeling that an era of my life had ended.
Anyway, the point is that I am yearning for fall. I don't know why that should matter to you except for the fact that I am actually looking forward to something. It's strange, I know. I'm sure you're used to sad, whiny, annoying Deidra. But she is no more!
At least for now.
I've been feeling nostalgic lately. Nostalgic for a lot of things, but here are some of the memories that keep popping into my head:
1) Riding in Trish's new car to QuikTrip, listening to Maroon 5's Songs About Jane, to buy lemon lime slushies to make margaritas. Classy, I know.
2) Trying to practice piano, but my dad cannot resist coming in to play his own songs so that I am forced to wait while he plays himself.
3) The smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of cicadas, especially with skin smelling of chlorine and barbecue chicken baking in the oven.
4) The first time I ever felt my heart breaking. The sounds of Free Bird and the lyrics that still hurt to listen to, for so many more reasons now than just heartache.
5) Friday night. Mario Kart 64. Mazzio's pepperoni pizza. Disney original movies.
6) That particular smell of fried food and dirt that accompanies the State Fair, how my mom and dad could not resist playing that game where the coins fall of a ledge until all their small bills were gone.
7) The look of frosted Zima and the feel of plush carpet beneath my feet at the Beller's. Always watching the same movie, Babe's in Toyland, because they had no others to watch.
8) That magical feeling that I can't describe other than to say, "It reminds me of the mountains," or, "It's like that scene in Zelda where Link learns to play the ocarina."
There are more; many, many more. But you're probably bored.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Not Broken
There's a quote that always sticks in my head in times like these:
It is amazing how fast stark terror can turn to stark boredom.*
I believe the same can be said for sadness. There is no rhyme or reason it it. It comes as swiftly as it goes. I am an ever-revolving sphere of emotion.
Today I am happy.
I don't have much to say today, but I thought it pertinent to prove that I am not a total train wreck. I sit in my chair at this dusty keyboard listening to Talk Radio as they discuss culture-shifting ideas like Keep the Change for Bank of America or the shifting stroller (I don't even know what that is). I'm flat broke, work is overwhelming, Lady Gaga is stuck in my head, and my friends are spread to all corners of the country.
But I am happy.
I will relish this moment because I don't know how much longer it will last. Happiness has become elusive and precious to me. I will not squander it.
In the meantime:
She's not broken,
She's just a baby,
But her boyfriend's like a dad,
Just like a dad...
*I could not find the exact quote, but as it was probably plagiarized in the first place, I don't find that I care much. At any rate, it got the point across.
It is amazing how fast stark terror can turn to stark boredom.*
I believe the same can be said for sadness. There is no rhyme or reason it it. It comes as swiftly as it goes. I am an ever-revolving sphere of emotion.
Today I am happy.
I don't have much to say today, but I thought it pertinent to prove that I am not a total train wreck. I sit in my chair at this dusty keyboard listening to Talk Radio as they discuss culture-shifting ideas like Keep the Change for Bank of America or the shifting stroller (I don't even know what that is). I'm flat broke, work is overwhelming, Lady Gaga is stuck in my head, and my friends are spread to all corners of the country.
But I am happy.
I will relish this moment because I don't know how much longer it will last. Happiness has become elusive and precious to me. I will not squander it.
In the meantime:
She's not broken,
She's just a baby,
But her boyfriend's like a dad,
Just like a dad...
*I could not find the exact quote, but as it was probably plagiarized in the first place, I don't find that I care much. At any rate, it got the point across.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Grief
Grief does funny things to you.
If you're not careful, it feeds.
I used to be a walking, talking Barbie doll - perfect smile plastered to my face because nothing had ever happened to wipe it away. My makeup was always perfect. My clothes showed all curves. I wore heels.
That girl is gone.
Grief has sucked her dry. She doesn't have the need or energy even to take showers.
Makeup is something that I do rarely, and then only because my mama instilled in me at a very young age that all good women wear makeup. Clothes are comfortable now, not aesthetic. Heels are a thing of the past.
I've lost chunks of my life to grief - periods I can't remember.The amnesia is most likely a survival mechanism employed by my much smarter brain. Remembering would serve only darkness, and my brain needs the light to survive.
When someone I love takes too long to come home, I begin to fear. What if they're dying? What if I never see them again? The fear leads to tears I can neither understand nor control.
And now I wonder ... is it truly better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all? Who said that? I'm not sure, and don't feel like looking it up, but I'm relatively certain that person never lost someone permanently. I would rather have not loved them, never met them, than to feel this permanent black hole in my heart, pulling into it all happiness, all hope, leaving only fear, lust, anger - all the baser emotions, the ones that ensure I will live. I may do it unhappily, but I will live, and that's all my body wants - to continue being.
They say that time heals, that eventually you begin to mend, to forget. It isn't true. Time is not a bandaid or a salve. Time does not stitch together the jagged pieces inside you. Time doesn't even let you remember in peace. The memories still feel like a knife in my throat, an arrow through my heart. Time doesn't dry your tears, it only ensures you run out, dry up like you're lost in the Sahara.
Grief is worse than depression. Grief cannot be dampened by pills or lanced with happiness. Grief is an ever-present demon, gnawing at your insides, making you ill. Depression only numbs. Grief weakens. It makes you want to scream, makes you feel like you are screaming but no one can hear, makes you scared of the future.
I don't think about my future anymore. I don't dream of medical school or residency. I don't look forward to my career with excitement. I don't think about the classes I will be taking in a few months, or the movies I want to see. I don't think about children or grandchildren. It is hard enough to be in the present, to live through the pain of right now. All that future pain seems like a punishment, and in true Deidra-brain fashion, my mind has blocked it out.
Grief has taken away the Barbie in me. Barbie-Deidra was never equipped to handle it. Even Grieving-Deidra isn't equipped to handle it. I've made primitive weapons to fight it away, but grief is a monster that cannot be defeated with the puny slings and arrows my mind doles up.
I'm tired of fighting. Can't I just give in?
If you're not careful, it feeds.
I used to be a walking, talking Barbie doll - perfect smile plastered to my face because nothing had ever happened to wipe it away. My makeup was always perfect. My clothes showed all curves. I wore heels.
That girl is gone.
Grief has sucked her dry. She doesn't have the need or energy even to take showers.
Makeup is something that I do rarely, and then only because my mama instilled in me at a very young age that all good women wear makeup. Clothes are comfortable now, not aesthetic. Heels are a thing of the past.
I've lost chunks of my life to grief - periods I can't remember.The amnesia is most likely a survival mechanism employed by my much smarter brain. Remembering would serve only darkness, and my brain needs the light to survive.
When someone I love takes too long to come home, I begin to fear. What if they're dying? What if I never see them again? The fear leads to tears I can neither understand nor control.
And now I wonder ... is it truly better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all? Who said that? I'm not sure, and don't feel like looking it up, but I'm relatively certain that person never lost someone permanently. I would rather have not loved them, never met them, than to feel this permanent black hole in my heart, pulling into it all happiness, all hope, leaving only fear, lust, anger - all the baser emotions, the ones that ensure I will live. I may do it unhappily, but I will live, and that's all my body wants - to continue being.
They say that time heals, that eventually you begin to mend, to forget. It isn't true. Time is not a bandaid or a salve. Time does not stitch together the jagged pieces inside you. Time doesn't even let you remember in peace. The memories still feel like a knife in my throat, an arrow through my heart. Time doesn't dry your tears, it only ensures you run out, dry up like you're lost in the Sahara.
Grief is worse than depression. Grief cannot be dampened by pills or lanced with happiness. Grief is an ever-present demon, gnawing at your insides, making you ill. Depression only numbs. Grief weakens. It makes you want to scream, makes you feel like you are screaming but no one can hear, makes you scared of the future.
I don't think about my future anymore. I don't dream of medical school or residency. I don't look forward to my career with excitement. I don't think about the classes I will be taking in a few months, or the movies I want to see. I don't think about children or grandchildren. It is hard enough to be in the present, to live through the pain of right now. All that future pain seems like a punishment, and in true Deidra-brain fashion, my mind has blocked it out.
Grief has taken away the Barbie in me. Barbie-Deidra was never equipped to handle it. Even Grieving-Deidra isn't equipped to handle it. I've made primitive weapons to fight it away, but grief is a monster that cannot be defeated with the puny slings and arrows my mind doles up.
I'm tired of fighting. Can't I just give in?
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