Not Looking For a Hero

Not Looking For a Hero

I shared a blog post on Facebook yesterday. It reminded me of something I’ve been meaning to say for a minute now. This isn’t going to be particularly fun but I need to say it so I can stop trying to explain myself. I hope this doesn’t get too rambly. You have my apologies if it does.

I went off to college in 2000. I was depressed then but it didn’t really strike me how bad off I was until I realized one day while lying in my dorm room that I had been mentally preparing a note to my mother apologizing for my future actions. Something clicked and I went to my advisor’s office where I couldn’t even explain between sobs why I had to leave the campus as soon as possible. He called my mom and I was home before the end of the week. I’d like to think that after one visit to a therapist and a few weeks in my “norm” that the oppressive cloud of depression lifted and all was good. Instead I learned to mask really well. I got a job, brought a car, spent every weekend out. I lived to be contrary to just about every thought that said “girl just sit down and get through this”. ¬†Sitting still meant dealing with the fact that I wasn’t okay. At some point the pain that I was holding inside began to manifest as outside pain and I was eventually diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. I became conscious of my depression and I had to deal with it. I did in time but I know that it’s still a thing that can sneak up on me again so I’m hyper-aware of it.

Here’s where I have a problem: unless you know me personally; meaning you have had several conversations with me or you are a mental health professional YOU CANNOT TELL ME WHEN I’M DEPRESSED. ¬†My best friend knew before I did. I don’t know what she identified first but she knew. The rest of y’all don’t get to decide that I’m depressed because I’m a homebody. In fact, let’s stop the false equivalency that homebody=depression. It’s irritating and I’m tired of explaining it to people who want to be the first to say that I am depressed in hopes that their broken clock is right this time. I don’t need you to swoop in and save me from myself. If I decide I’d rather spend the night with a book or netflix and a glass of wine I assure you I’m okay.

Most of you didn’t know that I actually had a problem with depression until I told you. You probably just thought I was boring which is fine. Boring is also a thing that I’ve come to terms with. I’m just trying to live and I don’t need anyone trying to fix me. I’m not broken. Just let me have my glass of Syrah and the first two seasons of Hannibal. If it’s the one or two times during the year I want to go do something decidedly unboring I’ll let you know. My mental health though, that’s gonna be my business (unless of course I want to share with you).

Got it?

Okay.

 

Take Care

Take Care

I’m tired.

I’m sitting here again trying to come up with the right words that will effectively express how I feel about all of the current events. So far I’ve just been able to ramble some stuff about pain and numbness, almost cry and summarize it all by simply saying that I’m tired. I think the only saving grace is that I’m missing out on the delights that social media stir up when these types of things happen.

Instead of dwelling in that space I just want to tell anyone reading to take care of themselves. I know it’s easy to get bogged down in every detail. I’m guilty of it myself. Take a moment or several and step away from all the news. Eat some feelings, exercise, do something with friends, anything just get away. There’s a such thing as having way too much information. Unless it’s your job to know everything, you don’t need to know everything. I’m a news junkie I had to pull myself away from all the news websites today. Instead I spent most of the day catching up with The Fosters on Netflix. Seriously the best decision ever. Take care of yourselves. Trust me the news will still be there when you get back.