... And now, back to your regularly scheduled psychobabble

As the six of you who regularly read my little column may have noticed, I struggle with depression. I was officially diagnosed in 2011, although I probably should have been outed somewhere around 2005.

Anyway, fighting depression is about having the mental discipline to feed your mind only positive information, the physical discipline to exercise your body enough to keep yourself in a constant state of endorphin induced euphoria, and the spiritual humility to beg for mercy and guidance when all else fails.

It’s like being on Paleo while doing a crossfit 30 day challenge.

Except my cheat days generally end with me crying in the shower.

So I apologize if you were totally unprepared for my last post, I was too.

I have been pretty dissatisfied with my life lately and finally decided to stop whining about it and actually do something about it.

I’m thirty one. I know what I think I should be doing right now. Kicking ass at business. Taking names on the dating scene. Changing the world with wry prose and witty peri-apocalyptic romance novels.

Instead, I find myself sitting in the basement, holding a pity party of one, frantically refreshing my Etsy inbox, hoping for a sale.

Well I refuse to squander my gifts any longer, and I refuse to live my life in any kind of box-- not even one of my own making.

An old friend helped me come to this realization on Independence day.

I know what you’re thinking.

And yes, as a matter of fact, we did  go to middle school together.

CK, my gorgeous, crazy, amazingly intelligent and funny Blendian friend has the kind of hair black girls dream about. It’s dense yet fine, soft, with lots of body and fluffy ringlets when air dried.

#hairenvy

No heat damage, thanks 2 GGC

So of course, she loves it when I straighten it.

I’ve gotten a lot better at taming her mane over the past ‘sixteen years. Still, she was in my ‘studio’ long enough for me to decide that I was definitely going to finish growing my hair out, that I had amazing products that truly worked miracles, and that I had to be more aggressive about going after the things I wanted-- in all aspects of life.

So I joined Bumble, made a seven page life plan, strapped on my big girl panties and waded into the murky, questionably toxic bay that is life.

I’m determined to be open. And I actually kind of love Bumble (I already have a date!).

I am taking advantage of the beautiful Cleveland summer by getting out there and participating in as many vending events as possible (I have ten shows this month so far).

Unfortunately, so much time spent living life outside the box gives me considerably less time to write about it, so necessity dictates that either the quality, frequency, or length of my posts will suffer.

I’m choosing length.

I refuse to give up on my writing or squander any of my numerous talents. So while I’m no Polonius, I’m going to give that brevity-is-the-soul-of-wit thing a try.

You’ll get shorter posts, more often.

I’ll get to have a life worth writing about and less shower sob-fests.

It’s a win-win.

Social Media Does Not Cure Depression

The funny thing about social media is how it allows you to be both completely transparent and remarkably full of shit simultaneously.

I blog about life (in general) and my life (occasionally and specifically). I write the things I cannot stand to hold in any longer without hope that someone else will read them or understand them. I don’t care if you agree them. I don’t even particularly care if you understand.

But I need you to read them. And I need you to try and understand.

If you knew what a hot mess I really am, you would leave me. Hate me. Leave this page, and pity me, shame me.

I feel ashamed now, even thinking me.

If you knew how hard it was for me to get out of bed every morning, you would consider me a miracle.

If you knew how abysmal my finances were, you would tell me to get a job.

If you had to wear my skin, keep my secrets, bear my burdens, you would jump.

Most days the ledge is long, the horizon is far, and the shoreline within sight.

But today I am sinking, eyes half filled with tears I have forgotten how to spill. The lies I tell myself to keep going are harder to hear today.

I would unburden myself with these small truths, but, the truth is, they are not mine to tell.

My lie is constructed and interconnected with others like a house of cards built atop a jenga game. One false step and we will all come crashing down.

My secrets are not 1600 Pennsylvania avenue secure, they are 1655 Cumberland insecurities. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill myself.

I can tell you this:

Sometimes when you see me and I have bags under my eyes, it’s because I spent the night crying. I have two periods a month and they suck ass.

I have severe anxiety issues that make it hard for me to eat.

I know a lot of people, but don’t have a lot of friends.

I live below the poverty level.

Where does depression hurt? Every-fucking-where.