I’ve Been Wandering Early And Late

I realized that lately I’ve been wishing the days away. I wake up and can’t wait until the work day is over and I can go back to bed. It’s Monday and I wish it was the weekend. It’s October, but I wish it was next summer. Some of it’s healthy: I have a lot of ~~One Direction concerts~~ fun things planned for next summer. Some of it’s depression: my meds aren’t quite working. A doctor’s appointment as been made, but as it’s a new doctor (mine skipped town to do good deeds elsewhere) I couldn’t get in until December. Some of it’s bad habit, maybe? Either way, it’s not something I like. I’d rather not wish my life away. I’m trying really hard to be present and enjoy each moment, as cheesy as that sounds.

SPEAKING OF (God that was a good segue), my dearest and bestest friend got married earlier this month. We’ve been friends since we were nine and have been through it all; no seriously, she once pushed me down a flight of stairs. She’ll deny it, but I WAS THERE. *ahem* Nobody makes me laugh harder; she’s not just a friend, she’s family. And while I normally dislike weddings, I honestly couldn’t have been happier to have been a part of hers. Jess and her family designed and made everything and have raised the bar so stupidly high for weddings it’s insane.

Congrats, Jess and Kevin! ❤ ❤

SPEAKING OF WRITING (I’m really good at this segue thing, you guys) I have a new gig writing for YourTango. It’s only been a month, but I feel really great about it. It’s the first time in a long time that something has just felt “right”. I’ll be posting over there about once a week so if you just are dying to know what’s going on with me (and let’s face it, who wouldn’t be) you can get your fix. I’m hoping this whole writing regularly for them bleeds over here.

And that’s what you missed on Glee!

My Friend The Terrorist

The thing about depression is it starts quietly. Just a quiet whisper of, “You’re not good enough.” You can brush it aside, not disagreeing, just moving on. Another whisper of, “you fucked up.” Until eventually it’s shouting a steady stream of, “you’re not good enough,” “you messed up,” “they don’t like you,” “you’re not enough.”

And the thing is, if you hear something enough you’ll believe it. You not only believe it, you understand it. It makes sense to you that someone wouldn’t want you because of course they don’t. Why would they? What’s to want? You walk around carrying this weight of failing and everything else becomes harder; simple things like going out in public or not crying in the frozen food aisle of Target because you had to buy your dinner from a section labeled, “Meals For One.” Things like being able to interact with the rest of the population who doesn’t have an emotional terrorist living inside their brain. And the failure pile keeps growing, validating every negative thought your brain has ever thrown at you.

I was reading a story* recently that described depression perfectly.

His depression is like that friend he never agreed to and doesn’t want, a deadweight he’s carrying around everywhere, and isn’t ever allowed to put down.
– Sunsetmog’s Not Your Fault But Mine

And it’s so true. I’ve been dragging this godawful weight with me since I was 16. Which is 16 years of listening to my brain tell me all the ways in which I’m not good enough. And let me tell you, my brain is creative.

I can’t put it down. I don’t know how not to listen to it anymore. I don’t know how not to believe that voice instead of the people who care about me. Because that voice is telling me any nice thing you say is a lie. Look at all this evidence it has complied. *gestures vaguely at Fail Pile*

Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t the depression. It’s remembering the old me. The one who didn’t second guess everything. But I’m starting to wonder if the old me is real or I just made or her up so I had something to hold on to. So I had something like hope that I could aim for.

*Yes, this story is fan fiction. Yes, it is about boys. Yes, it is about boys who exist in the real world; who you may have even heard of. However, it is also the most accurate portrayal of someone dealing with depression that I’ve ever read. In or out of fic.

Gravity Plays Favorites

Goodbyes are hard. They shatter off a little piece of you, leaving a hard, sharp edge, a hole to be filled. Even when they’re not permanent, and that piece comes back, knits itself back in place, it’s always there. A small ache, a fragile connection that lets you know that goodbye is just waiting around the corner. Because you know now. You know how temporary and tenuous the connection can be.

Last Wednesday I was forced to say goodbye to George Weasley. He’d gotten some bad news from the vet a week before, but it still came as a surprise when he had a heart attack (or something like it) in my arms. Then again, I’m not sure that’s something you can ever be prepared for. A couple more people got to witness my ugly cry.

I feel lost a lot. Lonely. In a sea of couples and groups orbiting around each other, I feel like this lone, weird little planet just free falling through the solar system. George gave me someone to tie my gravity to (pull into my gravity? Be pulled into theirs? Science was never my strong suit). He didn’t have all the pesky things that make it hard to tie your gravity to with a person. No spouses or children or careers to get in the way. Just 8.9 lbs of fur ready to be loved.

There’s a new fluff planet around now. And I have lots of feelings and emotions and thoughts about the fact that he’s a baby, and I adopted him four days after George died. But for now, meet Lincoln. 1.8 lbs of fur and love, helping to tie me to something again.