Therapy.

We got married.  It was everything I wanted and more; our tiny honeymoon in NY and our week to relax here were amazing.  The Dog was happy to see us, all was well.
And now I’m trying to figure out how in the hell I can grow up enough to have kids.
I’m not sure it can happen.  I feel like I should have a kid–I feel like it’s something that I want–but I’m not mature enough.  I’m mentally 21.  I don’t feel ready, and not in a “No parent is ready” kind of way.  In a “I haven’t grown up enough” way.  I am selfish, I am childish, I am anxious.  I am depressed.  The thought of being pregnant, of gaining weight, is horrifying to my eating disorder.  The idea of exams, of having a baby going through my private area, of how it will be afterward, makes me want to crawl in a hole.  I’ve only recently begun to stop crying at GYN exams.

How will this ever be possible?  How would I stay sane?  How much therapy am I going to need, and by then will it be too late?

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Worries

I think I’m more afraid
of going home than of getting
or being married

because it will be so so hard
to see all my family
my friends
everything I left behind

and realize that this ceremony
means that it will really never be home again.

Some day

Some day

I will have time to talk about

the loss of my dear friends

the anxiety that chews me up daily

the depression that weighs me down minute by minute

and the fears that surround me.

 

But now

I am too busy worrying

and waiting

and wondering

missing all of the ones that I love

and I’m getting married in two weeks.

My you.

Sometimes I forget that you know me, as well as and better than I know myself, most of the time.  All of the time.  When it matters and when it doesn’t.

Sometimes I forget that you’ve known me for half my life–through the cutting and not.  Through the geeky laughter and not.  The poetry, the bad relationships, the depression and anxiety–and not.  You moved in and out of my life seamlessly, and I missed you when you weren’t there; but then, there you were.

Sometimes I forget that you can read my eyes, my face, my posture, the way that my hands move when I’m anxious or excited better than anyone else.  That you know the secrets I’ve never told anyone else.  That you’ve seen parts of me that have never seen the light of day that clearly with anyone else.

Sometimes I forget that I don’t have to overexplain, even when I need to.  Sometimes I forget that you’ve never experienced these things, yet you have through me.  Sometimes I forget that I’m slowly, patiently learning to be an equal, a “pretend grown-up,” someone that does not have to look out for herself.

I forget, sometimes, that you will protect me, because I so rarely see anything outside of myself that you need to protect me from.  And sometimes, you save me from myself.

Sometimes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.  And sometimes? It’s more.

Spokesperson for meh?

I feel almost as if this is going to become the “That girl who’s depressed” blog if I keep on this way–and that’s something I did before on Diaryland, thankyouverymuch.  I met a lot of friends that way–but I also found a lot of pain when someone was annoyed with me and posted my blog link on a forum where I did NOT want it, in a way that was very unflattering.  (IE, why doesn’t she just kill herself already? type suggestions)  Not to mention that while I had a knack for teenage poetry, it probably wasn’t terribly interesting to read in the long-term.

But most people start a blog to tell their story; for cheap therapy; to get out all of the crap inside of themselves and put it somewhere that it might reach other people.  Or not.  For better or worse, this space, right now, is my diary–and very few people probably want to read someone else’s diary when they spend time navel-gazing on their anxiety and depression.

I’ve spent a lot of time NOT posting because of this.  Because who wants to read my crappy diatribes on what it’s like to feel sad all the time?  I work one day a week and haven’t had other prospects.  I spend a lot of time arguing with companies to try to get them to do what I need them to do so we can buy a house.  I spend a lot of time staring at my dog, or the walls, or my computer.

I have to get the crap out of my head somehow, though, and focus on the things I’m thankful for: LAboy, my dog, my family, my life.  My health, my dreams, my writing (when I can), and all of the wonderful people, places and things that I’ve experienced.  If I don’t spend time spinning out the darkness, how can I ever see the light?

So the two or three of you that trickle over from Twitter or Band Back Together will have to bear with me, I hope.  The only way out of depression is through, and I’m eventually going to kick some ass.  I’ll do a lot of whining in the process, but things are looking up.  One of the very best things that anyone has ever said about me–one of the few compliments I’ve grudgingly admitted is true–was from LAboy.  He said “No matter what, you don’t stop.”  And that’s true.  I get depressed.  I get knocked down.  Things happen that I can’t control and I panic and freak out and wring my hands and cry that I CAN’T DO THIS!

But one thing about me that I will never let go of, one thing that I’m proud of: I just don’t know how to give the hell up and walk away from something once I’ve started.  I don’t stop.  And I’m sure as hell not going to now.

How do I…?

I look back over the years of my life and remember when it all started.  I remember sitting on the floor listening to my mother tell me that my parents are getting a divorce.  I remember middle school, and wonder if flirting with depression was a precursor to or the reason for it developing.  I remember the first day that I took a blade to myself–a shaving razor I’d kept in my room for “missed spots” on my legs.  I ran it across my hand–my knuckles, I believe–and it was over from there.

How do you write when your days are consumed by a malaise that you can’t conquer by yourself?  How do you work through emotions–or lack thereof–that it took over a decade to conquer with medication, now that the medication has run out?  How do you stare at the blank screen and be productive, knowing that you have hours before you and behind you, where there is nothing–no one–no interaction, no duties but housework and homework?

It’s a first-world problem, I know.  I wouldn’t be complaining about my depression if I didn’t have food on my table.  And while we have our financial woes, I’m not starving to death.

But even as I hear my ex’s voice in my head telling me that I didn’t know what real problems were (ostensibly because I’d never been to Bosnia and seen real suffering like he had), I know that there are others out there that understand how smothering depression can be.  It’s like a weighted, all-encompassing, suffocating blanket that you have no control over.  The edges are nailed down, and you aren’t strong enough–you’ve never been strong enough–to rip it open.  You breathe the stale air, the reverberations of the thoughts and feelings you’ve never been able to rid yourself of tainting each inhalation.  You pray for the tools to escape, knowing that you can’t fight your way out of this thing that moves with you, that moves around you.  You wait, smothered in the heat of your own existence, exhausted from fighting, unable to find the energy to beat against the immovable object.

It’s almost impossible to turn on the lights in your darkness.  To find that place within you that is the well of creativity past the feel of breath-stealing flannel shoving itself into your mouth, stealing your words, keeping you gasping.  It’s almost impossible to remember what fresh air feels like; to know the touch of coolness against your skin and the knowledge that you aren’t alone in this and that someone else can reach out their hand and touch you.

It’s almost impossible to remember that no one else can see the blanket that steals your life away.  That it’s all inside of you, as you twist and turn and writhe, screaming just to move the staleness, to create a breeze, to make some kind of change–even if that change is for the worse.

It’s the hardest thing in the world to remember that there are things in this world to help pry up the nails, even as you watch others tear you down because they can’t see the fight that you’re struggling with.

How do I sit down at my keyboard and churn out stories, prose, words and nonsense when some days, it’s all I can do to breathe?

The day the world changed.

I don’t remember waking up that morning, or being brought to school.  I don’t remember homeroom or what my first class was.  I remember sitting in Spanish–one of my least favorite classes–and suddenly being wracked with the worst stomachache of my life.  After excusing myself to go to the bathroom, I came back to a sympathetic look from my teacher and the request to pack my stuff, because I’d been called to the office.

My mother’s eyes were wild.  It was an expression I’d very rarely seen on her face; the last time was probably the day I broke my arm and she ran into the ER to see me.  That day, I met her in the hallway.  “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because the Twin Towers are on the ground.”

That sentence changed my life.  I remembered being on top of one of the towers; I don’t know which one, now.  The one without the big antenna.  I remembered my mom being scared and not letting us go all the way around; I wanted to see the other tower from the top of the first one.  She said we could do that next time.

The next time I set foot there, stood in the place where I’d stood years before, staring up at the steel beams that went on forever, the building that was taller than my imagination could ever have made it–the towers would be twisted, blackened wreckage, slowly hauled away by devastated New Yorkers.  I’d stand on a bridge, staring at the pit where the towers used to be, where the bodies lay and where memories shouted and screamed, watching them try to heal the wound that scarred New York forever.

I went to the hospital where my mom worked that day, and sat in a small office with the woman who had been my father’s mistress, watching the footage.  Watching my world fall apart.

That night was the first night I ever had a panic attack.  The first night I sat on the floor, my knees to my chest, struggling to breathe, imagining nuclear warfare.  Imagining death and destruction.  Imagining what had already happened, and what might have been.

I remember my friends in the Star Wars club where I met LAboy; a topic had been posted in the IRC channel that I was okay.  People were worried about me; I’m a New Yorker, after all.  And no matter how far away from the city I lived, I would always be a New Yorker; living in that state gives you a feeling of having certain rights to that city.  It makes NYC feel yours.  Feel like home, even if it wasn’t.

Ten years down the road, I don’t even live in the state anymore.  But my heart aches as I remember looking up into forever, as I remember the innocent belief that nothing that big could ever be destroyed.

Forever didn’t last.