A Story about Depression

One of my favorite bloggers has inspired this post. Today, she posted about everyone's favorite topic- depression.

Now, let me be clear- there is a huge cavern of difference between "feeling sad" and depression. Feeling sad is motivated by some occurrence, and anyone can suffer from it. People can suffer from profound sadness over any number of things. You can be sad because a relative died, and you can be sad because a hurricane devastated a group of people.

Depression is different.

Now, I cannot begin to vouch for anyone else's feelings, but I feel I'm pretty good at telling the difference between when I'm feeling sad and when I am suffering from genuine depression.

I was sad when my grandfather died last spring. I was depressed while living in Portland.

And I don't need to go into the minutiae of what my experience was like while being depressed, except that it was all-encompassing and overwhelming. I felt like I could not get out of bed, and what was worse, that no one cared whether I got out of bed or not.

And it builds on itself. I stopped going to class, I stopped doing homework, I made excuses for not socializing with my friends. I put off life itself because it was simply too much for me. I blew off my life, and shit built up until I felt like there was no way I could wade back into the thick of it. There were too many essays, too much homework, too great of a burden.

Everything just turned into one ugly, painful spiral, and I hated myself for it. I didn't understand how other people managed it so easily, when getting out of bed was an accomplishment for me. I cried in the shower, I cried myself to sleep, I cried walking back to my dorm after the few classes I did manage to attend.

I'm not going to try to illustrate that kind of self-loathing that I (and my guess is others) felt while in this great little shit-hole, the kind where you look in the mirror and hate everything you see, and everything you represent. If you've felt it, you know what I mean. If you haven't, you're lucky, and you're not about to gain any understanding from a silly little blog like mine.

Depression is like addiction- no one can tell you you've got a problem. No one can tell you to get better. You have to be willing to get help, and to help yourself. And that's how it ended- I helped myself. I started by forcing myself out of bed, forcing myself to work on homework, study for tests, go buy groceries. I put myself in that hole, and I dug myself back out of it. On a scale of the most painful experiences I have had, this was by far the worst, but I survived. In fact, I more than survived- I got myself out of Portland, transferred to a school I love, found a degree I love, and moved as far away from that place, mentally, as I could. I'm not making light of it; getting through that year was an enormous show of will power.

And that is not how I would advocate doing it. Regardless of my personal thoughts towards psychology, nothing is more useful when you're in a hole than a good therapist. I know that having a therapist is sometimes regarded as a personal failing, but get over it. If you need help, you need help. In my case, I forced myself back onto a track that worked for me, but that's not the way to do it for other people. Just as every individual's problems are unique, the solutions also vary.

The aforementioned blogger's turning point came when she realized she had no more effort left to give to being depressed. My own turning point came when, after talking about how awful living in Portland was making me feel with a friend, he replied that I didn't have to live there. He told me there was no reason for me to stay. A shocker, I know, but in my private spiral, it never occurred to me that I could leave.

So, I did leave. I got better. And I realized that I'd learned more about myself in that one year of hell than I had over the last 18 years. I found out that I don't need validation from other people, so long as what I'm doing is important to me. I found out that I will always have the ability to change something that's got me doubting myself. Most importantly, I found out that I'm a hell of a lot tougher, and more capable, than I ever thought I was. While I was stuck in that dark nonsense, I couldn't see my life possibly getting better. Now, on the other side of it all, I can see that nothing bad ever stays bad, but it will only change if it is forced to change. Even though that was possibly the worst year of my life, I would never go back and change any part of it.

I am me because of it.

Thanks for the Concern, Rick, but No.

I watch CNN frequently- not so much for the news, but for the entertainment factor. If I want news, I go somewhere that hires real journalists, like Reuters or the BBC.

On CNN, Wolf Blitzer, that king of the clueless, asked Rick Santorum (hehe, santorum) about abortion. Because, you know, white men still haven't come to a consensus on whether or not women should be in charge of their own bodies.

Anyway, dear Mr. Ricky claims that abortion is wrong because a fetus is a person. Fetuses can feel pain, after all. Women who get pregnant have to face the consequences of their actions.

Thanks for that, man. I'm glad that because you have a penis, you know better than I do. In fact, will you do my taxes for me, too? My feeble lady-mind just can't get that far. While we're at it, could you do my homework? I'm just worried that my overly-emotional brain will explode.

Let's go through some of those common arguments, starting with the one that some states want to incorporate into law.

"Fetuses feel pain." Well, yes. Sure. I suppose that, on a quantifiable level, it sends the same chemical signals that science has come to associate with pain. You know what else does that? Plants. Studies have shown that plants feel pain. Does that mean I never have to eat Brussels sprouts, either? You know, since we're never going to ever do anything that causes anything to feel "pain." While we're at it, let's add meat and fish to that list, since those things all feel pain, too. Oh, and don't forget- parasites can probably feel pain, too. So don't you dare try to kill those lice on your kid's head. They're living things, too. They feel.

"A fetus is a person." No, it's a group of cells. It relies on the mother in order to live. You what else exhibits that behavior? Tumors. A fetus isn't a person till it comes out of the womb (And not the stomach, Rick. Jesus fucking Christ.). Once it's out, it's a baby. Until it comes out, it's a fetus. Sort of like the whole lava-magma thing.

"Women need to face the consequences of their actions." Oh, that's creative. It's her womb, therefore, her problem. Furthermore, I love that we're considering children to be "consequences." I'm sure that hasn't created any sociopaths.

Let's talk about facing the consequences of one's actions. I assume that, since we're considering pregnancy to be a consequence, and are therefore condemning abortion, we're going to apply this to every kind of consequence for one's actions. This means, obviously, that doctors are now forbidden from setting broken limbs- falling on your arm while skiing was your choice, and could have been prevented, but you went with it anyway. Now you've got to either heal on your own, or die of blood poisoning. Also to be considered "consequences" are communicable diseases, natural disasters, and accidents of all kinds. After all, you chose to get hit by a car. It's not our problem.

Hopefully, this all sounds insane, and not your idea of a utopia. If it does, get away from me. But if you see how ridiculous any of these are, then you ought to see how absurd the arguments against abortion.

I love kids. I want kids of my own, someday. However, if I discovered that I was pregnant- for any reason- and I wasn't in a place where I could deal with being pregnant or raising a child, I would want the option to be there. It is unfair to everyone involved when a woman has a child she can neither raise nor emotionally support. I believe that abortion should be safe, legal, and rare, which means the attention needs to shift off of abortion itself and onto the way we raise kids to be sexually-aware adults. I know we're all secretly twelve and talking about sex is icky, but let's be honest- kids do it with or without your guidance. So suck it up, stop trying to force laws on my goddamned uterus, and do the adult thing. Condoms and birth control are a hell of a lot cheaper than children.

Then again, maybe Rick Santorum is willing to raise all those "consequences."

Parenting Tips

Let's talk about parenting.

As a twenty-year-old, I'm glad to say that I'm not one. I have every intention of being one, just not for another ten years or so.

So I'm not about to claim to be a parenting expert. But it's not because I don't have one, it's because I really don't think anyone can be an "expert" on parenting. It's just one of those things you do, and you do as well as you can, and if you fucked up, it's your spawn's problem. There's an app for that.

But I have a few bones to fucking pick with parents. I grew up eating dirt, and grass, and whatever managed to find its way into my mouth. I got my fucking vaccinations. If I threw a tantrum, I got in trouble- I was hauled out of a few public places by my parents, I'm not ashamed to say. Overall, I was a fairly well-behaved kid. I learned to cook. I learned to do laundry. I learned that there are about seven billion people on this spinning ball of rock, and I am not that special.

So when I run into these moms pushing around jumbo-jet-sized strollers, I am instantly annoyed. I mean, I could fit in one of these fucking things. They take up an entire sidewalk. And ownership of one of those seems to give these parents the idea that they are the center of the frigging universe. They steer right into you, assuming your going to move because, awwww, it's a wittle baby! Yeah, well, your "baby" can string together whole sentences. Time to learn to walk.

We went to a street fair today, and it was crowded. As in, no room to move anywhere but forward. And this woman jumps in front of us with her baby-limo and five kids orbiting her. She stops in front of us, so I say "Sure is nice to be able to just stop in front of people." She turns around and sneers, "Go around us, then."

You know what, kiddo? Fuck you. I feel sorry for your kids that they're going to be raised to be self-entitled little fucks. It's going to suck for them when they enter they enter the real world and find out they don't matter.

I mean, shit. These people act like they deserve a Nobel Fucking Prize for reproducing. My congratulations, you have achieved one of the most basic of human functions. It's right up there with eating and shitting. Now get out of my way.

And these are also frequently the "breast is best" supporters. Yes, studies have shown it is good for Junior. But there are women out there who cannot physically manage it. Do you really need to flaunt your gushing tits in front of them? Doesn't that seem a tad inappropriate? I mean, lactation is not special, kiddos. It's a qualifier for an enormous group of organisms, not a super power. If you breast-fed your kids, good for you. If you didn't, oh well. It's not the end of the fucking world. Get the fuck over yourself.

And then some of these people seem to be anti-vaccine. Like, how is that even a thing? There is absolutely no evidence that vaccines will do shit to your precious Junior, excepting the rare cases where the kid reacts to the shot. When that happens, it is unfortunate, but it is highly unlikely your precious crotch-spawn will have that happen. Vaccines like MMR are not bad for Junior. You know what is bad for Junior? Measles. Measles outbreaks have gone up substantially in the last twenty years. You know why? Because some ludicrous people seem to think it gives kids autism. You know where autism really starts? The WOMB. It's your fault, bitch.

Furthermore, these "I would never reprimand Junior because I believe in positive reinforcement" cop-outs typically buy into this "Special Snowflake" bullshit. "Junior deserves to get whatever he wants because he's special." You know who else is "special?" Every other one of the seven billion people currently in existence. You're not special. Your kid's not special. Your kid is a child, and if he's screaming his head off because he wants some fucking toy or candy, that is your problem. You chose to have kids, now deal with them. They are not my problem. I have been a babysitter, a nanny, and a camp counselor. I have made plenty of kids my problem. I adored every one of those whiny fucks. And if any of them lost their marbles, they got in trouble. Your kid might be bright. I was a bright kid once, too. And you know what's cool about bright kids? They find ways to amuse themselves. If your kid needs constant attention, he's probably not very bright.

Kids are like parasites- most people have one. Some even have two. When I have a kid, I will love that dumb little fucker to pieces. But I'm not going to kid myself- he/she isn't that special. They came out of a uterus, they eat food, and they shit a lot. They can do whatever they set their stupid little minds to, but they aren't the only kids to have ever existed. If they throw fits, they suffer the consequences. They won't know what a stroller is (baby packs are where it's at). They will eat the food they're given, they will be vaccinated, and they can eat mud to their hearts' content. And hopefully, that little sack of person-ness will turn out to be mostly normal. If it's my kid, chances are limited, but hey. Optimism never hurts. But when I'm in a public place and my kid suddenly stops in front of someone, I'm not about to make it that person's problem. It's not their fucking problem. The little fucker came from my vag, after all. That little problem is mine, and mine only.

Remembrance

Well, I suppose, given what this weekend is, this post is inevitable. Some people are good at talking through emotions. I am not one of those people, but I am good at writing out my emotions.

I was ten years old, and in Mrs. Elkins' fifth grade class. It was a Tuesday morning; I was eating breakfast.

"Michael," my mom called from their downstairs bedroom. "Come down here for a second."

My dad left the kitchen and walked down the stairs. Being an awfully curious ten yer old, I followed. The Today Show was on, just like it was every morning, but the picture was not what I was used to seeing. It wasn't their studio. It wasn't even Rockefeller Plaza. It was of two buildings; smoke poured out of them about two-thirds of the way up.

It was the first time in my ten years that I'd seen reporters lost for words. The buildings weren't anything special to me; I've never been to New York, and someplace called the World Trade Center sounded like a business office. As they explained that two planes had flown into the buildings, the confusion mounted. How could any pilot not notice two enormous buildings in front of him? How did two planes just end up in downtown Manhattan?

As I remember, and I could be wrong, both buildings were standing when I left for school. My friends and I crouched in a basement window that looked into the music room. We huddled together, a group of confused ten- and eleven-year-olds, and watched the towers fall. Even after school started, all we did was watch more coverage of it. The thought that we could be able to do anything else was laughable. Who can think about long division when potentially thousands of innocent people are dying? People who woke up that morning, the same as us, had breakfast, and went to work. People who just wanted to go home and watch television that evening.

I didn't know anyone who died in the World Trade Center attacks. I didn't know anyone who was in New York at the time. My remembrance of the attacks isn't about individual people, and it isn't necessarily about that day; it is about what happened to me, personally, as a result.

First, this was when I permanently gave up on Christianity. I gave up on the notion of God. In my ten-year-old mind, I couldn't understand why a "loving God" would allow three thousand innocent people to die simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I couldn't understand how people could do such heinous things to other people simply because they followed different religions.

Second, I realized America wasn't the greatest country in the world. I was not proud to be an American. I couldn't believe that we would allow such things as the PATRIOT Act and the over-the-top TSA security to exist, when they fly in the face of the ideals upon which this country was founded. I couldn't help but feel like these extremists had accomplished their goal; we had effectively renounced the values that made us the US. It took me several years, and a lot of studying, to get back to a point where I could claim to truly be proud to be an American. To this day, I resent much of what our country does, but I know we have the potential to be better.

Third, I became an activist. I wanted to not only understand things, but be involved in them. I wanted to protest, to give speeches, to prove that I was not about to take any of this quietly. I helped out at the Snake River Alliance because my father was involved with them, but three years later, I joined the ACLU. I gave a speech on the steps of Boise's City Hall. I marched in parades, I handed out pamphlets and worked booths at events. Every time I read about someone being discriminated against, someone being unjustly detained, someone getting hurt in a disaster, I was personally outraged. To this day, I have to nail my feet to the floor to keep from getting on planes and going to places like Haiti, or Somalia. The fringe group who launched on our country ten years ago, while they might have gotten the response they wanted from our government, caused me to want to be a better person. I wanted to help people, to try and make sure that no one would ever be alone when they needed help.

Every time I see that image of the two towers billowing smoke, I think of what it must have felt like, to be on the floors above, knowing you weren't going to be able to get out. Every time I see an image of the Hurricane Katrina aftermath, I think of what it must be like to see your possessions, your house, swept away in a flood of water caused by someone else's mistake. Every time I see images of people starving in a war-torn or corrupt country, I think of how unfair it is that we're dying of being too fat in this country. After 9/11/2001, I started to see the unfairness of the world, and I knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life doing something about it, one way or another. To do anything else just doesn't seem right.

To Sympathize with the Sardine.

Let's talk about mass transit.

I am a huge advocate for mass transportation. I do not own a car, and I hate walking uphill, so the best way to get to school is the train. (On that note, I could take the bus, but the train is easier. And while I believe in saving the Earth and its resources, blah blah blah, I also believe in conserving bodily energy-I'm lazy.)

Well, they've changed the train routes, and it has become slightly inconvenient for me. But I am persistent, and I will walk an extra block to avoid that stupid hill. However, the trains are packed with students all day long now. Maybe it's because it's become more convenient for them. Maybe it's because they have fewer trains running at peak hours. Either way, there are far more people.

I mean, packed. As in, we all become practically well acquainted enough for a second date. It's awkward, but because we're all college students, we embrace the awkwardness and get over it. For the most part, this approach works. Sometimes, though, it's just too much.

Like this morning. I ride the 7:30 train, because I am mentally unstable and I like to sign up for classes that are either far too early or far too late in the evening.

(Here was the internal dialogue- "I don't want to have to get up at six-fifteen to leave the house an hour later to catch a train to go to an early class." "But it's Human Biology! Diseases and stuff! That's what we love!" "I do not love it enough to get up that early." "Don't be stupid, yes you do." "Don't be stupid, you like sleep." "Not as much as I like science!" "We're insane." "Yes, yes we are.")

At seven-thirty in the morning, people are packed into the train like sardines. This morning, I stood next to a particularly-attractive football player type. He was very gracious about letting me shove my backpack into his stomach. It was packed, but hey, I could see out the window! The ride wasn't going to be that bad!

Well, here's the problem- I get on at the Library stop. There are two more stops between there and the school. At those two stops, there were thirty to fifty people waiting at each station. I guess what happens is that they see a few inches not being occupied by backpack or human, and they think they can fit into that space. Maybe they figure other people will just move around a bit.

Well, they won't. And there isn't space. When the door won't close until everyone is standing on top of each other, that is a sign there are too many people. That is a sign that no, actually, your bicycle will not fit in here with us. That is a sign that now is not the time for a phone call to your mother/boyfriend/proctologist.

It was the sad cherry on top of the awkward cake when the driver roared around a corner and caused me to stab Attractive Footballer in the chest with my elbow. I apologized, and he didn't say anything. That could be because he was trying to find his lungs after being impaled on the end of someone's humerus, or it could be that he was a gracious person. I'd hope for the latter, but I assume it was the former.

So, I have a few suggestions for the Utah Transit Authority, now that my morning commute has become as dangerous and predictable as a visit to a crack house.

First, add more trains to the University route. I realize that we aren't as big of a money-maker as other passengers, but still. Don't claim to have "streamlined" the route and then exceed maximum capacity on almost every run. It's dangerous, both to our physical and mental health. Having to ride for twenty minutes with someone's face in your breasts simply because they can't move anywhere else does not make me happy. It makes me violent.

Second, train your goddamned drivers. These newer trains respond differently than the old ones. They're fancier, and therefore respond to smaller amounts of power. When you drive them like the old ones, people fall over. When you have a large number of people in a small space, one person falling over causes them all to fall over. I'm thinking the amount of money spent to properly train your people is less than damages from lawsuits brought on by people seriously injured by being thrown across the train.

In reality, does complaining about UTA's follies here help me? No, not really. Does it make me feel better? Of course it does. I like to ride the train, because the stop at school is near the Anthropology building. I used to support UTA. Now, I'm thinking that hill might notbe so bad, after all.

Adventures in Xenophobia

So I went to the grocery store today.

It happens; you decide you would like nothing more than a doughnut and a pound of peas and you leave with two extra bags of crap. Annoying, but whatever. I tend to get carried away when it comes to fresh produce and nice cheeses.

But then I find myself waiting for the train in 90-degree heat, carrying a grocery bag on each arm and cursing my taste for good food. This business man butts in front of me just as the train pulls up, but whatever. I bite back my desire to tell him the Heavenly Father would not approve and take a seat behind him.

I then see these two quite beautiful North African women running to catch the train and I press the button to hold the door for them. They take seats in front of Mr. Business and proceed to have a lengthy, joyous conversation in what would seem to be their native tongue.

As the train rolls down the street, past the library and towards the middle of downtown, I find myself staring at them, admiring their beautiful headscarves (hijab). This is when Mr. Business, obviously made uncomfortable by these exotic people, leans back and says to me, I shit you not, "They should learn English."

I stare at him for a moment, horrified that this severely-sheltered white-bread-eater would have the gall to say something like that to a complete stranger in public. I can feel the back of my brain itching to introduce his face to my fist. (It is worth noting here that I have had almost no sleep in the last forty-eight hours and I am operating entirely on caffeine and spite) Instead, that clever demon that resides in a special corner of my brain takes over.

I frown at him and reply, "Je suis désolée, mais je ne parle pas anglais." ("I'm sorry, but I don't speak English")(It should also be noted that the previous French statement is written technically; the colloquial pronunciation varies more or less)

Lucky for me, the train pulls to my stop, and I exit, hopefully leaving that belligerently ignorant man-child horribly confused.

Thus is one of the most shocking problems our nation faces. We are so absorbed by our own small corners of existence that we neglect to really take note of those around us. Instead of seeing two fantastically-dressed Muslim women, this man saw Outsiders, people of another culture who refuse to conform. What he fails to recognize, however, is that English is not the technical native tongue for a large portion of the US's residents. Many of us are German, Spanish, Italian, French, Greek, et cetera. This kind of blind xenophobia is not only unsympathetic, it is hypocritical. Chances are good that we all have at least one ancestor whose origins were not in North America.

Did he need to share his personal views with me, a complete and total stranger who he neglected to take note of until I was convenient? Of course not, but he was seemingly so enamored with his own wit he felt the need to share.

Let us envision the situation, had he noticed me from the beginning. If I had taken his seat, and he took mine, I would have been free to sit by the women in question, and he would have been able to continue his existence in his pitifully-small bubble. If he's going to have irrational prejudices against people he doesn't know or bother to understand, why share that with me? Did he really think I would have anything beyond disdain for him? I can't help but suspect it wasn't about making an impression on me; it was about hearing his thoughts aloud, regardless of who they might offend.

It's like when I see someone at the store with a sandwich and Coke, and I have two weeks' worth of groceries. I let that person go before me in line because it is a way of making everyone's life a little bit better. When you demonstrate consideration of others, they (hopefully) will continue that act somewhere else. It benefits me personally to be courteous towards others.

So, do I have a moral to this story? Not particularly, because I try not to tell others how to live their lives(and I tend to fail at that, but moving on). But the next time you're getting in the elevator and you see someone running to catch it, maybe consider holding the door for them. Not because it's the "right thing to do," but maybe because you're going to affect someone else's day whether you act or not. Which impression would you rather leave with that person?

A fabulous little paragraph that deserves recognition.

This is great, and I cannot take credit for it. (author unknown)

Why are fire engines red?

Newspapers are read, too. Two plus 2 is 4, 4+4 is 8, and 8+4 is 12. There are 12 inches in a ruler. Queen Mary was a ruler. Queen Mary was also a ship at sea. The sea has fish, the fish have fins, and the Finns fought the Russians. Russians used to be red, and fire engines are always rushin’.

That’s why fire engines are red.

That is all.