Silver Ribbon Stories @silverribbonstories - Tumblr Blog

Posts

I have not been this close to the edge in a blessed long time. My grandfather passed away a week ago. Now, I don’t know if I’m on the edge about to plunge down, if I’m “just” sad and upset about him, or if it’s a combination. Either way, I’m terrified. Sheet scare, I like to call it. Terrified of going to bed bacuse I fear how I'll feel in the morning. What if I'll get stuck there forever?

Something everyone should see at least once a day...

I hope you have a great one! :)

http://jamayg.tumblr.com/post/49345108962/thethirdlineart-drag-me-to-the-side-try-again

I hate feeling like this

I'm hungry, but I don't want to eat. I'm thirsty, but can't be bothered to get myself something to drink. I'm tired, but can't sleep ... or sometimes that's all I do.

I hate this. Just laying in bed crying anytime I am not forced to be somewhere else. I feel like I am wasting my life away.

Maybe I'm one of the lucky ones because I wasn't always this way. I remember being happy - very happy a vast majority of the time even. Seems like a long time ago now, but it wasn't really. I keep thinking that since I haven't always been like this, it can't be a "mis-wiring". It has to be something I'll get over. Something that's temporary. But it's been about a year and a half. That's not as temporary as I would like. If it's not a lifelong thing, but it's not a situational thing, where does that leave me? I feel like those are the 2 categories of depression I see referenced. What's the matter with me then?

nothing to say

For now, let me despair over just one aspect of depression:

I have no patience for meaningless small talk, yet I can't have a proper conversation with anyone... because when I ask questions about them and their lives, they ask similar questions in return and I have nothing to say. This further cuts me off from people.

Nothing to say because I don't do anything, I'm not interesting in anything, my life is one big lump of nothing.

If only this motivated me to do something interesting. Instead, it discourages me further.

Another great, heartfelt and heartbreaking post from The Bloggess...

#silverribbons

Blood must be shed, a sacrifice made.

Noah’s people; Goliath; Uzza, for trying to steady the Ark. Lot’s wife. The wicked and the disobedient, the careless and the unmindful.

And the boy, so intimate with the Law, degreed in the doctrine of untimely death, a master of his myriad flaws, ten small years old, wrestles with “Why?” Why She, and not he, was appointed to die. She, anointed and sainted by all who knew Her, the center of his tiny universe, source of his breath, creator of his body, giver of life. Goddess. Perfect.

Everyone speaks in hushed euphemisms of God’s reasons for calling Her home – reasons wise and just and just as unknowable. But certainly not as punishment for Her sins. They all agree on that. Not as punishment for HER sins.

No. Clearly, she was offered as an unblemished sacrifice. Offered for the errors of her progeny - the Goddess Mother dying as proxy for her inconstant little boy.

------

When I was 11 years old, my mother died. That's a terrible age to lose a parent, and people's attempts to comfort me often had the opposite effect. Specifically, two things people would say always made me feel terrible.

The first was that God must have needed her in heaven. How worthless was I, that an omniscient and omnipotent God would decide he needed her more than I.

The second was that people would frequently talk about feeling her presence. On special occasions, people would say, "I know she's here, and she's very proud of you." Trouble was, I never felt her presence. How worthless could I be that my own mother would manifest to cousins, friends, and perfect strangers, but not to her own offspring?

Only recently have I come to understand that her death wasn't my fault, and her absence, both physically and spiritually, had nothing to do with my worth as a human being. Only recently have I come to understand that those fumbling attempts at comfort were well intended, but that they said more about the people telling me those things than they said about me.

I wrote this poem in an attempt to explore and understand those experiences.

depressioncomix

depression comix #40

Doing better

I posted this about 2 months ago when I was in a very deep hole of depression. Though it was incredibly difficult to live through, it seems to have been my rock bottom (this time), and I've been continually feeling better ever since. I feel more positive and hopeful, and it's a huge relief! It didn't just suddenly get perfect and there are still points where I feel the evil fingers of depression poking at me, but overall I feel much more able to handle it. The days are getting longer, I'm still taking my meds, and I'm making myself be more social. I've even started dating a bit, and my libido, which had disappeared for months, has come back with a vengeance. (yeah!)

I'm writing this now to assure you that it DOES get better! Two months ago I couldn't to see a way I could ever be happy again, but I've some how found a way.

You WILL get better. Honest.

Another silver ribbon story

http://scribbling-woman.blogspot.com/2012/03/treading-water.html?m=1

depressioncomix

depression comix #38

depressioncomix

depression comix #37

Reaching Out

I suffer from chronic chemical depression. It’s not caused by a situation or my past, or my present. It is caused by a lack of chemicals in my brain. And I’m not going to be mad at myself over it anymore. (Ok, I am, but I’m going for strong here, so go with me.) It’s like hating myself for not having gills. No gills is normal for me. It means it’s easier to drown, but that’s the breaks.

I had, by all accounts, a prefect childhood. My parents are amazing, I went to good schools, I had great friends who I’m still friends with today. I had enough to eat and was allowed to do the things I liked and was pretty good at a lot of things. But I have never been any good at coping. Any little thing can completely derail my focus, my nerve, and my self-esteem. Right now, at the job I love, I have posted a button that says “Don’t Panic” and a little black and white picture with the words “If things go wrong, don’t go with them”. And I need these reminders. They don’t keep me from running to the bathroom to weep quietly in a stall ALL the time, but they do some of the time, and that’s enough.

A couple of years ago, I slipped into a DEEP depression. I had to give away my cat and it just triggered all sorts of awful. My husband brought me food and made me eat some of it, but he gave up getting me out of bed. I was staying. This was my new home.

But my Dad called, and every day, I had a new, little task.

Day one: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Sit in the living room. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it took me 2 hours to get into the living room, clean and dressed. And it was HARD. And all the while, berating myself that I had no reason to be THIS sad, my cat had a new home, he was happier, everything was ok. No go.

Day two: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Make yourself breakfast. Go out onto the porch. Hard. As. Fuck. BUT… the depression had ebbed just the tiniest bit since yesterday. There were only 999 knives slicing at me instead of 1,000. It still hurt like hell, and I was still pretty useless, but… it was better. Just a little.

Day 3: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Make and eat breakfast. Go to the park and people watch. (me: I don’t WANT to go into public. I don’t WANT to see happy people. Dad: I know, but go anyway.) The sun helped. Getting out of my own space helped. Now there were 997 knives.

Day 4: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Make and eat breakfast. Go to the grocery store. (me: I don’t think I can make it thru the grocery shopping. Dad: Make a short list, and stick to it. If you can’t get everything on it, you can go back tomorrow. But I think you can get everything on it.) Going to the grocery store is a pain in the ass. So I don’t want to go twice this week. Ok, I can suck it up and do this. I buy the groceries. 996 knives in the store. 990 knives when I get home with the shopping.

And so on. I called my dad, he gave me tiny new tasks to do, and I did them. I still spent a lot of time crying, and sitting staring into space, but less time was spent on that each day. And eventually… well, I was mostly ok. Of course I was hit with another bout later. And another and another. And I don’t always have time now to go quite that incremental (though if it gets that bad, there’s not a lot of other options).

So, if you have someone in your life, even someone who you don’t want to impose on, who you think will really hate doing this for you, but you think is responsible enough to do it- ask. Check in with them weekly. Tell them that if they don’t hear from you on the call-in day, you need them to call you.

Alcoholics and drug addicts have sponsors. Athletes have coaches. Artists have mentors. Pick a sponsor/coach/mentor. If it doesn’t work out in the future, get a new one. But get yourself that lifeline. Because we deserve to get what we need. We deserve a life of happiness. You have a handicap, but you don’t need to let it define you or consume you.

I promise you are loved.

If you feel you have NO ONE or would prefer a little more anonymity in your process, OR you would like to reach out and help someone by e-mailing them once a week, or both, e-mail me at [email protected]

Five Sigma

Sometimes I feel like crying, and I don't know why. But most of the time, it's just numbness.

The numbness is enveloping, comforting. At least, it feels better to my brain than the constant pang of anxiety. At least my heart isn't racing for no goddamn good reason at all. The depression is how my body and my brain cope with overwhelming anxiety. Neither is a good state to be in.

There's something wrong with me. I'm not normal. I'm weird and fucked up and my brain is different. I'm somewhere out on the wings of the Gaussian distribution. It's not the nicest place to me.

But then I see these stories here. I'm not alone. We're not abnormal. We are still on that continuum. It's just a little bit harder, especially right now.

It's hard not to judge yourself when you are in grad school. After all, your performance is really being judged. But that's not YOU as a person. My work should not determine my self-worth.

But it's hard. I define myself by what I do. And I want it to be good enough. But when is it good enough? Never for me. Even when someone tells me that it is... I don't believe them. Am I really the impostor? Do I have them all fooled?

I'm so close to the end. I'm almost there. My brain and the Prozac and the thought records and the mindfulness and the Ambien and the doctor visits and the calls from Mom... it'll all get me there.

But what do I do then? Will this ever be under control? I don't want to be like this anymore.

I Don't Know How to Talk

If there is anybody I hate most in the world it would be myself. I’m not writing this to gain sympathy. I’m just tired of not saying anything. The worst feeling is being depressed for no damn reason at all. The thing I remember most is lying in bed over the summer feeling like a giant hole was going to eat me, but there was no cause to be upset. I was going to a good school in the fall, I had a summer job, and was doing a sport I love. But I could barely force myself to swim anymore. I was seriously considering not swimming for school. I would be lying in bed thinking about swimming and I would feel like I was sinking farther and farther into a black hole. It was terrifying. I don’t know if I could describe exactly how it felt. It was a lonely feeling, that’s one of the things I have a problem with myself about. I wish and wish that I could talk to someone, and I know there are people who would listen, but I don’t know how to. I put on a mask and pushed through the summer. As school approached the black hole lessened with the anticipation. Every once and a while I would slip back into it but it was manageable at this point. Then school started and a friend from highschool died. I can’t say if that is what pushed me back over the edge but I do know that it at least started the plunge.

Then I basically failed my first two mid-terms and ended up getting two low grade notices. I know this sounds like a really stupid problem. Two low tests shouldn’t be a reason to fall back into the black abyss. That is why I hate myself. There was no reason I should have been depressed. Once again I wished for someone to talk to. And once again I know this was my fault. That pushed me farther. Hating myself for every small failure created a circle effect. It was horrible. The worst part was the apathy. I couldn’t convince myself to do anything. It was so much easier to watch Castle and not think. I mean, I managed to get stuff done but I was never satisfied. I didn’t want to tell anybody because I didn’t want anyone to think I was as much of a failure as I considered myself. I wasn’t sleeping well either which made me feel glazed over. Basically I spent an extended amount of time feeling like an old hermit crab shell. I think it was easier to hide how I was actually feeling at school because no one knew who I was when I was happy. It was easy to put on a fake smile.

I don’t know if I could pinpoint exactly when these feelings started but I do think it was actually quite a while ago. Sometime in October and early November I could feel myself starting to climb back out but that wasn’t before horrible thoughts had entered my head. I would never ever act on them no matter how bad I got but nonetheless it was scary. I had looked up the schools counseling stuff and everything. I scared myself. But then suddenly things became easier to do and my heart felt lighter. When another high school friend died I was terrified that I was going to end right back where I had just come from. I still haven’t told a single person. I don’t want anyone worrying or knowing my weakness. I really do a fine job of pissing myself off. I just feel so stupid sometimes. I don’t want pity or worry; I just want to say something. I know there are people who would listen and not judge me; I just don’t know how to talk. Even though I am out of the hole right now there are times when I feel my chest tighten and I get almost a feeling of vertigo. I have to close my eyes and take deep breaths and remind myself that I am happy.

There is a place I sometimes go

An involuntary trip into a hole

I’m mummified in plastic wrap

Drowning in a sea of black

But I pick myself up and put on a grin

So no one knows of this place I’m in

Help? Whatever.

I keep hearing "If you have depression, there is help." What help? 3 drugs, 3 therapists, a ton of money - and there's no such thing. Therapists tell you "be more positive! you are not worthless!" Why the hell am I paying you $100/ hr to tell me the same thing my friends can tell me?

I want to not cry every day. i want to not be so angry with my 13 month old. I want to not recoil when my 5 year old hugs me. I want to allow my husband to touch me.

Above all, i want to get help. But it doesn't fucking exist.

So I just want it to not hurt anymore.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Silver Ribbon Stories