depression: my oldest friend.

"In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, I have one more intimate confidant… My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known — no wonder, then, that I return the love."

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life

Depression. It can occur at any time and hit any person, regardless of age, sex, wealth, nationality or circumstance. 

Take me, for example: The first time I heard her knock on my door, I was ten years old. I don't know how to explain how I felt at that time-only that I was just so tired. I remember coming home from school every day, curling my body into a tight little ball of gangly limbs and denim shorts, crawling into my pink canopy bed, feeling wave after wave of nothingness crash against the walls, lulling my body to sleep with its soothing rhythm. 

My mother: "You can't sleep away your problems, Beth."

What problems? I had lots of friends, I made good grades, I lived in a big three-story house with upper-middle-class parents who loved me, I never wanted for anything, and quite honestly, had the picture-perfect childhood. I was just exhausted. 

See, that's the thing about depression so many people don't understand. Can it be caused by a certain negative experience or really difficult time in one's life? Of course. But for many of us, it is a never ending battle that pins us down, keeps us up at night or holds us hostage in our beds. We guiltily remind ourselves of everything we need to be doing, everything good in our lives. But she has a romantic way of luring us into the dark cocoon of our head, saying, "It's too much for you to handle, anyway. Quit trying." 

Because more often than not lately, it's been happening after all the good things falling into my lap. I feel the rush of what could be, the glimmer of a life grander than I have ever imagined. But depression's little cousin, fear, offers to come by, stroke my hair softly, sing me a lullaby and give me a place to rest my head-so full of ideas they both remind me I'm not capable of carrying out. 

I know there are things I can and should do. Things that will scare her away. Like, call an old friend, exercise, read, write a poem. But the second she shows her face, I let her crawl inside my salty, yellow lungs, lay her heavy head upon my chest, give her a soft kiss upon her forehead, and together, we hide. 

I love her and I hate her. Out of anyone in the entire world, she knows me best. We have spent so many days & nights entrapped in each other's arms, sharing secrets, clinging together with hands laced tight. She allows me to waste time, reassuring me all of my efforts are in vain-granting me the option to give up. 

I hate her because I do not want to give up. She sucks the marrow of my bones and invites anxiety and self-pity to supper, both of whom are excellent cooks. She is a skilled boxer, and has beat me so many times, I am terrified to even spar. 

But somedays, I fight like hell. I bury myself in projects; I ask my sister if she will please come see me. I dream impossibly big. I put on a pretty dress and lipstick. I tell an old woman she is beautiful-and mean it. I read old love letters. I allow myself to truly receive a compliment. And believe it.  

Depression will never completely abandon me. She has crawled into my ribs and permanently tangled herself in my hair. But I remind myself that she is a fickle visitor, that she has multiple house calls to make, that she will grow weary of me and fly away.

But as for today? I slept most of it away. I worried about money. I worried about writing this, because I know I am capable of expressing this feeling much better than I did. I know my words and the way I use them is a gift. I know I did not make the best use of that gift. 

But, I wrote. Therefore, I win today's battle. And I will try again tomorrow. I will not rest easy, but rest, I will. 

And sometimes, just sometimes, I give her a tired smile and a thank you. Just for listening....

One of my favorite poems that explains how I feel. 

This poet here says it best.....

https://youtu.be/sRrORhWHkOc

Do you struggle with depression? If so, please tell me about your experience with it in the comment box.

Yours Truly,

MourningGlory

beauty: a beginner's guide

Beauty. 

I know I've written briefly about this before, but it was more about my personal journey with feeling undesirable after I became paralyzed. 

This is for ALL women-something I know we all struggle with. How can we not? We've been fed a visual meal of what a woman is supposed to look like & even be. We swallow it, choking on self-hatred. Throwing it up-the bitter aftertaste lingering in our throats. We first encounter it as teenagers. Glossy spreads in 17 & Teen Magazine. Lips parted like an open purse for a manboy to enter.  Perfect hair. Teeth pearls. Skin porcelain. Later, we compare ourselves to Victoria's Secret models, sashaying down the cat walks. Abs tight, hair flowing spirals, legs granddaddy long.

I first remember feeling inadequate at the age of ten. I was smart. I was creative. I was funny. But, I was too skinny. I had glasses. I read too much. I was too tall. And confused: On the playground-the first time I was embarrassed about my body: What are those things sticking out of your shirt, Bethany?" Laughter. Pointing. Covering my chest in my new t-shirt dress, with my arms crossed, fists clenched tight. I never wore it again. 

 Boys liked my best friends, not me. I quickly learned that getting a man's attention was paramount. Without a boy wanting me, how could I complete myself?

Age 12: I didn't have glasses anymore. I  knew breasts were good. I made sure to wear shirts that showed them off. I learned that being skinny was to be appreciated. I got my first boyfriend. I was finally okay. 

The years went on, and I licked the sweet taste of envy from other girls & the stares and catcalls from men like the outsides of the cigars my daddy used to let me taste. The tanning bed in high school. "Wow, Beth. You were pretty before.... But now, you're hot."

Nourishment. 

Nutrition. 

I have known girls who shoved even fingers they found too stubby deep in their mouths, gagging on triump. Women who refuse to let their husbands see them naked. Women who punish themselves with cuts etched deep into their skin, teardrops spilling out mixing with the blood. Women who bury themselves in piles of paper and laundry and children, afraid to be found, to be seen. We paint and polish ourselves to be an object-a pretty picture on the wall. Then we hide it, afraid to love ourselves, because even that is a sin.

But our bodies are not a landscape to be painted on. We are not the sum of our hips, lips, weight, skin, breasts or bellys. We have wisdom to impart, mouths we feed, faces that tell a story. 

Desirability is a clever thief. It casts subject as object if it means we are wanted. But you, woman reading this, are a skyline, a galaxy of a woman, of palatable vastness. You are a ray of sun, streaking someone else's sky awake. You are a jar full of fireflies on a hot Southern night. Glow. Burn bright. 

Take your body back from the only way people allow themselves to find it beautiful. Take back the title. Own it.

I'm still a long ways away from learning to truly love myself outside of my physical appearance. I am trying to learn that my beauty lies in the way my eyes light up when I smile. The way my laugh can fill a room. The way my words are a gift, a present to be unwrapped, a present to be shared. The way my tired voice drips with honey when I say, "I love you" and mean it. 

But my body is strong. My body fights. My body survived. And I will learn to love my body, my face. I will carry myself like a queen, like a lover, like a song. 

I wish I had the time to word this better, but for now.... I will show you someone who says it best.

http://youtu.be/YSHnnPunShg

Yours Truly,

Mourning Glory