Tag Archives: depression

The dread and the light

Sunday again. This day must take on a new meaning for me, a new feeling. I can’t keep waking up with the same sense of dread and melancholy as I have for years, for forever, since before I even knew what Sunday was. I think My Son feels it as well or maybe he just feels my discontentment. We are so ridiculously attached, his mouth an almost permanent fixture upon my breast, his eyes search my face in wonderment without a bit of judgement, my arms wrapped around his warm body, my hair tangled around his tiny fingers. He deserves Sundays free of this stigma of mine. He deserves his own story.

I could write so much more, I am dying to write and write but my Son demands my attention and goddamn he is a powerful commander. I am…..


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Filed under Feels like Sunday, I am a Mother

He just couldn’t hold on anymore

There were signs.

I didn’t really need any, I had always known.

I was just waiting. Waiting for the phone call.

One day he was wearing a cheap gold chain, like super thick and cheap, from some sort of quarter toy machine for adults going through a later mid life crisis, baby boomer bling. Then he gave me his Bose Ipod dock, he loved it but his Ipod had just been stolen and he apparently had no intentions of replacing it. I carried it home like a dead cat with a diamond collar, I wanted it but I knew it would always stink. He came by on Christmas morning, rushed, he told me he almost left my gift on the porch when I didn’t answer the door quickly enough. He hugged me like it was the last hug he would ever give me and told me he loved me. And he was gone.

I had been waiting for this moment for years, since before I was ever born. My life up until the phone call was merely a series of events leading up to the moment that my heart would be shattered irreparably.

“Your Father, your Father…….”

“My Father what!”


“Fucking say it!”

“Your Father committed suicide”

A scream came from me that was like no other sound I had ever heard, guttural moans emanated like fire from my throat and into the depths of a pillow I smashed my face into. I didn’t know what else to do but to continually scream “fuck” for minutes, until my throat was hoarse and I could yell no more. I was breaking, completely, my brain, my heart and my soul, it was all crumbling to pieces, a jumbled mess of undefinable pain.

As I calmed, exhausted of tears, of screams, I attempted to breathe, hiccuping gasps of still night air. And then I felt it, a tiny bit of relief, the waiting was over. I hated myself so much for that, I still do.

I understand suicide. I have come very close but no cigar. I don’t believe in suicide “attempts”, if I want attention I will dye my hair orange. My Father and I discussed suicide often, comparing methods. I always preferred a clean, private approach; a bubble bath and a bottle of pills taken slowly over a 3 hour period. He however came up with some real fucked up scenarios; a rope tied from the Coronado bridge to your neck so that when you jump and the rope tightens your head will pop off and hopefully boaters would be nearby to witness the body and head falling into the ocean separately. In his animated description of the scenario his darkness was camouflaged by humor and charisma.

Camouflaged by humor and charisma…the perfect hiding place for depression. It had been there his whole life, I saw it in his eyes. Most people were too distracted by his charms to notice. Anyone can smile for a camera, he smiled for everyone and spread that shit like a comedic plague. It was damn hard to be in a bad mood around him, his own pain so deeply embedded in him that it acted like a vacuum, sucking in any surrounding sadness or grief. All of this pain turned into a sort of fuel that kept him going, how much more can I handle?

He held on for as long as he could. Until one day he just couldn’t hold on anymore.


Filed under Feels like Sunday, Memories of Dad, Something that happened

Leap Day – 1996 (a long walk home)

I wrote this on February 29, 1996  (I was 16)

Today is Leap Day, whatever that really means
I am completely ashamed and embarrassed
To never show my face again would be completely fine with me
I’ve let myself down
I am so foolish and so easily persuaded
I have no control
My heart aches and my mind bleeds
Desolate and empty with a fake smile and hello
They say today’s the day to take a chance
I only wish that it were yesterday
to start all over again
What a feeling, I cannot express
I’m becoming who I always feared
The one who has no control
I’ve let everything slip away
let my mind drift and sway
My eyeliner smeared and my hair is a mess
Why do I talk so, just to like myself less?
And today is Leap Day whatever that really means

    I remember that day, every awful minute of it. I was in the harsh grip of bulimia and my body was shutting down on me. I couldn’t make it through one day at school without being sent to the nurse’s office for falling asleep at my desk. I was passing out pretty frequently but managed to hide it from friends and family. Most of the people at my high school thought I was on drugs and I just found it easier to let them believe that. My throat was so raw from constant vomiting that my voice had a raspiness to it that I rather liked. I didn’t much care for the intense indigestion and constant taste of bile in the back of my throat but I accepted it as a punishment of sorts. Punishment for having splurged at dinner with an extra helping of casserole, for having attempted to digest a meal, for having the insane idea of eating in the first place.

    February 29 could have been like any other day except maybe I was feeling a little vulnerable or possibly I was looking for help, for someone to understand. I still cringe at the thought of what I did that day. It still makes me feel weak and pathetic. I decided to talk to the one person who was aware that I was ill in one way or another because she had been forced to watch me sleep on a cot in her office for months. During my daily visit to the Nurse’s office I told her what was really  going on with me. It felt good to have finally said it out loud but then before I had even finished talking she had the phone in her hand and was telling me that she had to call my Mother. I begged and pleaded with her, told her I wished I hadn’t said anything, that I made it all up. But she would not be deterred. The call was short and she sent me home.

    It took me hours to walk the half mile home. I stopped for coffee at a 7-11. I sat on a wall and smoked cigarettes watching the traffic, wondering what it would be like to walk blindly into the middle of the street. I felt disconnected while the world moved around me in slow motion. When I finally arrived home my Mother was in her bedroom with the door closed. I could hear her crying. That really pissed me off. Why the fuck did she get to cry? I was a good 5 solid years into my relationship with eating disorders, this really shouldn’t have shocked her. She never did come out of her room that day. We never actually spoke about it at all. However, she did go with me to a Doctors appointment where I first met a Doctor I will refer to as Dr.Croak. He came to be a very generous man who for many years supplied me with all the vicodin a girl could want for.

    I was then sent to a Psychiatrist who wanted to hear in graphic detail every sexual encounter of mine and when I refused we simply sat in uncomfortable silence interrupted only by his heavy mouth breathing and occasional “hmmmmm”. I was prescribed Prozac and that was it. My mood improved thanks to the pills but my eating disorder never left me, not for one second. Oh, it changed over time, got better in hiding behind things like stress or casual dieting. I became an amazing liar, a truly great fucking liar. I had been lying for so long I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Everything was a lie and my Family bought into it because they were damn good liars themselves. They chose not to see or acknowledge in any way that something was wrong with me or themselves.

    I can still relate to every word of what I wrote 16 years ago, I can still feel the despair and anguish of that day as if I were still on that long walk home.

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Filed under Ana, Mia and other Bitches, I remember

Feels like Sunday

Tuesdays suddenly feel like Sundays.

Time follows no rules, falls backwards and slips sideways.

Sundays, once full of dread and anxious hostility now remain a dark reminder, a stain.

Leaking past Monday and filling up Tuesday, the slow pain of Sunday is eating away at my week.

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Filed under Feels like Sunday

I miss Prozac

I have been on and off psych meds since I was 13. It all began with Prozac. I was prescribed those magic little pills to treat my obsessive compulsive behavior, depression, anxiety and bulimia.

Over the years I went on and off many, many others. I did this because I am the usual sort of basket case that loves to go off meds no matter how well they are working. Because how the fuck do you know if they are working unless you give ’em a good test every once in a while.

I was most recently on 60mg of Prozac and 1200mg of Neurontin. There was really no good reason for the Neurontin, I just kinda liked it. At the time I did a lot of shit just because I kinda liked it and really didn’t give a fuck. However, the Prozac was definitely a necessity. A necessity I am now forced to do without. Well, I shouldn’t say forced. My doctor’s have all told me that I could stay on the Prozac throughout my pregnancy but I just can’t do that to my kid. So, I am a little nuts right now.

My depression sneaks in through cracked windows, slithers along the base boards, crawls up the walls, snuggles in between the sheets and penetrates my skin through every fucking pore. I feel it in between my toes, underneath my fingernails, tickling my stubbled armpits, whispering behind my ears and scratching at the back of my throat.


Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, I remember