anxiety, depression, happiness, life, mind, psychology

Moving Somewhere or Feeling Stuck

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Big city. Modern fairy-tale, neon nights, and highway tie-ups.

Early mornings with over-roasted coffee on an empty stomach. Fast paced work hours, puffy eyed rainmakers, and slow service in crowded cafeterias.

Bouts of depression are combined with heavy air, traffic noise, and collar stains on designer shirts. Loneliness comes along with whiskey on water and futile attempts to feel comfortable at private parties. Before-the-alarm wake ups and ever-lasting Monday fatigue.

He moved from a small town leaving old childhood traumas for new megapolis experiences.  – Don’t you understand Vixen? I need opportunities, right people, career, entertainment. I need money.

I understand.

His life in a big city was the constant go-go of aggressive self-promotion, goal-setting, and struggles to fit in. The more he made the more he pushed for, snorting cocaine and squeezing the maximum from the chest press machine. He was the winner who hid his insecurity behind the sparkling white smile and a seemingly sunny mood.

You gotta move forward, always move forward or you will lose.

Who told you this crap? – I shivered wrapping myself in a shawl. The AC in his office was constantly running causing goose bumps and nasal congestions.

You are crazy to say that.

His fear to become a loser mercilessly pushed him towards endless rat racing, which added more and more to his nervousness, impulsivity, and hopelessness. He cherished the illusion that he keeps moving up closing his eyes to the truth that he stays still.

You can go forward, backward, up and down. It really does not matter, luv. The truth of it is you never move no matter how fast you run.

 – What do you mean?  – years of living in a big city shaped his skill of hiding true emotions, but I could still feel the growing irritation behind his nonchalant politeness and trendy perfume.

 – You are an inferior boy who tries to show this world that you are someone big and important. You failed to prove it to your parents, nowadays, you are failing to prove it to your big bosses since no one cares. As you see, nothing has changed. You are still staying still. You are stuck, and your soul feels it.

He did not respond, and we never talked about it again.

 

crazy, happiness, health, life, mind, psychology

Coping with Depression

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Hey depression. Here you are again, take your time since you are back. I can’t be present for you now since I gotta run errands.

It took some time for me to get to this point, to the point where I realized that fighting with myself makes no sense, so I started taking the depressive mood with a grain of salt.

First, I felt desperate opening my eyes in the morning feeling stuck in the stinky mud of hopelessness, worthlessness, and the entire loss of energy. My days would start with the gloomy “No, no, no, I can’t live like this, this crap will never end”. Here I was, unable to get out of bed, wanting nothing but to hide all day in the bedroom behind the drawn curtains. Daylight with people’ voices and kids’ laughter outside got me irritable, triggering the pain that everyone is happy, while I am doomed to live in the inescapable pit of despair and view the reality through the filthy lens of my messed-up mind.

Then I became resistant. I started a long fight with my helplessness, believing that I can beat the gloom and doom and change. My family got happy seeing me getting out of bed, eating, exercising, putting my make up on, and going to a psychiatrist for a scheduled visit. The guy kept putting me on something that was supposed to fix me. “It will normalize your chemical balance and improve the daily functioning, honey.”

I would nod, I would smile, I was very polite and always paid the bills they sent me from that clinic – I liked him calling me “honey”, or “dear”, or “sweetheart”. I kept picking up the prescribed medications from a local pharmacy and flushing the pills down the toilet. Being drugged was never a way-out, but I would come back for his sweet-talks and brief hugs until this started draining my wallet.

The next step was therapy. A young lady was sincere in her efforts to help. She was fresh from her grad school and eager to make a difference in this world. I liked her, I tried to give tips after our sessions; she always refused referring to her code of ethics, boundaries, and other nonsense. I knew she was struggling financially as a single mom, overworked and underpaid. After two months of our therapy sessions, I cancelled all subsequent appointments and mailed to her home address a check with a thank you note and a request to spend the money on a newer vehicle. The check was never cashed, she was very descent and honest, I liked her even more after that.

Therapy got me into watching my thoughts, questioning my hopelessness, and disputing negativity. I did mood charts, took warm baths with sea-salt and lavender oil, and meditated with incense prior going to bed. The following morning would start with the same depressive crap, but I would know how to make it through the day.

Finally, I got bored, simply bored of following or resisting the mind farts, knowing that the mind will always be there, telling me whatever, and there is no possible way of turning it off. The realization got me shocked, then sad, then blah. Finally, I got entirely unconcerned, I had the life to live and things to do even with a broken tape-recorder in the head.

The alarm-clock rang to start the day, I opened my eyes and yawned, the gloom combined with exhaustion and nagging irritation was there. I got up and went into the bathroom. I wanted to get ready, I had things on my agenda: to drink water, to clean my fish tanks, to get roses for my girlfriend’s birthday party, to drive to the airport, to finally see the mountains. The depression was there, I shrugged my shoulders, letting the mind do whatever, I did not care, I really wanted to start my day with drinking some water.

crazy, health, life, love, mind, psychology, relationships

Falling for an Addict

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 – Wrong guys are after me, they keep breaking my heart, I do not know what to do.

 – No honey, you fall for messed up people.

 – You can’t say that, Vixen. You are my friend. – My girlfriend had that enticingly-vulnerable look; huge deer eyes, pale skin, and alluring gestures.

 – You love suffering my dear. Attracting alcoholics, drug addicts, liars, and other mentally sick dudes and losers is your passion. – I had no time for her tearful helplessness that morning. I was busy and ready to go.

 – What shall I do?

 – Go back to work, unless you want to get fired and share the misery of your unemployed dates.

 – I was hoping for your support

 – I love you dear. But I am not supporting your love for freaks and losers.

 – You are cruel, Vixen.

 – Go back to work, honey.

Her mannerism was hypnotic, her appearance was anorexically sex-appealing. She was the magnet for troubled guys, and she enjoyed them. Her classically messed up boyfriends knew how to hug, how to kiss, how to fuck, and how to empathize. Each relationship started with expensive presents, mind-blowing sex, and endless horrid stories of their heart-breaking childhood experiences. Her each date had a perfect excuse for being miserable, misunderstood, discriminated against, unaccepted by the society, and exceptionally vulnerable. She kept being dragged into the bullshit of her boyfriends’ uniqueness, swamped by myriads of reasons for losing money and for their inability to stop mixing anti-depressants with liquor and get their lazy asses back to work.

She loved the feeling of euphoria coming home and seeing her partner sober on the couch watching old French movies or analyzing stock markets. All her dates were intelligent and highly educated. Adding lofty attitudes, alcohol, and psych medications to their ivy-league diplomas and family possessions was very charming to her. She felt mesmerized and ready to fall in love ardently defending the guys’ instability and furiously denying any attempts to get her to common sense.

Her pain of discovering her dates passed out due to overdosing on benzos or alcohol blackouts was very real. She would call 911 and spend sleepless nights in a local emergency room blaming herself for everything. Deep in her heart she would crave for the moment of their hospital discharge. She knew they would come back with buckets of roses, diamond necklaces, and heart-warming words of gratitude: “you are exceptional honey, I feel so lucky I have you, I would have died without you, you have saved my life again”. She loved that, enabling their addiction and the unwillingness to seek professional help.

She suffered a lot blaming them for being unable to keep the job, to maintain sobriety, and to stabilize their manic and depressive episodes. But the pleasures from the “I neither do drugs nor drink, I am way too spiritual/educated/intelligent, blah-blah-blah” lies were much more gratifying than the reality check. Their pretended empathy and awesome sex kept her around adding spice to the toxicity of the relationships.

Once one dude passed away, the other one would show up with a big cock, fake promises, claimed bankruptcies, and fancy gifts.

Being up and down was her way of living. I did not have much patience or compassion for it.

 – Have a good day, honey, – I gave her a hug and left the diner feeling the sadness of her almond-shaped eyes on my back.

 

crazy, happiness, health, life, mind, psychology

Life with a Mental Disorder

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She was sick. Most of her time was spent on seeming normal. She played tennis and attended cocktail parties. Her friends came over to hang out. They enjoyed the way she cooked pastas and cheesecakes.  She saw her in-laws on weekends and attended bible study classes every Wednesday night. She socialized outside the household and was attentive and polite within the family. The house was clean, the children did good at school, her husband was recently promoted. He attributed his success of getting the operations director position to her. “I would never have done it without you. You are everything to me, you are my angel. ” He worshipped her, she was his inspiration, his pixy.

But she was sick. No one had any idea what it took her every morning to get out of bed and function as if she were ok. Her inner world was the ongoing manic-depressive roller-coaster, and she never knew if her mind would take her on the ride of elevated mood and high self-esteem; or she would end up hand-wringing, unable to control purposelessly repetitive body movements.

Sometimes she spent nights pacing in the bathroom hyper and panicky, unable to sleep. Sometimes fatigue hit her so hard that she struggled lifting her head off the pillow. Her self-worth could elevate and drop within days or even hours resulting in tremendous energy loss and the feelings of emptiness and despair.

Hiding her sickness and faking happiness 24/7 was the worst. No one in her family was aware of what was going on, she was too scared, too proud, and too ashamed to be verbal about her condition. Her days were infused with the fear to be revealed and labelled cuckoo. She masked her panic behind the façade of smiling politeness and pleasant demeanor. Her husband finally started making six figures a year, she got accepted by his parents and became president of a local book club. She was scared to mess everything up and kept pretending and going through the emotional nightmare day and night.

It happened on Tuesday. Her husband took her out to dinner. She put on a blue cocktail dress and a perfect smile prior leaving the bathroom, the only safe place where she could be herself restlessly pulling the hair and biting the nails.

The restaurant was almost empty. Her husband had to answer the work phone and hurried outside when a middle-aged waitress approached the table.

Are you ready to order?

Of course,  – her smile faded when she raised the head from the menu. The waitress was looking straight into her as if digging deep into her soul.

You are strong, everything will fall into place.

  – I am ready to order, – She had the feeling that the lady got her, the lady saw her true messed-up self. And she felt relieved when her husband finally came back.

One her way home she kept thinking about the words of the waitress. The waitress was weird, disrespectful, and crazy, but what she said made sense. Faking health and happiness, when dealing with mania, depression, and panic attacks clearly required lots of inner power.

The next morning started with the loss of energy; her previously elevated self-esteem broke against another depressive episode. She forced herself to open the eyes and look at the clock. It was the time to get her kids and her husband ready for the new day. They wanted potatoes and eggs, he wanted cappuccino and a cream-cheese sandwich.

I am strong, I will get through this, I can’t feel low all the time, the mood will end up go up anyways” started her recovery. She knew she needed to learn about her mind to be able to foresee upcoming mania and subsequent falling into hopelessness. She started looking for help. She started asking for help. Gradually, she started living.

health, life, love, mind, psychology, relationships

Depression, Anxiety, Self-Acceptance and Unwillingness to Change

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I am learning to accept myself the way I am. I see my therapist twice a week. I know better now.

  • I am unwilling to change, – I am beautiful the way I am. A few extra pounds mean a sexy curvy body, drinking is a way of relaxation, cleaning, cooking, and attending to males’ needs sound like relentless abuse and male privilege. You gotta realize I won’t allow you to take advantage of me any longer.

 

  • You should accept me for who I am, – I am not bending to anyone’s needs, just take it or leave it. You have problems? You are not a little boy, I am not your mommy, find ways to deal with your stress.

 

  • You cannot judge me, you have no idea what I went through – you should be empathetic, respectful, and caring, you should be here for me when I need it; otherwise, I have nothing to do with you.

 

  • You gotta earn the privilege of being with me. You are the luckiest person in the world since I am here for you, love me the way I am. Like I previously said, do not try to change anything, it is not going to happen, – if you prefer a sex-appealing calorie-counting chick who substitutes dinners for gym workouts, do it, I will get over it, I deserve the real man.

 

  • You gotta change diapers, stay up all night, and spend weekends grocery shopping, cooking and cleaning. Relationship is partnership, don’t you know? And yes, this is your kid too, learn to combine your 60-hour week work schedule with being the father. You can’t? I am done with being exploited, I am leaving.

 

  • I am strong and independent, – your attempt to turn me into an underweight stay-home sperm dumpster is abuse and domestic violence. My therapist told me this, like I said, I see her twice a week.

 

  • Are you horny? Seriously? I am not an object, I deserve to be valued for my beautiful heart and soul, – watching porn at night and looking at other women is not acceptable. I am not swallowing sperm and disrespect. I am leaving now, you will regret.

 

  • The day you got me a new vacuum cleaner and a multifunctional blender was the final drop in the bucket. I am not putting up with your power and control issues any longer. My attorney will contact you as regards child support and alimony.

 

  • It is really hard to find a really nice guy, but I will I know. While looking for the prince charming, I will keep mixing alcohol with anti-depressants and anxiolytics. I will keep soothing my depression and anxiety with prime rib, tears, and cheesecake around my slightly obese, slightly depressive, and slightly anxious girlfriends.

 

Like I stated before, I gotta accept myself the way I am, I am not willing to change, I see my therapist twice a week, I know better now.