When Push Comes to Shove


Hi there!

It’s Friday. We’ve made it to the end of the week and for that I am so exceptionally grateful. This week has taught me more than perhaps my entire first year in college altogether. I know that in the grand scheme of things I’m just experiencing the realities of the beginnings of transition (what I have dubbed the caterpillar effect). I know that all things come to those who wait. I know my future is what I make of it. I know that the sun will rise again and so will I.

I know all those things.

Depression has that weird way of making you feel like you can’t reach the things you know. For example, my most relied on quote (the bolded one above) is true, but I don’t know that I believe it. And that’s frustrating. I was up last night with a new friend who was having a panic attack and I was trying to alleviate those concerns. I know what it’s like, I completely get it. And all the while I felt my own walls caving in on me. Did I say so? Of course not. But it was there, nonetheless.

Always keep fighting. Love yourself first. You are not alone.

Those are the “tag lines” for some of the campaigns that I partake in through the Supernatural fandom. And you best believe that I’ve been chanting them over and over again since I woke up this morning. Every theme song for carrying on has been blasting through my headbuds, every inspirational quote has been read, every coping technique I know (that is healthy) has been employed. But my soul is still tired. 

And I think that’s the problem.

Being physically tired is something that often times, a day off and some peace-and-quiet can remedy. Just a break. A nap. But being emotionally, spiritually, mentally tired is something that often comes at a much steeper price. I get enough sleep everyday but my heart and soul just aren’t in “it” anymore. What do I mean by “it”? Well, at this current point-the life I’m living. I mean college and working and “adulting” and well, the total package. Let me be explicitly clear here-I am not headed down the dark and dangerous path of suicidal ideation.  I am just tired in a way that cannot easily be fixed. And I have been for quite some time.

I feel like (and this could be exaggerated because I am depressed) everything I attempt, everything I put myself out there for is getting negative feedback-denial, rejection, being ignored altogether. And that stings a little bit.  It starts to feel like just when I thought I was finding my way through this big journey called life, the universe (fate? Destiny? God(s)?) has stopped believing in me. And I’m starting to cave.

Now, I’m not trying to elicit sympathies or whatnot, as I’ve said before, this is my “journal”-one that I make public to be accountable, to share with the world so that other people may not feel so alone. 

Anyway, I people watch. I see so many people walking down the sidewalks with life in their eyes but I see every so many more who are, just like me, dead inside. And I don’t mean to be melodramatic here. You have seen it too, I’m sure. The people who catch your eye and just look completely used up and empty. Like the world has taken more than they had to give and there’s nothing left but a shell. It’s those people that I understand.

I’ve said before that I don’t feel like praying (in the traditional sense of making yourself look inferior and pleading for help) is something I can get behind. I ask things of the universe as someone who needs things-not as someone unworthy of receiving them. But this past week has seen me asking in every way possible. I’ve even starting asking Angels and Ancestors. I’m starting to feel…desperate.

And I think that’s something a lot of people can relate to. Life isn’t something you can control. You just minimize damage and plan for the best case scenario.

If you take nothing else from this rant, take this:

You may be feeling these things too. You may have left depression in the past, or be waiting for it in your future. But you most definitely aren’t the only person like that. It can’t rain (metaphorically) forever.

What an Effing Nightmare

I’m fat is the stupidest sentence on the whole damn planet. I am not a blob of blubber, just as I am not strep throat or bipolar. I have those things (except for strep-I have had but do not currently). Anywho, I have spent over a decade telling myself this stupid sentence. If you notice, I have no pictures of myself on this blog, I have maybe 3 selfies on Instagram and overall, I really don’t do photographs. But why? Because I’m still trying to figure out how to define myself according to rules which are not that sentence.

  (This picture drives me crazy. At least we’re active, dammit.)

 I have fat. Mostly a lot of it. It’s kind of a big deal. And I hate it. I’ve been weaning myself off of soda (Dr. Pepper is my weakness), and I added a small but intense workout to my daily routine. It’s planks, wall sits and low cardio. And I have chosen to be open and honest about it. Not because I want you all to laugh at me, but because I have a message that others need to hear.

  (These aren’t me, but I think they’re a pretty solid representation of the parts that I keep hidden.)

 I decided I’d had enough of being fluffy. I want to look healthy, not like I do now. I feel embarrassed, and it’s a great source of sadness. I made myself this way, but I also didn’t. I was put on the birth control that allows for 3 periods a year because mine were really painful. And while I was on that birth control, I gained 80 pounds. That’s 4 times more than I gained from mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. I stress ate and that didn’t help at all. But after that, I continued to be large and in charge. Only I wasn’t in charge. I was out of control.

  But what is it that I ate? Salads mostly. And coffee, soda, pizza, spaghetti. My calorie intake was between 1300 and 1600 per day, over half of that was drinks. I ordered low fat coffee from Starbucks if I chose to get anything other than tea. Even now, I eat maybe twice a day, I drink coffee like it’s going out of stock and I drink water, between 2 and 3 bottles a day (unless it’s a hard day and then only 1-which is bad, I know). My calorie intake recently has been between 1400 and 1650, with most of it being creamer and dinner. My breakfast is usually peanut butter toast. Is it super healthy? No. But I should not be obese.

Did that word startle you? It did me too. But it isn’t a death sentence unless you make it so. Which is where we find me this past week. I decided I was far too stressed and I was going to try to get into a regular workout routine. And so far, I’m doing great. But it’s because I know the shitty parts have to end sometime.

  (This is a plank. It’s also called pain.)

 It started out just feeling tired. I felt like my body was at the point of sheer exhaustion. Then came the nausea, the light headedness and the muscle pain. The latter I had expected but the first two I hadn’t. This came on slow and then got worse the more days that passed. Fast forward to today (Okay fine. Today is day 3, but I’m trying darn it!) and I feel like I can only keep water down. Food turns my stomach, I feel really icky on the inside and my muscles are aware that I mean business. And it was in that line of thought that I recalled watching several seasons of The Biggest Loser a few years back. A lot of the people were really sick while they were beginning their workout routines. I remember watching an episode where the woman had to keep stopping to puke because her body was detoxing.

  I brought this up to my husband and he reminded me that I hate eating fast food and that I always get salads and I should be fine. But the thoughts persisted. He asked if I wanted him to work out with me and I said:

No. It’s embarrassing.

He then asked why it was embarrassing that I was making myself into a better me. I shook my head and got down to business. 

  But really. Why is it that I felt like it was embarrassing that I struggle? I’m doing something. I’m trying, which is more than I can say for the old me. It’s really hard. I feel sick, my tummy hurts (because I’ve been doing abs) and I feel all around like a big ball of crap. But I’m already more dedicated than I was in the past, because I’m pushing through the pain and working out anyway. And yes, I still feel a little embarrassed that I can only hold a wall sit for a minute and a half before it feels like someone is sawing off my thighs or that I can only hold a plank for 30 seconds before my flabby arms buckle from stress. But you know what? I’m doing something about it. And maybe today I will go for 2 minutes straight, or learn how to use an elliptical. And the fact that I’m still trying is worth more than the pain.

  

Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

What I want people to take away from this, more than anything is that it’s hard. Change always is. And we can sit around waiting for life to correct the travesties it has enacted upon us or we can get up and kick it in the face. I really hate working out. I hate running, I hate lifting, I hate all of it. But I’m not doing all this because I really want to look at the number on the scale and smile. I am, we are so much more than a number. I want to look myself in the eyes in the mirror and be attracted to myself. I want to learn how to take myself out on dates, and have the confidence to walk into the mall and get my hair done or my nails (am I even that person?!) without feeling like everyone is staring at me because my stomach is round. I want you to take away that this sucks worse than anything I’ve ever purposefully done to myself, but I turn my music up that much louder and scream over how much it hurts. Because if I want to be around to see all my reams come true, or to survive the zombie apocalypse, I’m going to need to practice my roar.

  

(I would like to thank Google for always having the pictures I need to make my point.)