You guys, this is a bit of a serious piece. Actually, I’ve changed my mind already. Depression is serious, but the media has already talked about depression so much, because of Nanoo Nanoo Man, so I’m not going to go into that again here.
But the death of Robin Williams did affect me. Like really really. It didn’t hit me until the day after I found out, which, since I’m a Facebook addict, was the day after he died.
I might have been numb that first day or maybe in shock but, for at least a week after that, I was on the verge of (and, at times, over the edge on) eye moisture leakage. (I tried to blame it on animal allergies, but the lip quiver kind of gave the truth of it—supreme sadness—away. Damn.)
Of course, combined with the full “super” moon and, of course, PMS, it was a combo that cumulated into the heavy cloud in my heart. I literally felt almost as depressed as I did a year ago when I had a breakdown over my sister-in-law’s cancer situation. (She’s alright now by the way. Whew!)
Add to all of this the back-to-school blues, which I get every year at this time—deep seeded anxiety from childhood trauma of fear of school (see comedy memoir)—and, well, I apologize if I burst out crying on your linen shirt if I should see you. Although I’m over it now so I probably won’t, even though I’m still curtains-drawn-reclusing. If you do happen to see me, don’t make fun of my greasy, matted hair—at least I got dressed. (Unless I’m in my PJs, then you can make fun of that.)
To take my own advice, I’m making an effort to pick myself up. Here’s what I’m doing:
I’m writing. This counts.
I reached out to some close, I-can-always-count-on friends.
I risked rejection and judgment in sharing this. #vulnerabilityisfuckingscary
I didn’t eat a whole bag of chips before bed. (Truth. But, man, I sure wanted to.)
Okay, fine—I didn’t have a bag of chips to eat, but it still counts because I was in such a mood as to jump in my car in my PJs with matted hair and to drive to the convenience store to get a bag. Exactly.
I didn’t make my bed this morning. (Now, normally, one might consider this action consistent with depression, but since I’m OCD and always make my bed—control issues—not making my bed is actually getting out of my comfort zone, which does builds self-esteem and well-being. That whole conquer-our-fears thing. Note: I did close the door, however, because the tussled covers were taunting me.)
I meditated. (In my world, daydream fantasies of Gerard Butler qualify as mediation. Though I admit I’m a little disappointed in The Gerry. He smokes cigarettes and frequents Starbucks, and he touched Rihanna. Eww.)
I went to the gym. I don’t like the gym, but I am trying to build a Rihanna butt and just can’t find an alternate body-weight/non-gym exercise for the weighted barbell hip thrust. If you know of one, please share. If you’re at the gym, don’t stare. (That rhymed.)
I’m making up rhymes. See above.
I’m going to do a Skype therapy session with a shrink in Croatia. Ah, the power of Facebook. (Oh, on that note, and because I’m OCD and must end on #10—though technically #5 doesn’t count—I will also add that I’m spending less time on FB. Trust me, it sucks the life from us.) (Note update: I didn’t Skype with the Croatian shrink, but I did spend, err, invest in a local hypnotherapist who poked me in the forehead for seven hours. I may write about it after I get over the bruising and residual intermittent twitching.)
See, I feel better already and, even though I didn’t bathe, I did use some no-poo shampoo—baking soda/cocoa powder mixture. Now my hair will be matted and chocolate scented. If you see me sweating rivulets of milk chocolate from my scalp, you have my permission to make fun of me. In fact, not saying something would be cruel.
Robin Williams was a funny man. I can’t guarantee using no-poo would have saved him, but I do hope that he has found some serious peace and some heavenly chuckles.
What have I (re)learned? Depression is sombre. Making fun of our own tendencies toward depression (and all the other shitballs things of life) helps alleviate the pain. Laughter is the best medicine.
Homework: Frick, did you see that list above? I’m way ahead of the get-happy game. Okay, fine. I’ll shower. And dress. But that’s it. And if I get stuck again, I’ll read Jenny Lawson’s blog, The Bloggess, because she’s funny. And has a shrink. (Which makes her extra cool.)
New! (This comes from the School Teacher me. Feel free to rebel.)…
Your Homework: If you feel so inclined, please share this with someone. Anyone. Give someone a smile. (Not metaphorically.) Bonus if it’s someone who isn’t already genuinely smiling. Double bonus if it’s someone who you can tell is only smiling on the outside. Thank you. xo
P.S. I promise to be funnier next time. Some days are just meant for matted hair, sweats and sweets—but I will say that those days are even better if you have a sweetheart and spend some happy time under the sheets. (Okay, fiiiine, with a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a classic film. Oh, great, now I’m depressed again. Shitballs!)
P.P.S. I was kidding above. Not about the ice-cream and I-scream but about being depressed. I’m fine. No, really. Okay, let’s rephrase that… I’m practically levitating with elation, Dah’lings!—Better? Good.) (Peaks through closed blinds…)
My last elephant journal essay (ironically): How To Just Get Over It, Already.
Here’s another downer (upper?): Seeing In A See Of Unconsciousness.
And finally, something completely different—a man with three buttocks!—just kidding, but here’s another ej essay: Why I Won’t Date Younger Or Old Men. (Ageism Rules.)
Lastly! (I so promise.) Look, I now have an Anna App! Thanks to Appy Hour Publishing! They can build you an App, too, and then you’ll be cool like me!! (sideways glance)