There exists today a blog for every topic in your wildest imagination. Vegan cooking? Done. Young Members of the G.O.P.? Done. Photoshopped images of Tom Selleck standing in a waterfall with sandwiches? Perhaps not so surprisingly, done. Wedding, engagement, relationships, breakups, singlehood? Done, done, done, done, DONE. Currently I'm an avid reader of my friend's blogs (here's looking at you, Sticks), but I've had a secret wish to start my own for years. I've been dying to flex my creative writing skills, but with posts already in existence about how cute sleeping cats are to the quantum mechanics of outer space time travel, what new or interesting things could I possibly have to say? I wasn't brave enough to just post what I wanted, simply because I wanted to.
As a kid I studied piano; for 18 years I took lessons in classical music. I enjoyed it and I loathed it, I was good at it yet I didn't practice enough. One of my brothers is a genius at piano. Literally. He composes his own music. Years ago I was complaining to him that I don't play anymore because I'll never be good enough to compete. And he said something that changed not only my perspective on piano, but on life: "Don't play because you want to win something or be the best. Play because it brings you joy."
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| What brings me the most joy. |
This blog will be my story, a large part of which involves my diagnosis and living with clinical depression. I admit I'm hesitant to post my personal struggle with such illness on the internet. A brief Google search will allow anyone to find this blog and instantly know my private history. Aren't these intimate details—these long, personal accounts—the kind of things I'm supposed to share with close friends over dinner? Or with a prospective partner after the first few months of dating, one detail at a time? Why should I slap my heart on this virtual sleeve for any stranger in the world to read? Because I'm not the only person who has gone through this. Because after ten years of struggle, I finally feel like I've got a hold on this thing. And I know too many people who inflict mental suffering on themselves daily. I've worked extremely hard to gain control, but let me be the first to say that's not always an option. Please don't think I'm saying that in order to not be depressed you just gotta pull yourself up by your bootstraps. For SOME people, that works. For me, it's still a process. For others, it can only be battled with medications and intensive therapy. And for the record, as you shall soon read—I have been on medications, and I have spent years in therapy. You've got to do what's right for you, just do something, anything at all.
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| You, too, can be this—uh, happy? |
About the age of sixteen, I found myself regularly sitting on the kitchen floor in the middle of the day, crying. I had no idea why. I would collapse in the stairway, overwhelmed with the desire to weep. I felt extreme, uncontrollable sadness and I there was no rationale for it. I had a loving family, a great deal of privilege, I had never experienced any abuse that I could recall. My parents took me to a psychiatrist who immediately put me on Prozac. For the rest of high school I stayed on anti-depressants and met my psychiatrist for brief check-ins every few months to make sure the meds were "working". We had some therapeutic sessions ("It sounds like you're very close to your mother") but never dug up what was the cause of my depression. We simply never worked through it. I was numb to sadness, but I was numb to excitement. I got good grades, participated in clubs and activities, even had a handful of somewhat successful (as far as high school goes) relationships. Then off to college I went with a scholarship, to dip my toe into the world of independence.
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| Off you go, little one. |
Except then.... I fell in love. Freshman year of college I started dating my best friend and we quickly spiraled down into a codependent relationship that lasted on and off for the next five years. Parts of it were truly wonderful. He was the smartest, funniest person I had ever known, hands-down. We helped each other grow through a lot of different things, especially family struggles. I thought I was happy; I really was in love. But I was far from developing any kind of independence, and I unwittingly stopped pursuing my own happiness. Upon the insistence of my college therapist, I decided last-minute to study abroad in Italy. Jump right out of that ol' comfort zone. I really didn't want to, but she insisted it was something I needed. At this point, I had been on anti-depressants for five years and wondered what life would be like outside of the mental fog. At my check-up with my psychiatrist, I proposed going off of my meds entirely. She wisely replied, "You are about to up-heave your entire life to move to the other side of the world and live in a strange country for three months. Let's discuss going off meds when you return." I didn't disagree.
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| A co-dependent relationship is a college rite of passage. |
Fast-forward: Boyfriend and I decided it would be wise to take the time apart to explore ourselves (and other people, apparently). Italy gave me my first pair of big-girl pants, where I found my own way—literally and metaphorically—and returned home with a greater sense of who I was and what I wanted. I checked in with my psychiatrist upon return over winter break, amidst culture shock, jet-lag, and the impending "real" end of my relationship. I said, "Three months have passed, and I'm really eager to go off of meds now. I want to live life in reality, I want to see how I'll do own my own." She replied, "Hmm. It sounds like not only are you struggling from depression, but you suffer from anxiety as well. I'm going to prescribe you a second medication for anxiety. And you've mentioned issues with your appetite. Here is a migraine medication that is not FDA approved for this purpose, but a common side affect is appetite suppression. I don't have a sample to give you, so here's a bottle one of my old patients returned to me." She fished through her desk and handed me an old Rx bottle with the patient's information still on it. The amazing thing is, I went home that day accepting her advice. I started taking the anxiety meds but wisely I threw the bottle of sloppy seconds away. I took the anxiety meds for two days total, until I caught myself and said, "Wait. This is the OPPOSITE of what I wanted! I wanted to go off of meds, not start taking more!" My father is a doctor and we have many family friends in medicine. We discussed the situation with a licensed psychiatrist friend who said if I had never been suicidal (I had not), that it should be okay to stop cold-turkey and monitor my symptoms closely. So I did. And then my relationship actually ended. Permanently. For real-real. Without the cushion of anti-depressants, I went through heartbreak. Without the numbness of the meds, I graduated college. Forever. I once again packed up my life, moved to a new city, and started my first real job, living on my own in Boston.
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| You might just make it after all! |
Here's where we get to the point of what this blog is going to be. It was during that time of transition—the post break-up acceptance of my broken heart and picking up of my broken pieces—that I finally started looking inward instead of trying to fix/help/heal/appease another person. Even though I woke up each day wishing we could go back to how things were, I realized it wasn't within my control. I felt helpless, so I looked to basic things to distract myself from staying in my bed every day as a sobbing, slobbery heap. I started making art, cards and such for friends. I opened my iTunes (I had actually stopped intentionally listening to music in the six years I was on anti-depressants!). I made dates for movie nights with my sorority sisters (and truth be told I'm certain I would not have survived the last months of college without their support and unconditional love). I looked to family and friends, to religion, to mumbo-jumbo positive affirmation literature such as "The Secret". I finally read the book my psychiatrist recommended, "Feeling Good" by David Burns. I taught myself Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. But most of all, I learned the power of intention. To find things for which I was grateful. Each night, I'd write down any thing, big or small, real or metaphorical, that I had encountered during the day that enriched or brightened my life. Sometimes even the bad stuff made the list. As I once told a friend, "Be grateful for the rain, it makes you appreciate the sun."
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| Stolen from Hannah Hart (@Harto) |
We've all had moments where we realize we take our advantages for granted. It happens to me unexpectedly. It can happen when you meet a quadriplegic at a friend's wedding and hear the story of his tragic accident, or while you watch a disabled war veteran attempt to board a bus. The "have-nots" of life are so much easier to see, they jump out at us in bright red capital letters and line up over the history of our lives, reminding us of how much we think we're missing out on. I don't have the romantic relationship I want, I don't have a job that I enjoy, I never have enough money to do the things I want. How about: I've never encountered a major natural disaster? How about: I prosper from the virtually unlimited freedoms granted to me by my government? How about: I am ridiculously healthy? How about: I can read and write? How about: my race and economic status give me privileges I did nothing to earn but benefit from on a daily basis?
To those of you who have made it this far in reading, or those of you who skimmed enough and have found something that struck a chord, know this: I'm not asking you to be happy. It's perfectly acceptable to be sad, or angry, or anxious. It's even healthy, in moderation. I'm simply asking you to find one thing each day day that brought you joy. Whether it is a thing you intentionally sought out or—my personal preference—something that surprises you in a state of absent-mindedness and makes you smile, feel giddy, or sigh with that feeling of intent which seems to be an inside joke between you and the universe. I plan to share mine with you, and it is my hope that you will be inspired to find your own, to shift your thinking, or at the very least accept that there is a a stranger on the internet who sympathizes with you.
Happy Searching,
Hallie
Of course, the building itself is historically significant. It is the oldest capital building in the country still in legislative use, and the only building with its original (Entirely wooden! Made without nails, because they were super expensive back then!) dome architecture still in tact. The architect—Joseph Horatio Anderson—was especially proud of his work. Today his ghost wanders the halls of the State House, scaring away any visitors who are critical of his craft. Or so I was told on a ghost tour. You know, if you believe in that kind of thing. When I was a kid, my mom told stories of George Washington gallivanting about Naptown, dining at Reynold's Tavern and sleeping at the Maryland Inn. Whether or not those stories are true, it is widely known that the Maryland Capital Building is where George Washington resigned his commission as commander-in-chief for the army; this is where we planted the seeds of a government for the people, by the people. It was in this same building where the Treaty of Paris was signed, putting an end to the Revolutionary War.
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