I left 2017 with very little expectations…or anything really, but surprise, surprise – what came with me was heightened depression. Heightened depression for me equates to daily heavy cry spells; cry spells that have been occurring for what feels like a few months now. Sometimes the cry spells are triggered, and sometimes they are not. My psychologist analogizes it to PMS – I could be watching a commercial about babies and motherhood for example, and cry for the next two hours. I could equally watch a commercial about girlfriends, pads, puppies, etc. and cry for five. The scenarios could happen in reverse. It’s all hypothetical. The point is that I cannot stop crying. It is frustrating. I want to be optimistic, and I want to move on with my life – with excitable milestones and goals – but I feel like I have a permanent anchor in my brain and in my thoughts. I am perpetually sad, and I do not know what to do about it. It has been a few years now, and genuine happiness still seems far, far out of reality. It feels everywhere out of my reach. I am trying my best to keep busy with work, volunteering, this social media stuff, and with people. But, at the end of the day, I am just slogging through it, and everything quickly becomes a distant memory because everything around me is clouded.
Is it good news to say though that I have not actively tried to act on suicidal ideations lately? That’s not to say that I have not had suicidal ideations. I have stared at my pills intently, lost in complete thought, but every time I have somehow managed to walk away. My psychologist said that that is good progress for coping. Spilling the pills all over the counter is what someone would do in desperate pain, but walking away is fighting that desperation. I have felt close so many times, but then I somehow snap out of my cloud. Maybe in some weird way, I am getting stronger.
I hate it when people tell me that I look better though because I do not feel it. That too is extremely frustrating. I look in the mirror every day, and the days where I cannot hold back tears, I still feel pain. My chest hurts. My brain hurts. I hate what I see, and I hate what I feel. The days where tears just come down with force, every part of my body shakes. My chest feels like it is breaking. My brain feels like it wants to explode. In those moments, I feel that desperation. Those days I feel more intimately with dark thoughts and suicidal ideations. I am still logical though. I know St. Mike’s is one phone call, taxi ride or walk away. I can go back. I can go back for more help. I feel that sometime this year I may have to go back again. That’s how incredibly weak I feel. My psychologist has encouraged me to just go seek help instead of overdosing again. She praised me for the fact that I have not overdosed since 2016. Ah, the little celebrations in life, right?
Yet, everyone looks at my ‘smile’ and ‘laughter’ and assumes everything is okay. Aside from a few, most have forgotten. I cannot blame my relationships though for how horrible I feel. My real friends are trying to move on, or maybe they just actually think I am okay. I recently went out with a group, and it was fairly difficult because that day I was feeling on edge. I should have stayed home, knowing that I was holding back a violent mixture of tears and irritated thoughts. To top it off, I sat in between a stranger (a friend that someone had brought), and another person who I am not that close with. I kind of held myself with arms crossed and faded out while the others spoke. There was a movie involved, but I barely even remember what it was about. I got so lost in thought. As always, I felt like I was outside looking in, banging on an impenetrable wall, screaming. No surprise – my one friend pulled me aside, and I had a good cry with her afterwards. I told her that I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to hold on in life. It was the most honest and real thing I could say. Once again, no surprise, the next day I felt suicidal. No worries, nothing happened obviously since this conversation occurred – I held on again.
I see my psychiatrist on Monday, so natural recourse is for more meds. I guess we will see what happens.
So…..figs are my jam. They just glow, and bask in beauty. I bet when figs look in the mirror, they do not burst into tears. Errr, let’s not pathetically try to connect the top with the bottom. Ummmmm, so yeah – here’s a recipe to end the conversation.
The Not-So-Secret Secrets:
Fig Mango Tarts
- Pâte Sucrée
- Blind bake the pastry.
- Mango Curd
- Replace 216 grams of lemon juice with 216 grams of mango puree.
- Slice figs into quarters, and brush with apricot jam.
- Sprinkle with crushed pistachios.