I pull the hood of my puffy coat over my head, whimpering in the cold.
Eric: “There ya go! Warm now?”
Me: “Ugh. No. My eyes are still watering and freezing. I need a hood that covers my ENTIRE face.”
Eric: “That’d be perfect actually.”
Me: “Why? So you don’t have to look at me?”
Eric: “Are you kidding me? I LOVE looking at you!”
Me: “Awww…babe…”
Eric: “It’s listening to you that’s hard.”
Eleven days ago I had a biopsy done because my doctor saw something that looked, as he so eloquently and not at all alarmist-ly put it, “less than impressive” (what every woman wants to hear from a man staring up-close at her half-naked body…but I digress).
Since then, I have spent 11 days googling and thought-spiraling myself into a diagnosis of about 568 different versions of cancer. (Are there even that many kinds of cancer, you ask? Well, the answer is YES, if you count all the varying combinations one could have. Because some people have ankle cancer and eyebrow cancer at the same time, guys). So in the past week and a half, I’ve been having pounding heart palpitations, shortness of breath, sweating profusely, plagued by nightmares, and overall haven’t been able to relax. At all.
My doctor just called and everything is completely fine. The results were 100% normal.
So clearly, there’s a lesson here.
If you make yourself sick enough with worry and completely destroy your mental health (and the mental health/patience/will to live of those around you) for 11 solid days, God will say “Ok, everyone here has suffered enough” and reward you with a clean bill of physical health.
So YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THE ADVICE.
Whenever someone gives me a compliment, I automatically assume they are drunk.
I know, this doesn’t say much about my self esteem. So I am working on it.
I’m trying to get to a place where, when people say something nice to me, I truly believe they are being genuine. That I am a good person, and people can recognize and point out my positive qualities without being under the influence of a ton of alcohol.
And the fact that they’re always throwing up right after– that’s just a coincidence.
When I won tickets to last night’s Adele concert at Radio City Music Hall via a congratulatory email, I was certain it had to be fake. I never win ANYTHING. The email said I had 8 hours to respond with a copy of my ID and a signed affidavit. I simply didn’t trust it.
“How do I know this is real? What if it’s ISIS?!” I asked Eric in a panic.
“You’re insane.” He replied. “The email is from Columbia Records. You entered through Adele’s website. It’s real.”
“But…but…how do you know for sure?!”
The email provided a number to call should I have any questions about the contest, so Eric suggested I call it. “But what would I even say to find out if it’s real?!” I said.
Exasperated, he took matters into his own hands and dialed the number himself. It rang once and someone picked up.
Person: “Columbia Records.”
Eric: “Hi, is this real?”
Person: “Yes.”
Eric: “Ok bye.”
Eric (to me): “It’s real.”
(It was real, though).
The other day some teachers in my school were discussing how the 5th graders have been very into googling their teachers to see what kind of dirt they can dig up.
I’m sure this trend will catch on with the 4th graders soon enough, so just to prepare myself for what my students might find, I googled my name. The very first thing to pop up (besides my LinkedIn page) was an essay my father wrote about why he supports mental health organization Active Minds.
It goes into detail about my battle with Depression and Anxiety, focusing specifically on a time when I was deeply, deeply depressed, to the point where I had to quit my job and move home. It talks about how I couldn’t function. How my brain essentially lost the ability to comprehend the simplest of information. How I was terrified all the time, and couldn’t stop crying. How I was completely dependent on those around me. How I took, and continue to take, medication for mental illness. How I saw, and continue to see, a psychiatrist.
And you know what? Good.
Sure, I could worry about the general stigma and misunderstanding. I could worry about judgement from the students’ parents. I could worry that the children, families, or administration would look at or treat me differently.
But I don’t. At all. The old me would have.
Here’s how I see it now:
Your teacher was really sick and she got better, kids. And she works extremely hard to stay better, even though some days can be pretty tough. But she keeps going. And she has wonderful, strong relationships with caring, amazing people who are there to support her through the darkness and celebrate with her in the light. She stumbles, and sometimes it takes weeks or months to get back up. But she does. And she’s stronger and wiser for it.
I think that’s a pretty great lesson for a 10 year old.
Don’t you?
Now let’s just hope to god they never find my blog. 
Miles I ran this morning: 10
Miles I spent listening to Adele’s “Hello” on repeat: 10
Feelings I felt: All of them. Every single feel.
Times I’ve been caught singing it aloud to myself today: 7
Times I’ve been asked to sing a little more quietly please: 8 (one person asked twice)
Fucks I give: 0
Here. Have a feel or fifty:
Age 9 seems like a good time to learn this– Being depressed is NOT the same as being disappointed.
#themoreyouknow
Therapist: “How are the sensory issues this week?”
Me: “I did what you told me and got new bras– and they definitely fit WAY better! It made me realize how old and stretched out my other ones were. But I still can’t WAIT to take them off.”
Therapist: “Ok, well then you probably do have a bit of a natural sensitivity to it, regardless of the fit.”
Me: “So I got new bras for nothing?”
Therapist: “Well I wouldn’t say it was for nothing.”
Me: “But the sensory problem isn’t fixed.”
Therapist: “Ok, but…you should still have new bras.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “That fit you.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Therapist: “And that aren’t 10 years old.”
Me: “Ok.”
Therapist: “Just as a general rule, you should replace your undergarments every once in a while.”
OK LADY. BACK OFF.
Me: “Can depression and anxiety cause sensory issues? I just feel like I’m SO sensitive to the feel of certain clothing on my body.”
Therapist: “Sensory issues can definitely be comorbid with anxiety. But give me an example.”
Me: “Like, for instance– bras. I can’t STAND wearing a bra. I feel like I’m always tugging at it and feeling suffocated and honestly, sometimes I just take it off in the middle of the day because I can’t stand it anymore. And I feel like it’s not normal to be THIS sensitive to it, and it must be related to my mental health issues, right? Or a side effect of the Prozac? Or maybe it’s a whole other disorder I didn’t even know I had?”
Therapist: “When was the last time you bought a bra?”
Me: “Ummm…” <thinking hard. A good 30 seconds pass>
Therapist: “Yeah. Your bras don’t fit.”
Me: “You think?”
Therapist: “Yes. Go buy new bras.”
Me: “Oh. Ok.”
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