When I pulled up a map and showed Eric the various locations he can cheer for me during the Philly marathon on Sunday, he jokingly sighed and said, “You know, this day is turning out to be much harder for me than it will be for you.”
Then he got up off the couch and went out to pick up some ice.
To put on his face.
Because I kicked him in it.
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. 
“I just survived the first round of parent teacher conferences and the next round doesn’t start until 5:30pm. I deserve this.”
–Me, to myself, justifying this late afternoon snack*
* snack = coffee, wine, and Xanax
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.”
On Thursday, at a Barnes and Noble book-signing event, I had the honor of meeting my idol and hero, Jenny Lawson. For those of you who don’t know her, she is a hilarious blogger (known as “The Bloggess“), a NYT bestselling author, and an inspiring mental illness sufferer and advocate.
Basically, she’s me.
But way funnier and hugely successful and totally established.
So, ok. Rewrite.
Basically, she’s who I WANT to be.
Up until about 8 months ago, I actually had no idea who Jenny Lawson was. In an ironic twist (and a twist that has surely prevented my blog from being more successful), I am a blogger who doesn’t really read blogs.
You know those tv actors who are asked what their favorite TV show is, and they say, “Oh, I don’t actually watch tv, I don’t really have time.” I’m one of those assholes. Except I do have time, I just spend it doing other things, like napping and eating and drinking Bloody Marys.
Basically I’m the worst.
Anyway, all of this is to say that I discovered Jenny out of sheer luck– one day, someone commented on my Facebook page that my writing reminded him of Jenny’s writing, and that I should check out her blog and her book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. I skipped the blog part (because again, I’m the worst) and went straight for the book.
Holy shit, y’all! (as Jenny would say. God I wish I had the right to say “y’all,” but I don’t think Potomac, Maryland counts as the deep South.) This woman is fucking HILARIOUS and she DOES kind of sound like me! (again– WAY better. I don’t for a second want anyone to think I think I’m as good as her. I’m clinically mentally unstable but I’m not delusional. When it comes to this, at least.)
Jenny is gleefully blunt, self-deprecating, has a beautifully foul mouth (she cursed about 17 times at the Barnes and Noble event, and my love for her grew a little more with each “fuck/fucking/bullshit” that came out of her mouth), is totally honest in her writing (and sidebars with long, hilarious, often barely relevant, ADD rants), bares all her flaws, and speaks candidly about her mental health issues in order to fight stigma, help others, and, most importantly, help and heal herself.
Like I said– she’s me. But awesomer. (Fuck you, spell check. Awesomer is a word).
So what did I do when I met her? Yes, like a normal person, I asked her to sign my copy of her new book about living with mental illness, Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things (read it immediately. It’s fantastic. If you suffer from mental illness or are trying to understand someone who does. Or if you’re a human who likes to laugh and know things.) Then, like a NOT AT ALL normal person, I asked her to sign my pill case.
Because Jenny has a saying– “Depression lies.” And it’s so true. And when you’re not in it, you know this for a fact. But when you are in it, you forget. You’re utterly convinced that the voices telling you that you are worthless, shameful, and a burden are real. You’re certain you are nothing.
But Depression is a big, fat, fucking liar, and sometimes you just need to be reminded of that. Over, and over, and over, until it eventually fades and you’ve made it through.
I use my pill case every single day (and so does Jenny, by the way– “Oh! I have this very same pill case!” she exclaimed as she took it from me with what I think was compassion and understanding, but might have been fear). I wake up and diligently swallow my Prozac, doing my part to fight the demons (note: the Prozac is just one small part. I see a psychiatrist weekly, run my heart out, fundraise for mental health org Active Minds, write/blog my thoughts as honestly as possible, and surround myself with the most supportive, awesome family and friends– all forms of depression-fighting therapy).
Some days, though, none of this helps. Some days I wake up feeling like I am absolutely nothing. Some days I need that constant reminder that DEPRESSION LIES.
And now, thanks to Jenny Lawson, I have that. I’ll see those words every single morning– and when she says it, I believe it. I know it’s true. Because I know she’s been through it. Many, many, many times. She’s had it worse than I have– rather than just wishing she was dead, she’s actually had thoughts of wanting to kill herself. She’s hurt herself in an attempt to feel. She’s stayed in bed for months at a time because she could find no reason to get out.
But she makes it through and she keeps going, and she is fucking FANTASTIC at what she does.
So when she tells me Depression lies, I believe her. Because I look at her and see how Depression lies to HER. If someone like her can believe she is worthless, then clearly Depression is a fraudulent, deceptive douchecanoe. (Also a word, spellcheck. BACK OFF.)
So thank you for being you, Jenny! And keep doing what you’re doing– you are an inspiration!
XOXO,
Emily (the girl who whipped out her Prozac-filled pill case at your book signing. You remember.)
#bestfriends #youjustdontknowityet
More often than not, the answer to your problem is waffle fries.
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