Tag Archives: depression

A $300 Analysis

Mental Health, , , , , , , , , ,

Me: “So I think I figured out why I can’t stomach seafood, even though I really want to like it. I try so hard to find seafood I can eat, but I’m just so averse to it. Then this memory came back to me out of nowhere the other day, but it makes so much sense. When I was younger I went on vacation with my family. We left our goldfish at home, unattended, because…well, it was a goldfish, so whatever. When we came back, I was the first one to walk into the kitchen and see, there on the counter, right where we’d snack every day after school, the goldfish– on its side, dried up, shriveled, sad black eye staring at the ceiling. He had probably jumped out of his bowl on day 1, either with a grand plan for freedom or a suicidal death wish, and been crusting over there on the countertop for a week. He was so plastered to the marble that we needed a metal spatula to pry him off. At which point my dad turned to us and said, ‘Fish for dinner!’ Which of course, in hindsight, is hilarious, but at the time I’m pretty sure I was horrified. But anyway, don’t you think that makes so much sense as to why I can’t eat seafood?”

Therapist: “Well do you like the taste of seafood?”

Me: “No.”

Therapist: “So it’s probably just that. You don’t like how it tastes.”

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I Will Never Stop Wishing

Family, Friends, Mental Health, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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Four years ago, Ari Johnson, an incredible human being and dear friend, took his own life. On this anniversary of his death, here’s a little known story that I’ve never shared publicly, but think about all the time, particularly on this day.

It’s no secret that I struggle with my mental health. There were certainly incidents throughout my childhood that indicated an issue, but my first semester as a freshman at Penn is when things really started to spiral out of control. I was on my own for the first time, and the anxiety was skyrocketing. I cried all the time and felt completely and utterly alone. My sister Steph was a junior at Penn at the time, but she was spending that first semester abroad in Australia. I certainly had some friends on campus who I had known before college, so I wasn’t actually alone– but my god did I feel that way. Because that’s what depression does.

Ari was a very close friend of Steph’s, and a senior at the time. I had met him dozens of times when I was a high schooler visiting my sister at Penn, and he was the best. Just a super chill, friendly, funny, laid back guy. The first week of my freshman year, his fraternity, TEP, had a party, and he told me to come by and bring all my friends. I gathered the acquaintances I knew and headed over to the “TEP Deck.” It was a crowded mob scene, as first-week-of-college parties tend to be. Ari saw me and told everyone to move the hell out of the way and let his friend Emily, and all her friends, come in. It was absurd but fantastic– and at age 18, yeah, it made me feel super fucking cool.

Ari totally took me under his wing that first semester while Steph was away. He could see that I was kind of struggling, and wanted to be the surrogate older sibling in the absence of my sister. This was certainly not his job, but he made it so. Because that’s just who he was.

I started confiding in Ari more and more as the weeks went on, because he was one of the few people on campus I felt I could relate to. While he never explicitly said it, I sensed a darkness in him. An underlying, inner battle. There’s a certain kinship that exists among people with mental health issues– we can sense it in others, even when they haven’t sensed it yet in themselves. Something about the conversations Ari and I had led me to believe that deep down, he was struggling, too.

But I never asked. I didn’t feel it was my place, and I sensed he probably didn’t want to discuss it.

Words cannot express how much I regret that.

About a month into freshman year, my anxiety and depression began to take the form of bulimia. I was living each day grasping at strings, and bingeing and purging was the only method I had for feeling in-control (the ultimate irony, because nothing says “out of control” more than eating a meal for 5 and then shoving your finger down your throat). By the second month of college, I was making myself throw up 3-4 times a day.

One day I just grew weary. Shortly after a purge, staring at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, I got so damn tired of carrying this secret. It was at that moment that Ari sent me an instant message (remember those?!) asking me what’s up. I responded, “I think I might be bulimic.”

I told him everything. He responded with immediate, genuine concern, and told me I needed to get help at the student health center. At the very least, he said, I needed to tell my family. That’s when I panicked and tried to backtrack. I didn’t want my family to know. I didn’t want to disappoint or worry anyone. I just wanted to tell Ari so that I could get it off my chest– but really, I was fine. 

I was 100% not fine. But I tried to downplay what was happening. I told Ari it wasn’t that big a deal, I was just having a bad day, this was all under control. I begged him not to tell my sister. By the end of the conversation, I was sure I had convinced him that a little bulimia was not really a genuine health concern, and that I’d be fine.

But Ari was no idiot. And he had too much heart to sit back and do nothing. He did exactly what he should have done– he told my sister. And then, immediately after telling her, he told me that he had told her. And that was the first step in my realizing that this was a real problem, and that I needed help.

Knowing that I now had no choice but to take action, I immediately confided in another friend of mine, and she took me to the student health center. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been evaluated for the state of my mental health. Needless to say, I did not pass. I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. The doctor was amazed I had made it this far without doing something truly drastic, seeing as though I was waking up every day hating myself and feeling so utterly alone. I was put on medication and set up with a doctor for talk therapy. I have been in treatment ever since, and can’t even fathom where I’d be today if I hadn’t taken those beginning steps to acknowledge and understand what was happening to me.

In that sense, I truly feel I owe Ari my life. I wish I could have told him that while he was still alive. I wish I could have told him that in recognizing my pain, taking it seriously, and putting me on the path to getting the help I needed, he did more to save my life than he will ever know.

And I will never stop wishing that I had done the same for him.

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If you know someone struggling, say something. Don’t be afraid to have the conversation. There are no wrong words– if you think someone is suicidal, ask them. Urge them to get help. Remind them that you care.

If you’re looking for a way to help someone today, there are two links to fabulous causes below. The first is for Active Minds, a mental health organization that is extremely dear to my heart, and whose ultimate goal is to change the conversation about mental health, creating a world where no one has to feel alone in his or her struggle.

The second is a link to the Ari Johnson Memorial Scholarship– started by my family, this scholarship will keep  Ari’s memory and impact alive, and will be awarded to a student at Penn who shows dedication to overcoming adversity and disadvantage, including but not limited to the area of mental health challenges and advocacy.  

Active Minds Giving

Ari Johnson Memorial Scholarship

Adventures in Marriage Licenses

Being Awkward/Dumb Stuff I Do, Mental Health, Relationships, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

So Eric got a new job recently, and HR informed him that in order for me to be on his health insurance plan, we would have to get actual documentation stating that we are domestic partners. This came as a surprise, because at Eric’s last job they were like, “Oh, your girlfriend wants health insurance? Cool! Health insurance for dayzzzzzzz!” We literally didn’t even have to show proof that we were living together. I’m not even sure we had to prove we were human beings. I could have been Eric’s pet hamster Chubbles*, and they would’ve covered me. For whatever reason, they just took our word on the honor system, which is the way it should be. (hahah no, I’m kidding. That is DEFINITELY not the way it should be. If it was that way, I would have put myself on the health insurance of every person I’ve lived with since college, including that summer subletter who drew a huge penis on my window).

So we went down to the City Clerk on Wednesday and diligently signed our Domestic Partnership license. It was a beautiful day. The clerk could not have been less interested in us, and was scrolling on Facebook the entire time she processed our paperwork. Which immediately made me like her. I was super hopeful that when the license printed, it would accidentally have one of those creepy FB stickers on it.

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But alas, no. Disappointment abound.

Meanwhile, Eric and I tried to make small talk with her, as an attempt to engage her in this somewhat meaningful moment in our lives.

Us: “We’ll be back here in 5 months for our wedding license!”
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Us: “Thanks yeah we’re excited too!”

This lady was the physical and spiritual embodiment of “Ain’t nobody got time for that.” We gave up, took our license, posed for obligatory photo and left.

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Clap, clap, done! Easy as pie! Right?

Wrong. That’s not how my life works. You should know this by now.

Eric skipped back to his office, Domestic Partnership license in hand, only to find out that HR had given him false information– “Oooooh, our bad. Turns out domestic partnership only gets your partner covered if you’re gay.” And apparently, shouting back, “Ok, ok– we’re gay! We’ll be gay!” doesn’t solve the problem.

What DOES solve the problem? Getting married.

Eric: “But we’re basically married!”
HR: “When is the wedding?”
Eric: “June!”
HR: “Cool. She’ll have health coverage in June.”
Eric: “HAVE YOU MET HER?! SHE NEEDS IT NOW.”

Ok obviously the conversation didn’t exactly go down like that, but the point is that the rules insist we show legal intent to wed (aka, get a marriage license)– and I, as someone prone to mental/physical/invented health issues, cannot wait until June for coverage.

Can I get temporary insurance until then? Yes, of course. For a CRAPLOAD of money. And what is the point, if we are getting married soon anyway? Why not just get the license a little earlier? We already live together and love each other and occasionally want to kill each other and that’s all marriage really is, right? (If not, don’t tell me. I’m a learn-the-hard-way kind of girl, which is why my life tends to be a complete disaster but also interesting).

So, with the most romantic of reasons driving us forward, we went back to the City Clerk this morning to obtain a marriage license. (No, this does not mean we are married. This means we have a document to prove INTENT to marry. Everyone calm down, Mom.)

Not many people get to experience the City Clerk office twice in 3 days, but I guess most people just aren’t as lucky as we are.

Gun emoji.

So there we are this morning, sitting in our seats, waiting for our number to be called, and, like all couples about to take that first legal step in joining their lives forever, we were on our iPhones playing Words With Friends.

With EACH OTHER. We’re not heartless sadists.

As I sat there waiting for Eric to play the next word, I took a moment to look around and do some people watching. There were several couples there who were getting not just a license, but having their official ceremony as well, so they were wearing nice white dresses and suits. Naturally, I then questioned my own appearance, which led to an existential downspiral (aka, a typical Friday morning). “Is it ridiculous that it didn’t even occur to me to look nice for this event? I just threw on jeans, a sweater, Uggs and headed out the door. Does that say something about my maturity level and my preparedness for marriage?”

“Oh, Emily, stop it,” I counterpointed in my head, because having full conversations with myself is normal. “That’s just your anxiety going into overdrive. Yes, you’re dressed casually, but so are most people here. You’re a perfectly mature, responsible adult who is more than ready to enter this very significant stage of life.”

And that’s when I spotted the gigantic glob of Junior Mints melted into my pant leg.

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Yes. It’s as big as it looks.

Some background context here, because I’m sure you’re having difficulty understanding how it’s humanly possible that I did this to myself without noticing:

Last night, Eric and I went to see Dear Evan Hansen on Broadway (fucking phenomenal, by the way). And like all people watching a show with themes of loneliness, pain and depression, I like my trauma with a side of  Junior Mints.

Kramer gets it.

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At one point during the show, I accidentally dropped one of the Junior Mints (again, Kramer-style) while attempting to put it in my mouth. I thought it fell on the floor and so I quickly forgot about it– but, apparently, it got squished between the seat and my leg for the rest of the night, where it slowly melted (because, as you can always assume, I was very sweaty) and spread across my pants. And yeah, I did wear the same pants two days in a row without washing them. You do it too, so SHUT UP.

“But how did you not notice it when you were getting dressed this morning, Emily?”

Because it was early, I hadn’t had coffee, and in general I am not a noticer of things.

“But how about when you took them off last night?”

I AM VERY BAD AT LIFE, OKAY?!

Which brings us back to this moment in the City Clerk’s office, when Eric and I are about to be called forward to sign a marriage license, and I have what appears to be a giant ball of (minty fresh!) shit spread across my pants.

Eric suggested I go to the bathroom and try to clean myself up.

I suggested we take a photo.

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Needless to say, the papers still got signed (not by an officiant– just by us, Mom!) and Eric is still willing to marry me.

Now let’s see if I can make it down the aisle without a giant shit stain on my wedding dress.

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* Chubbles = actual former pet of Eric’s

 

 

Trying Really Hard

Mental Health, , , , , ,

Me: “So, I’m already having a really hard time this winter. I think I’m mildly depressed. I might need to up my meds. And I know what you’re going to say– that I don’t look depressed. That I look energetic and healthy. But don’t be fooled. That’s just because I’m trying REALLY HARD not to look depressed.”

Therapist: “No, I actually think you do look depressed.”

Me: “Oh.”

Therapist: “You don’t look well. For you.”

Me: “I see.”

Therapist: “You look tired.”

Me: “Uh huh.”

Therapist: “Your eyes look a bit sunken in.”

Me: “So the makeup’s not working…”

Therapist: “There’s a grayness to you.”

Me: “Yikes.”

Therapist: “And you’re slouching.”

Me: “I think that’s just a thing I do…”

Therapist: “And is that ranch dressing on your shirt?” 

Me: “Ok enough.”

So much for trying hard. 

People I Have it More Together Than

Mental Health, , , , , , , , ,

Because sometimes, on the first day of winter, you need a list.

  1. Rob Kardashian
  2. I took a 10 minute pause here at #2 and stared blankly at the screen because I literally couldn’t think of anyone else. So I got up, retied my bathrobe, stretched what I’m pretty sure is the beginning of a weird-sleeping-position-induced torn rotator cuff, and took a brief walk from the living room to the other side of the living room (estimated distance 5 feet). I recognize this probably invalidates the entire concept of my list, but I’m sorry my work life is weirder than yours.
  3. The dog on the 29th floor who shits in the stairwell (realized this list should be humans)
  4. All characters on Shameless (realized this list should be real humans)
  5.  Michael Jackson (realized this list should be real humans who are still alive and who were not child molesters)
  6. Bill Cosby (realized having it more together than a rapist isn’t great)
  7. Paula Dean (same as above, swap rapist for racist. Also I think she’s pulled it together now, at least publicly. No? Ugh I don’t know, I haven’t thought about her in years, and I’m sure neither have you. I have no idea how she ended up on this list. You can see how desperate I’m getting.)
  8. My night doorman who’s always asleep  (No, you know what? Good for him.)
  9. The dirty cat who lives in the corner store (I changed my mind about the “has to be a human” rule, then doubted my decision and changed my mind back again, because THAT’S WHAT LIVING IN MY HEAD IS LIKE. Also, even if I DID include non-humans, I’m not sure that cat could even make the list because, honestly, he does always look warm.)
  10. I give up.

This exercise really backfired.

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Grass is Always Greener

Mental Health, , , , , , , ,

Me (ranting about a former client who didn’t understand or value the services I provide as a tutor): “It must be nice for you– you know, to be a doctor, and work in an established, revered field where your clients actually have respect for the work that you do.”

Therapist: “Half my clients have personality disorders. I get called the c-word and am told to go fuck myself at least three times a week.”

Oh.

Alright well I feel better now.

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