Mental illness is so much more complicated than any pill that anymortal could invent. - Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

Let me tell you a story...

I'm kind of really annoyed. No, I'm livid. Pissed? Irritated? I'm not sure there's a word that's been invented yet that quite encompasses what I'm feeling right now. 

Let's back up a bit.

Within the past week, on the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention Facebook page, people were asked to post photos of tattoos inspired by a personal connection to suicide. The AFSP was going to then submit some of the photos with stories to "The Mighty," a support website for people with disabilities, depression, and mental illness. In the replies, I posted a photo of my tattoo with this short description:

"I've survived two suicide attempts and years of anorexia and self-harming. I got this tattoo two years ago right over my self-harming scars to remind myself how far I've come and that my depression and past destructive behaviors do not define who I am. They are a part of me, but definitely not the only part."

This is a SUPER simplified version of my story and there are a lot more parts to it than could be confined to a short description (read old blog posts or ask me to learn more...), but gets the point across. Of the many submissions on the Facebook page, my tattoo was one of 35 that were included in the list on The Mighty. If you want to see it, along with the other 34 amazing

stories, click here: https://themighty.com/2016/08/tattoos-inspired-by-suicide-loss-and-suicidal-thoughts/.

For anyone who's read my blog or knows anything about me, from my mid-20s to now, I've been nothing but 100% open with my battles with depression and the fact that I not only dealt with suicidal thoughts, but also attempted suicide twice in my late teens/very early 20s. It's not a huge secret.

Or so I thought...

After the list was published, I thought it was pretty cool and I was honored to be included on the list. I'm humbled and excited that I was able to share even a teensy bit of my story with others in the hopes that it might encourage others who find themselves in a similar place to where I've been. 

I was so excited, I did what any person in this day and age does: I shared it to social media. Most of the feedback I've received has been overwhelmingly supportive, ranging from people telling me how loved I am, to how proud they are of me, to thanking me for my courage and vulnerability. 

And then, there were the handful of not so positive comments that actually angered me:

"What on earth would compel you to share such a disturbing piece of your past with complete strangers on the internet?

Mmmmmmk, are you sitting down? I hope you're sitting down. I also hope you're planning on taking notes because quite frankly, this one comment is the whole reason I shared it to begin with. It's why I no longer hide my story and what's happened to me. 

Hearing comments like these makes me want to post and share more and more and more. Does it make you uncomfortable? GOOD. Guess what, mental health issues are generally fucking disturbing, fucking ugly, and fucking raw. Mental illness, suicide, depression, etc. are so disgustingly stigmatized that those who desperately need help are afraid to say anything due to it being too much of a burden or too "disturbing" for those they might share with.

If I make you uncomfortable, I hope it makes you that much more aware so you may be able to see the signs in those around you. I guarantee you know at least one person, probably more, who has or is dealing with some form of mental illness. Would you prefer that person share with you regarding their struggles or would you prefer they suffer in silence, until perhaps it's too late? I thought so.

"What would your parents and family think?"

Dear Jon Snow (for my GoT friends), clearly you don't know anything about me to know why this makes me laugh at you. Seriously. I was honest to goodness laughing out loud. If you knew anything about anything, you'd know that many of my struggles have emanated from my childhood and familial trials and tribulations. I laugh at you for even thinking this comment would make me feel anything other than tickled. Was this supposed to make me feel shame or guilty? No longer does everything I've gone through even remotely embarrass me or cause me any level of shame. Let's move on....

"Don't you care what people think? Sharing something like that will hurt you professionally."

For real? This one...I can't. If an employer tries to discriminate against me due to my history of mental illness, then they clearly are unaware of the Americans with Disabilities Act which encompasses mental illness. 

The definition of someone with a disability as defined by the ADA: "a person who has a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities, a person who has a history or record of such an impairment, or a person who is perceived by others as having such an impairment." While the ADA doesn't specifically list all of the impairments covered, it sure sounds to me like mental health falls under this umbrella. The ADA prohibits discrimination against someone with a disability and that employers are required to make "reasonable accommodations" for qualified people with a disability.

I've been incredibly open with all employers since being diagnosed that I have been in or am currently in therapy. If there are side effects to any anti-depressants I'm on, I also make sure I share those in case anything happens while I'm at work (i.e. dizzy spells, nausea, etc.). Also, in addition to being illegal, any employer who gives me grief or tries to hold my history of mental illness against me isn't worth working for. I'm all set. 

I'm so much more than my scars.

As I've said so many times before, my depression and suicide attempts will always be part of me. While I don't like to be defined by them ("Melissa, the one with depression" or "Melissa, the one who tried to kill herself" or "Melissa, the one who used to cut herself"), they have most definitely made me the stronger individual I am today. Do I wish I didn't have my history or never experienced the things I have? Well, yeah, obviously. It would have made my life so much easier.

However, as my tattoo says, I am more than my scars, so much more. When I wake up in the morning, I don't look at my arm covered with (now mostly faded) scars and feel guilt or regret. Rather, when I wake up in the morning, I look at my arm as the story of a past life. A story of a girl who overcame ridiculous odds. 

I wake up in the morning knowing that I survived.

...when you love someone, you love the whole person, just as he or she is, and not as you would like them to be. ~ Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

In honor of Mother's Day next week, I've decided to pen a letter to my mother, darling mommie dearest, to thank her for everything she's done for me...

Dear Mother, 

I say “mother” and not “mom” for many reasons. When I think of you, I think “mommie dearest,” strictly an authority figure, a dictator, an abuser. Do you even know what makes a good mom? Or what the difference is between a dictator and a mom? Can you differentiate? I’ll lay it out for you.

I want to thank you, mother, for teaching me how to never treat other people. We learn by example, right? My whole life, you treated me like I couldn’t do anything right. Nothing was good enough for you, no matter how hard I worked my ass off for your approval. I don’t remember ever hearing you say “I’m proud of you,” or “I love you,” just because, or for doing something however remarkable or ordinary.

Thank you, for convincing me I was a shitty kid and a terrible human being, just for thinking for myself and being the independent woman you told me I needed to be. 

Thank you for never listening to what I had to say with all sincerity and turning every conversation into how bad I made you feel. Or for not hearing me when I told you something hurt me, or made me upset, but only ever criticizing and telling me that it wasn’t ok to cry, that it wasn’t ok to be upset or get angry, that it wasn’t ok to feel.

Me and my mother, circa. 1987

Thank you, for bragging about me to the neighbors, to the people at church, to everyone but me. You’d tell them how proud you were of me, or are, but to me, you’d make me feel like I was doing something as awful as working street corners, dealing drugs, having a baby daddy or two, or coming home in the back of cop cars.

Thank you for taking credit for every single one of my accomplishments. You kicked me out of the house right after I turned 21 with barely a penny to my name. You gave me absolutely no financial help after I left. I'm the one who put a roof over my head, who fed me, clothed me. I bought myself a new car when the old one died, the one who paid for the repairs and insurance and gas. I'm the one who put myself through grad school, the thing you definitely can't take credit for since you were the one trying to convince me not to go back to school. But obviously once I was there it was because of your good parenting and not the fact that I worked my ass off in spite of you to do it.

Thank you, for making me believe that if you died tomorrow, I wouldn’t feel anything.

Now I’m going rewind a bit to tell you all the things you did throughout the years that you thought were helpful, but fucked me up more than you know...

Each time you went on a diet, which was throughout all of my childhood, into my early adulthood, and probably even now, you taught me that women can never and should never be comfortable in their skin. Everytime you didn’t allow me dessert even after I finished all of my peas, or didn’t let me have seconds after a really grueling swim practice and I was really, honestly, still hungry, and told me that I needed to stay little and thin and not gain too much weight, you taught me that to be beautiful meant to be hungry. To be beautiful meant to be skinny. Mental and physical health didn't matter, but what you look like does.

That being said, it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise when I became anorexic and bulimic. But it was fine, right? I was thin. So I was beautiful. I was your thin, beautiful daughter. You should have loved me because this is what you taught me to be. You should have seen that I did that for you. I did that because I could control what I put in my body in a way I couldn’t control our relationship or how you treated me. I starved and made myself weak because you wanted me to be beautiful. I was constantly hungry. Hungry for attention. Hungry for affection. Hungry for a mother’s love that would never be reciprocated. Hungry for my failure of a mother. 

Me, my mother, and my sister, circa. 1991

But I thought I was the failure. I thought I failed when I had to give in and start eating again because I was about to pass out. I thought I failed when I started putting weight back on, something that you told me I shouldn’t be doing (“Hey, honey, you’re porking up a little there. Maybe you should go for a run before dinner or maybe after dinner…”) I needed to be punished. I failed. I couldn’t as thin or as beautiful as you wanted me to be. I was a bad daughter.

I have the scars on my arms for everytime I was bad. For everytime I felt I needed to be punished because I couldn’t live up to the ideals of the daughter you thought I was supposed to be. Ironically, one night, in a manic state, the word “HELP” ended up carved into my left forearm. Even in a place I don’t remember too clearly, I was screaming for help. Love. Attention. The first line of the “H” and the vertical line of the “L” are all that remain as evidence, but the scars are telling and still burn everytime I look at them, no matter how faded they are now. I’d be embarrassed when people asked me what they were from. But how do you tell people that your mother hated herself enough and took her insecurities out on you enough for you to hate yourself so much that you started taking razor blades to your arms and other parts of your body?

And now we move on to some of the things I did that you didn’t understand or attempt to understand. Some I did just to piss you off, but others just begged for attention and understanding, maybe even acceptance.

Each time I dyed my hair, you hated it. You told me so. I’ve been every color but blonde. I loved it. It was reinventing myself because the self I was wasn’t good enough for you and in turn wasn’t good enough for me. And ok, I get why you were pissed about the neon blue, in hindsight, that wasn’t the brightest color choice (especially when it turned grey after wash number three). But you should have been pissed at yourself. You should have thought about what would have possessed your eldest daughter to change her hair color less than once a month? To grow it out to extreme lengths. To chop it all off and sometimes hacking it off unevenly with razorblades. But you never thought about these things. You only thought about how I made you look to other people. To the other moms on the pool deck or on the softball field. To the people at church. I was a bad kid because I dyed my hair. I dyed my hair because you were a bad mother.

When I was old enough to do things (legally) without your signature, I pierced my ears. Many times. I lost track. Maybe twelve holes total in each ear. I pierced my nose. I pierced my navel. I got a tattoo. And another. And another. They were of things that meant something to me. You wouldn’t know this though. You never asked why I wanted that particular Bible verse tattooed on my wrist (it reminds me that God is there under the worst affliction, including that of your family). Or the cross on my back. Or the Chinese symbols saying “faith” on my hip. You never cared why those things meant anything to me. That was all I had to hold on to. My faith. Sometimes though, I really hated God for giving me a mother like you. No, you never asked "why?" You yelled at me for “defiling” my body. “What will the people at church think? My tattooed daughter?” You would spew the word “tattoo” like it was AIDS or another horrible disease. You got pissed for each piercing I came home with. I took joy in each time you got mad. You punished me for years for no reason at all, so it was only a happy coincidence that the things I did to express myself also punished you. 

Me, my mother, and my sister, circa. 1992

That was nothing compared to the night I was raped. I needed my mom. I needed hugs. I needed help. But I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t risk being criticized. I bawled. I scrubbed my skin raw. You weren’t there. You couldn’t know. You wouldn't give a flying fuck. I went to Planned Parenthood to make sure I got tested. I went to one hundreds of miles from home when I was at school so you wouldn’t know. So I wouldn't have to hear once again how much of a failure I was. 

When I finally did tell you, six months later, it was because you were mad I was staying out all night and not coming home. I was 20. I let you know where I was going to be, and almost everytime I was just with friends doing nothing special. I stayed out because I didn’t want to be around you. You're the one who drove me away from the house. I had no real desire to party, experiment with drugs, etc., but you wouldn’t know that would you? You accused me of wanting to just fuck boys and of being a slut and a whore. I told you that I lost my virginity a few months ago by being raped. You told me that if I hadn’t been a disobedient, horrible brat it never would have happened and that it was my own damn fault. I told you that you were a bitch and I hoped you died. 

I could go on for years about every single little influence you've had over my life. But the bottom line here is that maybe I do, in actuality, owe absolutely everything I am and have become to you:

I know how to stand alone and how to take care of myself because you were nowhere to be found when I needed you. 

I'm independent and outspoken because I got tired of having you walk all over me and I refused to let anyone else use me as a doormat. 

I know how to work hard for what I want and for the things that matter because I know I'm the only person who can make those happen since you never had my back or gave me any form of support, emotional, financial, or otherwise. 

circa. 1989

I know how to not treat other people, even those who aren't family, because I refuse to make anyone feel as worthless as you've made me feel. No one deserves that. Not even you.

I know how to love, because everything I ever wanted from you and everything I ever wanted to give to you is overflowing onto the people I do have in my life who have been there for me through the years and who have created the family I always wanted to have with you. I love because you could never love me.

I know that when I say "I love you" it really means something. Growing up, that phrase was only ever just words. Now in my late twenties, I've seen love. I've experienced it. I've seen it in action. I know that sometimes "I love you" is saying absolutely nothing at all. 

I know that I will only ever tell my future daughter how beautiful she is, because she's flawless, because she's my daughter, because I love her, and because I never ever want her to think of her body as anything but perfect. Why? It's hers. It's healthy. Because she's fucking beautiful and alive. Because her worth and her self-esteem should never be tied to the number on the scale or on the tags of her clothes. Because she is worth ever so much more than I can describe with words.

So thank you, mother. Thank you for teaching me what kind of person I never want to be and for helping me become everything you're not. 

Happy Mother's Day. 

"Writing in English is like throwing mud at a wall." ~ Joseph Conrad

In light of the controversy stirred by the Coke ad aired during the Super Bowl as well as my "feisty" rebuttal of said controversy on my Facebook page, there's something that's been weighing on me. Not just since Sunday, but for years. Many, many years. However, I think it's time that this bullshit come to light.

Me and my daddy circa. 1988

When I was a small child, we're talking 7 years old and under, there were no skin colors. There was no white or black or red or yellow. There was just the boy next door who pulled my hair and stuck my braids together with gum, the girl up the street who played "house" with me and triple-dog-dared me to stick my tongue to a pole like the kid in "A Christmas Story", the neighbor across the street who was friends with my parents and who pumped me full of sugar before sending me home for dinner. There was no good or bad there were just people. I always knew I wasn't quite like either of my parents. I knew that grandma was this thing called "Chinese" and spoke with a heavy accent that I couldn't understand sometimes, and that her skin and hair were both much darker than my mother's. I knew that China was a big country with a lot of other people who looked just like grandma and daddy and spoke like grandma and all my great aunts and uncles. I knew that my daddy was a mailman and my mother stayed at home with us all day. I knew that Monday through Friday (and often Saturday) daddy went to work and on Sundays we went to church. Until around 3rd grade, this was all I needed to know. That was the beautiful simplicity that was my world. 

Somewhere around this age was the first time someone pointed out to me that my family wasn't like other families. It was one of the few times my father made it to a swim lesson or a ballet recital or something that he usually was at work for and generally too busy to attend. This someone was probably another child my age. This someone told me I was a freak because I didn't look like my dad (or my mother for that matter). That we weren't "normal" because my parents weren't both white. I was asked if I was adopted and if they were my real parents and was I lying about it. It was then that my simple world started to shatter into a million little shards.

It was also around 7 or 8 years old when I first registered hearing my mother get upset regarding my grandmother and discovered her deep-seated resentment. Nope, it's not what you're thinking. Not the usual mother-in-law drama over the way she was raising the kids or keeping the house. Oh no, as far as I know, my grandmother never really minded my mother and if she did she was damn good at keeping quiet about it and spoiled her only 5 grandkids more than my mother would have liked. No, it was about what was said one particular Christmas. Or rather, in what language. 

My grandmother was born in Boston in 1924, but even now, 90 years later, you'd think she just immigrated from China. Her accent has always been thick and she has always conversed mostly in Chinese. Oh, she can speak English and she understands everything that's being said to her or near her or about her, but her native language has always been her language of choice. My father has only spoken English my entire life, even to her, but understands grandma perfectly. It was always easier for grandma to just fire off whatever she needed to say to my father in Chinese rather than fight through the alien English words. It wasn't uncommon for me to hear the barrage of Chinese coming from grandma's mouth to my father's ears from our kitchen whenever she was visiting. 

This particular Christmas began with the inundation of Chinese directed at my father the second the door opened. I was in the kitchen with my mother "helping" with dinner and over the foreign noise from the other room I heard under my mother's breath:

"Seriously, this is just so damn disrespectful."

"What is?"

"Speaking that, that language in my home."

"But why? Me and daddy are Chinese and she's speaking Chinese."

"This is America, this is my house, and it's rude and she should be speaking English."

Even at such a young age, I knew there was something wrong with this. Very very very wrong with this. My mother may as well have slapped me in the face. What was so wrong with being Chinese? I mean, daddy is Chinese. My mother married my father knowing full well that he was Chinese. Couldn't it be more than safe to assume that her children would be little half-breeds and that at some point she'd have to have interaction with more Chinese people, many of them non-native English speakers? Apparently this never crossed her mind...only a slight oversight, no big. 

This conversation became a tradition with my mother and I for the years I continued to live in and visit my parents' house. Obviously it got more heated and more complicated the older I got, generally with me throwing in something about how if she didn't like grandma being Chinese then clearly she didn't like me or any of my siblings. But clearly "that's different." It stung then and it still stings now and it stings every single time I hear someone say that "we're in America, speak English." Even worse, it's burned the times that it's either been implied or blatantly said that I'm not really an American because I'm not totally white. I'm told that I get "credit for speaking English" rather than the alternative and there are some who write me off the second they find out I'm a mixed bag of cultures. And then, God forbid I start arguing the fact that English speakers aren't really Americans and pointing out the importance of diversity in our society (without it, enjoy your lack of Chinese food). This tends to start World War III and I don't like fighting stupid people. I'd rather go bang my head against a brick wall, please and thank you.

While this lovely conversation generally comes from older generations, which is almost more expected, I've even gotten this sort of commentary from people my own age. It always shocks, it always stuns, and it most definitely always infuriates and fuels my hatred of the ignorant people and their stupidity in this world no matter who it comes from. However, coming from my own mother, regardless of the overly tumultuous and resentment-filled relationship we've maintained at best, it never ceases to amaze me. I almost expect this bullshit and ridiculousness from the world, but never from my own flesh and blood.

I have no easy answer to this, because if there were, we wouldn't be here in 2014 still actively fighting this issue. Hell, I don't even have the answer to the years of trying to combat it living under my parents' roof. What I will say, and I've said it a million times, and I'll say it a million and one more, I'm damn proud to be this ridiculous mix of ethnicities and cultures. I'm damn proud I'm Chinese and I'm damn proud to be my father's daughter and my grandma's granddaughter. This makes up a huge part of who I am, so pretty much accept it, deal with it, or kindly see yourself to the door and don't let it hit you in your ass on the way out. If you want to bitch about something about me, bitch about something I can change. I can't change this part of me, and I wouldn't want to even if I could. 

"Crazy isn't being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It's you or me amplified." ~ Susanna Kaysen, Girl, Interrupted

In the past few days since I made my previous post, I've had the biggest outpouring of love and support from so many people, many who I didn't expect or haven't talked to in years and some people who I've only ever met in passing who wanted to tell me how much they appreciated my words. I've been thanked for my honesty and my fearlessness in talking about something many people avoid discussing or don't know how to discuss. I've also had a lot of people confess their own feelings of depression and inadequacy to me, and the shame of feeling the things they're feeling. I've had even more people thank me for writing this because they have someone in their life who they know is drowning in their own depression currently and they don't know how to help or how to even relate.

The ugly truth about depression is that the evil demon in your head makes you feel 100% alone 100% of the time and makes you believe that no one could ever possibly understand what you're going through so why bother telling them. The even uglier truth about depression is that many people experience the demon but very few people openly discuss it. I don't get that. I mean I do, because as I've said, it's insanely difficult sometimes to put words to the feelings that you don't know how to handle. What I don't get, is when you are in a state of clarity and in a good place, even momentarily, is why you wouldn't even attempt to explain how you feel and to please bear with you when shit gets real. 

Let's get this straight. I know it can be said a thousand and one times, and when you're in the middle of a really bad battle with the demon, it can be ridiculously hard to believe and convince yourself of it, but the bottom line is: you are not the only one who is feeling the way you're feeling. You're not. You are not all that unique in this regard, you are not experiencing something that someone else hasn't before, and you definitely won't be the last. I know how it is. Trust me. I know how embarrassing you feel it is to tell the people in your life that you feel worthless, you feel like a piece of shit, and you feel like nothing you do is worth it. But I also know how much better I feel once I know I have people in my corner of the ring ready to help me fight this thing to the death.

P.S. 

There was one thing that I wanted to clarify, as I have had someone ask/confront/get mad at me for mentioning the happy pills. Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with anti-depressants. Some days really love, other days... When I saw my first therapist when I was 18, I started our first session by telling him I didn't want to be medicated. He respected my decision, however, as our therapy sessions went on and nothing changed, he suggested we start me on the smallest dose of something to see if that would help get me over the slump. 

Long story short, the first anti-depressant I was put on almost killed me and the second I ended up taking the maximum dose and feeling nothing but numb, which in my opinion is far worse than feeling everything. After quitting the Prozac cold turkey, I had about a 4-5 year span with nothing in my system at all. At first it felt great. I felt liberated. Then the exhaustion set in, the 14 hour nights. The medication I'm on now is on the opposite end of the spectrum than Prozac and it's been working for me for 2.5 years. Am I suggesting that medication is the answer? Hell no. I'd argue against putting more chemicals in your system any day. However, if it's what it takes to help me get out of bed in the morning, then you bet your ass I'm taking it. 

End of clarification.

“That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end.” ~ Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

Three months between posts is absolutely unacceptable. However, I have a good reason. I think. Maybe. You decide. I can't make decisions right now. 

No, really, I swear it's a good reason. Here's the thing. In the past three months, that little demon that lives inside me came out to play. He's an evil little bastard, fucking with my head just because he can. He's mean. He's vindictive. He makes me believe a thousand and one things I know aren't true and makes me feel things I work hard to not feel. Ever. Ever. Ever. EVER. 

I know I've attempted to describe this before, but I'm going to try again. I figure the more I try to explain it, the more I might understand what the hell is going on inside my head. Fifteen years...it'll start making sense soon, right? Maybe? Please? Shit.

I'm tired of telling people I'm "fine." But at the same time I have no idea how the hell to actually describe this thing, or these feelings inside me to give any more detailed of an answer than just "fine." In other words, "fine" is pretty much straight bullshit and can almost always be translated to: "There are a thousand and one things going on inside my head and a thousand and one feelings, none of which make any fucking sense, and for whatever reasons, the connectors in my brain don't want to connect long enough for me to even say this out loud, so I'm just going to lie to you and smile like my life is peachy keen." Also, trying to go into any more detail than just "fine" is damn exhausting. Complicated enough? Oh it gets better, trust me. Or worse. Half empty/half full.

Let's take a second here for me to try to describe for you the directions the neurons are firing in my brain. Sometimes, I know exactly what's going on up there. Sometimes. And by sometimes, we're talking, very very rarely. On the off-chance that this happens, I often don't want to tell anyone, because the shit going on up there scares even me. I had a therapist quit on me when I was 100% honest. True story. It's too awful to make up. Then there's the other times when I think I know what's going on up there, but when I try to talk to someone, it's word vomit or just doesn't make sense. This shit in my brain isn't lining up with the words coming out of my mouth. Then there's still other times when I want to describe what's going on up there, but there's nothing. Literally, nothing. I know I'm feeling something but I can't describe it. Or other times I'm feeling like a whole lot of nothingness and blah and miserable and people love hearing about that. "No, really, I just feel like suck and I can't explain why." Yup. That's fun.

This winter has been absolutely brutal for me. That whole seasonal affect thing is kicking my ass and just isn't letting up. That and my little demon friend are refusing to let me do anything. Sleeping is nice...in theory. And I don't remember the last time I felt rested. I also have absolutely no energy to do anything. Nothing. When I get asked to go anywhere, I feel like I can't. I panic. I can't find the energy to get off the couch and put on real people clothes. To get up and shower or brush my hair. I hate feeling like I'm letting people down, but it takes a lot of mental will-power to just get myself moving to do what I have to do, like go to work, grocery shopping, etc....forget any social life. I miss my friends. A lot. But I get panicky when thinking about spending anything more than an hour or so out of my home. And when I do actually spend a decent length of time out, I start to have that little social anxiety thing kick in, and then I get REALLY panicky. Like "can't-breathe-feel-like-I'm-going-to-puke-everywhere-and-maybe-pee-myself-in-public" panicky. Sounds like fun, don't it?

I feel everything and nothing all at once. I feel dead inside and then immediately feel like I am feeling every emotion I've ever been capable of having and even ones I haven't and am in danger of it flooding out my ears, nose, eyes, and pores. I'm in constant danger of crying without any sort of warning and it can be triggered by the dumbest, nonsensical things. Example: funny cat/dog/baby videos. It's really annoying actually. I don't do weepy well. I hate it actually. Bodily fluids, running out of my face. Am I the only one who's bothered by this concept? Stop. Just no. 

What really sucks, is that there's nothing else to do but push through, even when I don't feel like anything is worth it or I don't have the energy. In her book Prozac Nation (which, next to Girl Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen, could be the handbook for attempting to figure out me and my brain and my life), Elizabeth Wurtzel writes, "If you are chronically down, it is a lifelong fight to keep from sinking." That is quite possibly the best way you can describe how I've been feeling since my pre-teen years. I constantly feel like I'm drowning, suffocating through this thing we call life. I mean, it's always in varying degrees, but there's always that feeling there. That feeling deep in my brain that I'm not good enough, that I'll never be good enough, and that I should just give the hell up. Drowning. I'm drowning in my own convoluted thoughts and feelings. Add some yummy anti-depressants and therapy here and there and sometimes I can tread water long enough to keep myself afloat until the tide goes out and I can reach the ground again. But the tide always comes back in eventually. And sometimes it washes over me completely.

Over the years, I've figured out who my real friends and family are. I don't sugar coat this or pretend it doesn't exist, but as you see, it can be hard to explain what is going on all the time. It's hard to explain the little evil demon bastard living in my brain. People want a "good" reason why I can't meet at the bar for a drink or why I can't go to a party (hellooooooo anxiety central...party of me?). And you know what? Sometimes, there isn't a good reason. Hell, sometimes there isn't a damn reason at all. There just isn't. Please stop fishing for one. You won't find anything. It'll only make me feel worse for not having the answers for you when I don't even have the answers for myself, and will only perpetuate this entire cycle. The people I keep close are the ones who know, understand, and accept, that I'm not intentionally shutting them out, but that I'm shutting myself in, because it hurts too much to come out and play. Because it's exhausting. These people know I care and love them, but I can't always physically, mentally, emotionally, or psychologically be there on the days that the demon is winning the battle. The people I keep close are the ones who sit there and say, I'm here to listen, if you can find the words, and I have a hug waiting or a shoulder to cry on whenever you want, or are ready, to be touched. 

Sometimes, there are no answers. Sometimes, there isn't a "good" reason. Sometimes, all I need is a hug. No, a hug won't make it all better. I know that. But it also lets me know that I'm not alone with the little demon. Sometimes, that alone is the difference between sinking or swimming. 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I need to rant. Like really rant. I've noticed something in the past few years. People still put far too much stock in appearances. Far too much. Let me explain. 

I'm 27 years old, I graduated from high school at 16, college at 20. I have my Master's degree and have worked in multiple professional environments since I was 18. I beyond know what I'm doing and have more than enough experience to hold multiple positions in multiple industries. While my current job allows me a lot of leeway as far as dress code, whenever we have client meetings or events I always dress appropriately and professionally. But that's not the problem...

The problem is I'm 5'2" and I look young, like "are you old enough to serve liquor?" and "are you legal to drink?" young. I'm petite, I'm Asian, I have good genes, I'm going to love it when I hit 40. Get the hell over it. There isn't a whole lot I can do about it unless I just start eating a ton and putting on weight until I become a little Chinese dumpling. No thanks. 

My writing skills are above par and my professional bitchiness and ability to almost always get what I has been envied by many of my coworkers through the years. I always perform my job to an exceptional level and my work is almost always perfect (due to OCD and having to constantly prove myself). My clients like me, and, generally speaking, so do most of my coworkers. In emails and over the phone I'm respected and taken seriously. But this is all before they meet me...and see what I look like. 

While this may not be true across the board, it happens at least 85% of the time, and I'm getting so damn sick of it. I organized meetings across the country for one of my jobs. Some of the people attending these meetings I had only ever emailed. I worked with and talked to these people for YEARS. In emails, they spoke to me with respect and knew that in my position (in this case, Executive Assistant) I more than had the power to make their lives a living hell. 

Then they met me. On these particular trips I was either treated like a Barbie doll who didn't have a brain and was only good to flirt with or stare at, or I was spoken to like a child. Honey, Sweetie, Darlin', Little Girl...any one of those nicknames and a slew of others all make me want to gag. Sadly, these names are not confined to just this particular trip. For the record, I'm not your daughter, I'm not your girlfriend, and currently I don't want to even remotely be your friend, so if we could put away the pet names, that'd be fan-fucking-tastic. Oh, and please stop saying "someday when you grow up..." Just don't.

Even better, people, who shall remain nameless, get comfortable working with me over the phone, over email...they meet me and they talk around me, over me, ignore me. I become invisible in person. I'm not saying this is true of everyone, but a good number of people I've had professional contact with have done this in some capacity, intentionally or otherwise. And while I highly doubt that the root of it has something to do with my being a woman (as there are many women in the business world these days), I'm sure it isn't helping me either. I didn't used to, but now I get why a lot of women become bitchy in the workplace, especially the little ones with the Napoleon Complexes. 

Is there a solution for all this ridiculousness? I have no idea. What I do know is that I'm tired and completely exhausted and burnt out from having to work 20 times as hard as the next girl to constantly and continually prove myself to people who, most of them, are probably not as smart or as educated as I am. 

Am I bitchy in the workplace? Maybe, when it calls for it. Firm, forceful, and persistent, maybe even professionally bitchy would probably be more accurate. A gentleman in power position at a firm in Boston called me a "wet blanket" the other day, because apparently I take things too seriously. Dude, I take things seriously because no one takes me seriously. I laughed at him and I told him that maybe if people stopped treating me like a little kid I could relax a little more. 

Maybe I'll stop being a "wet blanket" when everyone else stops being a jackass. Yes? K thanks.

Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't helpthem, at least don't hurt them. - Dalai Lama*

*This post is in support of those who have survived, and in honor of those we've lost. 

I have a secret. Other than a select few, there's something you don't know, for better or worse. Despite my openness with most areas of my life, the dark and terrifying as well as the bright and sunny, this one little secret is something that I generally don't divulge. With most everything else, I don't care what people think of me and my various disorders. I know I've survived and been through more before I even turned 20 than most will throughout their entire lives and I've definitely come out stronger for it. However, when trained medical and psychological professionals give you looks of shock, disgust, and anger after they find out your secret, it sort of deters you from wanting to share with anyone. At all. Ever. So I just don't.

Until now.

So what's the secret? Well, it's no secret that I've battled depression for years along with various forms of eating disorders and obsessive compulsive disorders. But the fact that I tried to kill myself twice when I was 19 years old, that's more of a secret. 

Yup...I tried to commit suicide - twice - in the spring of 2006.

It's not something I've ever really tried to hide, but that doesn't mean it's something I'm going to offer up willingly. I've written about the dark times of my life a lot, especially as writing has been a giant part of my therapy and healing, so I won't go into all the details of my history again. But in honor of National Suicide Prevention Week, I'm coming completely clean. Finally.

You're not going to get all the gory details out of me. Clearly I'm not good at that whole suicide thing because I failed twice. (By the way, you're allowed to laugh. That was a funny. I'm allowed to joke about my past if it helps me move forward.) I will tell you that I've had my stomach pumped. I will also tell you that to this day I still have faded scars on my arms/wrists. I will also tell you that the internal scars run far deeper than probably even I know. I will tell you that trying to come back from that is emotionally and physically some of the worst fucking pain I've felt in my entire life. But I'm still here.

I've watched friends suffer through depression, compulsions, and addictions. I've watched and have been sucked into their downward spiral. I've also watched people I know and love spiral out of control until it's too late, despite everything I could possibly do to try to help. And I know I've put many people through hell throughout the years while I struggled through my own whirlwind of depression.

Suicidal thoughts and actions are no joke. Please do not fuck around with them. Again, and I can't ever stress this enough, if I didn't have those people in my life who love me enough to step in and help me, I can tell you right now I sure as hell wouldn't be here writing this. It's hard as shit to sit back and watch someone destroy themself, but as much as you might want to "fix" that person, you can't. They're not a damn car. They need to want it. They need to fight for it themselves. Can you be there and support them and love them unconditionally? Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. And as much as you might want to just have that person "get better," it's a process, and many times a much longer one than you want.

I am forever grateful for the people who stepped in and helped to save me from myself. They won't take credit for it, and most of them don't think they did a damn thing, but I'm only here because I had their love and support. "Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible," says the Dalai Lama. Be kind, because you never know when your kindness could save a life.