#14 – When The Depression Returns

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I didn’t want to write this post especially–not during the public’s outcry n’ healing process over Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain’s suicides, I don’t wanna be a big fat downer…who needs more of those? But I feel I must since I write on this viscerally morbid subject and have for a while now. These suicides have been triggering for those who suffer suicidal depression and rumination for sure, but more outstandingly, they remind people like me how vulnerable to mental disorders we are…human beings I mean. Dogs too. But not like people. It’s our cross to nail ourselves to since we have no other defense mechanisms aside from foul language and the ability to critically think and yep, change the world. However, we are built for suffering. Just like the Buddha says. And in our quest in western society to rid ourselves from our own internal suffering, we can sometimes cause only more suffering.

The yin and the yang of eastern philosophy (concepts of Taoism) essentially embodies the concept you cannot be whole without the light AND the dark, that a whole person is the expression of both. To take that concept even further, in east Indian metaphysical metaphysics, depression is actually a highly spiritual state of being, a time when your soul calls on you to look within, to be with your heart, to work shit out. When you’ve done so, you get to reemerge with a knowledge you didn’t have before and like, go help people n’ stuff. That’s a normal sense of depression I can get on board with, not my bipolar 2 depression that runs it’s time clock 24/7. That’s of course different. In this instance, such an ailment needs medical attention including the spiritual as well, and I feel meditation is paramount in re-wiring the depressed brain, so does UCLA and their Mindfulness Meditation program alive and well at the SEMEL institute to be exact. Mindfulness Mediation along with proper medication and lifestyle changes, is a first line of defense against clinical anxiety and depression for psychiatric in-patents at UCLA and if it’s working for them, then dammit it’s gotta work with the rest of us. I mean, UCLA would know, right?

yin(attaching the Mindfulness Meditation link I swear by for depression and anxiety…I love the Mountain Meditation especially https://insightla.org/Media/Audio-and-Video/Series/SeriesID/10)

Back to the yin and yang. Our western suffering comes with the expectation this state of ill feelings is undesirable in all it’s natural forms (not talking clinical suicidal depression folks, I’m referring to the normal 7 bouts of near clinical grade depression the average person will experience in their lifetime), and is something we need constantly rid ourselves of, or to immediately over-medicate till its existence can never be felt ever again. Not so fast. And no, in no way am I referring to, again, I will reiterate this so there’s no confusion–Americans love to be confused, me included–to living in chronic clinical mental illness as so many of us do. I’m merely pointing out that western culture is UN-accepting of any level of depression and has villianized it’s more spiritual meaning of a wholly integrated human manifestation–a being of light and dark in which a balance is created with no one ‘vibe’ tipping the scales in either direction. Make sense? Course it fuckin’ does…unless you are totally like, bible inclined and that’s not bad if it makes you happy, non-judgmental, open minded and super altruistic! I’m Jewish, we love to suffer then come up with the best goddamn jokes on earth to counterbalance our annoying kvetching. But I kinda secretly love to complain, it’s super fun sometimes. I’m also half Irish Catholic, or protestant as my grandma Kitty used to hit me over the head with. So naturally, all this SFV original valley girl knows is us Irish-catholic-Russian Jews are a funny fucking bunch. Anyway,  I like the Buddha best, he was money.

So, you guessed it and or you couldn’t care less but your reading my blog, so you gotta check it–I’m in a depression, a really fucked up one n’ it’s affecting every part of my daily functioning, self conceptualization, and that includes the professional writing project I’m super excited and privileged to be involved in…yet, I realize I have the best damn people in my life and I’m not embarrassed to pontificate over that at least, even if I hate myself so much of the damn misconstrued as indulgent, time. I’m blessed. My kids–I will say it again, my kids are here to do great things and they’ve chosen me as their momma to go out and be great, so that right there is reason to celebrate. I do subscribe to the notion children choose their parents, and mine chose me…hope they weren’t asleep when they did that, but regardless, I’m not gonna let them down, not ever, n’ neither should you.

However, this depression sucks all kinds of dog balls and the anxiety it invokes is no barrel of monkeys either. Not that many of you would suspect I would suffer the way I always have (n’ I’m referring to the people who know me casually), for by my outward appearance and exuberant dark n’ witty humor has misguided you to,either think I’m 1–a rebel with a cause, 2–full of myself (so not, just terrified of aging which is stupid) and or 3–out of my goddamn mind but super intellectual and you’re maybe really jealous of my…mind. I know some people that wish nothing but ill will for me or anyone they find threatening, especially on social media–the very fact they keep you around to stalk  but never support in any way shape or form is just an indication of their small existence yet I feel compassion for them. Do these people go beyond themselves to help other’s in need for no profitable gain? Do they simply exist for themselves to be recognized for only their work output and not the parents they can be or the great friends and family members they are born to embody? Could this be you? Or me? It was me at one point at the peak of my depression and addiction, years ago. But I had a choice, and I chose the best fight against suicidal depression was to reach out and be someone other’s could come to. Do I have all the fuckin’ answers? Hell no, no one does. But I know more than a few things, and what I don’t know I study.

Placeholder ImageSo, I decided one of the best depression cure aside from the obvious, is to be altruistic, to help someone worse off than oneself n’ you know what? That works. Or you can just continue to wallow in your self hatred, hatred for others, and offer nothing but being a useless eater with a paycheck…go for it. And my last thing will be thus—parents. If you are a parent, god please do as much as you can to be with you kids in these years till 18, I swear the adults you will unleash upon society will be better off for it. Kids need their folks, even when pushing you away like the teen years presents itself as, but trust me, the pushing away is sometimes to see if you’re still gonna be there–chasing after you’re little rabbits. It’s not fun if you’re too busy with work, or getting ahead, or whatever, but you gotta do what you gotta do to pay the rent, I get it. But let’s not turn out this next generation of kids to be as depressed, lonely and isolated as my generation has…let’s change that karma for our little ones, they deserve it.tempo 2.jpg

(My daughter, the light o’ my life, with her amazing alternative band “Tempo Infidelity”   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbeTeBn0SbY  (Recorded at Atlantic Records) photo cred…momma)

1 – My Suicidal Depression: It’s Not Funny, It’s Hilarious

Don’t freak out, I’m ok. Kinda. Well no… I’m not actually, but I’m so high functioning I’ll get through today and tomorrow, but maybe not the day after. I never know, it’s become totally irritating. Like, who in the fuck is really waking up in the semblance of my body aside from Shawn’s Johnson? Shawn’s my husband. Can’t get over it. Not the dick part, the fucked in my head part. I mean, good christ–between every antidepressant, mood stabilizer, anticonvulsant, anti-psychotic, therapy session, meditation, deep colonic, Brazilian wax and IV Ketamine infusion, (this Special K stuff really works too dammit) AND with emphasis on the past two years especially, I’m someone I basically DO NOT recognize. Not one bit. At all. Done. Dead. Gone. Cya. Except she has the same big tits as me, the longish brown hair that’s always threatening to break off from damage on the ends as me, she’s got tons and tons of new and old compulsive tattoos as me. It’s me alright, it has to be me, but it’s not me.

I’ve become so fucked up with mental anguish and an increasingly cringe-worthy checklist of panic/anxiety and bipolar deterioration criteria (in which constant suicide sits on my face), well, I wouldn’t wanna be my friend if I met me at the local tavern.  And I can be funnier than shit, everyone knows. Seriously. My humor is probably one of the things that keeps me going aside from my kids…it’s the hot glue gun that binds (by force most likely) the amazing people in my life, to me.

Comedy, humor, however morbid it may be, is life-blood to a person suffering chronic mental anguish, as so many do. I rely heavily on it’s healing powers which in turn relegates no person, place or thing off limits in the name of funny. I thank my late, as in dead (she’s in a wall at Mount Sinai), goddamn hilarious, Russian Jewish, New York, writer/comic/actress/mother. My mother: bat-shit bipolar and fucked up to the max, but I loved the bitch ferociously even though she was an asshole 75% of the time. So Yes, I’ll say and do just about anything to get a laugh.

There’s so many of us, call us heart-breakingly damaged people here on earth, I spot them everywhere–yet a lot of compassionate one’s too inhabit this planet, earth angels I call them. In fact it happened to me again recently; I met an earth angel at the AM/PM in the ultra disgusting high desert area of Victorville California, or more accurately, meth lab distribution country.

I was with my daughter and her teen friends lost one night (mentally and physically lost that is), a rainy lost night, and I had to pull into the AM/PM before I did something stupid. I went inside this fucking scary mini mart from Haities to get water and cry hysterically on the phone to my exasperated husband; see, I felt morbidly depressed, to the point I was sure I was disappearing right in front of myself and didn’t know if I could drive anymore. I had no choice but to go into the store, in a car full of teens and loud angry rap music, one doesn’t get to scream, cry, shrivel up and say they wanna die immediately on the cell phone. I had to go inside the meth mart and get my act together.

Once inside, it was like a real life movie set to some gratuitous CW teen zombie series, but with lice. The meth heads were so over the top ‘Special Ed’ vocal and tweeker fun, you just had to study them and wonder “what the fuck happened here?” I went on about my mental breakdown business with a “fuck these people, they don’t give a shit about me, I don’t give a shit about them.” Nice perspective, I know, it was a bad night.

Keeping it totally under wraps, so I thought, my screaming and crying I mean, wasn’t too hard– the place was going off with this drug addled ‘shrieky’ white trash; bad skin, dirty hair, pissed on pants, plus the utter lack of sustainable teeth (you could count’em on one hand, really, the mossy teeth), well, my life, next to the real living walking dead, looked monumentally pristine and problem free.

So, I think I’m co-existing out of plain sight, or at least like, blending–crying not so quietly on my phone while I grabbed electrolyte enhanced water bottle after electrolyte enhanced water bottle from the electrolyte enhanced water part of the fridge. I dumped all 5 bottles on the counter with no regard for anyone else’s space but mine, I had to pay and get the fuck out. Simple. And yeah, I was still on my phone while the clerk said “Hello” n’ I knew how rude it was, I never do that, I hate that. But I was caught by something the lovely, young, African American kid working that register did as I struggled to find my money. He waited patiently for me to collect myself, looked me gently in the eye and smiled.

I thought it was a little weird, why would this kid smile at me with a river-shit-bed of non waterproofed mascara tear stained vertically up n’ down my dumb mug and I’d been super rude. I made a constipated face back at him, it was a half reply smile and a “I’m too fucked up right now to have you expect me to be pleasant” half grimace. Then, well… I pretty much threw the money down, turned in high heals and ran out.

Of course it was fucking raining donkey dicks outside by then, and I slipped and pulled out my back a little. I cried. Again. “DAMN YOU GOD!” I think I said that, or probably something more along the lines of my typical “FUCK ME!”

I got into the car and all wide eyes were on me, guess I hadn’t flown under the radar even remotely.  My teen goes, “mother, what in the hell?” and I stopped her right fast and said “Not now goddammit, I’m having a moment…can’t you see I’m always having a moment?” And I burst full on into ridiculous sobs, apologizing profusely and blaming it all on my clinical grade PMS. I lied. I just’d had my stupid period. I sat there wanting to die more than ever, my kid knew I was in trouble, her friends apparently did too.

The knock came loud and fast, and with the rain pouring down like huge donkey dicks, I screamed. We all did. Who the hell was at my drivers window? I was still parked in the terrifying AM/PM lot, I figured it must be someone wanting to sell me drugs. OF COURSE I rolled the window down, but instead of a tweeked out walking dead meth-mouth-motherfucker, there before me smiling, again, was the young, lovely, African American clerk. I was just dumb founded. Had I left my wallet? Had I really pissed him off that bad?

“I wanted you to have this miss.” He said super sweetly and handed me a piece of folded paper. I thanked him suspiciously, I mean, what the hell was written on that damn paper dammit?! He then told me to “drive safe” and went back inside.

“Oooohhh girl, he likes you Kelly!” One of my daughters friends said excitedly. “He gave you his number?! Oh my god, you’re waaaayyyyyyyy too old for him.” was another comment. I was just as astonished as my passengers, and as I opened the folded paper, on it was a number.

The number to a local suicide hotline.

No joke. On the paper, he had written me a sweet note that read, “it’s going to be ok, if you need to talk, call them, they can help” and then a 1-800-don’t-kill-yourself type phone number.

Yes I was mortified, yes I was embarrassed, but more importantly, I was touched. someone who had no reason to see me, see me in a moment I couldn’t see myself, stepped out of his own seemingly bleak looking existence with the whole AM/PM and the meth addict nonsense (listen, no one, and I mean no one should have to drive through Victorville let alone work there) and reach out to help a very externally put together, rock n’ roll looking wife in a new white Escalade. The whole picture didn’t fit and I was so glad it didn’t.

Shrieks,  screams and joyous cackling  filled my car as I read the note out-loud over and over, each time laughing till I cried. It was a happy cry, a thankful cry.  I’m fucking serious, this was a big thing for me, for everyone in the car living that twilight zone moment together. However stupid and cliche’ it may sound, we are more connected than we believe, and that we are never really alone. I soon forgot the whole incident as life settled back in of course, but writing about it now has made me re-ignite the idea of human to human source energy–the flow from one person to the next. So thank you AM/PM earth angel, you made a difference.

Kelly Simon-141

(During this journey here on Earth, I’ve experienced it all: bouts of severe suicidal depression, paralyzing anxiety so bad I could barely blink, even issues with self harm, I’m still here and so thankful to be…suicide cannot be an option folks, especially when you have chosen to bring children who need you into this world…don’t abandon them. Talk to someone who gets it when you are bleak, for this too shall pass. It always does.)

 

 

 

 

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