An Amber-Colored Life

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An Amber-Colored Life: Hyperbole and a Half: Depression Part Two

For a long time I had no idea that the feels - or unfeels - that I was experiencing was depression. I knew something was wrong, but after coming off a devastating year full of loss and change, I just figured that I was having a hard time adjusting. And to be honest, to not feel everything SO DEEPLY ALL THE TIME was kind of a relief at first.

Until it wasn’t. Until I just couldn’t feel anything. Until the things that I usually loved doing - hanging out with my best friend Katy, going out on dates, spending long days in bookstores - started to fill me with an almost-dread. Because I didn’t love them anymore. Because I didn’t love anything. Because even when I knew that I should be happy, excited, angry, nervous…anything…I was just…meh. Sad, but without being able to pinpoint why exactly I was sad. I couldn’t hold a conversation, I couldn’t seem to find joy, I couldn’t seem to get out of bed…and the worst part was? I had no interest in even trying to.

But it wasn’t depression, I remember telling myself once. Depression was what my friend Kim had…depression was serious, it made people worry about you, it was obvious and scary and you needed medication and therapy. And I didn’t need any of those things. I just needed to figure out how to make myself happy again.

And even after my best friend Katy instigated a carefrontation and made me promise to get help, even after I started going to therapy and actually feeling better, I still had a really hard time admitting that what I felt that long dark summer was depression. Mainly because it made me feel broken, to say that. My friend Kim has struggled with depression since we were 19. Katy and I have spent numerous nights worrying so much about her that it can bring us to tears, and sometimes it seems to get better and then it seems to get worse, and sometimes she’s on medication that helps and then she goes off it and we talk very seriously about driving down to Chicago in the middle of the night to make sure she’s okay. To me, that was depression: A constant source of struggle, worry, and maintenance. It was the thing you had to admit when feeling like yourself - naturally, with no interference - was no longer an option.

But as I grew older, I learned that depression wasn’t something that happened to broken people. I started meeting friends who talked openly about struggling with it, and I started to realize that the more other people talked about it, the more I understood it and the more comfortable I became admitting that I had it (both to others and to myself). And for the first time, I could finally admit that I had struggled with low-grade depression since I was very young (Thoughts of suicide in a 7 year old? Not normal. Not just a product of my otherwise vivid imagination). And that there was absolutely no shame or weakness in admitting that, sometimes, it gets bad enough to the point where I can’t manage it all on my own.

Everyone needs a little help, every now and then.

So knowing the above about myself, and knowing that I probably still wouldn’t be comfortable admitting this stuff if it wasn’t for the example of other brave friends, has led me to be huge advocate for removing the stigma of depression/mental illness. The more we can share our experiences and show others that this is not something they are alone in, the easier it will be for all of us to get the help and support we need when times get tough and coordinating our brain with feelings gets tougher.

And that’s why I really, really want you to read this. I read it this morning and kind of did that thing where I was weeping out of recognition one second and then bursting out in laughter the next. Because it’s so familiar, but also so brilliant, and it’s quite honestly one of the most amazing things I’ve ever read. So I really want you to read it.

And then share it, so other people can read it and weep with recognition and burst out in laughter and not feel so alone in their feels - or unfeels - anymore.

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(via An Amber-Colored Life: This is an example of why I love the hilarious @tigerbeatpoet.)

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I was with a girlfriend who had recently been told to give up on IVF and witnessed her pain when the ”you don’t know love until you have a child” remark was dropped at a party. I have often wondered if those making the comments were aware of how they may feel if the roles were reversed and childless women asked: ”What on earth made you want do that?” or ”it’s not all rainbows and unicorns being a mother, you know”…

The simple fact - not that it is anyone’s damn business in the first place - is that most childless women today feel the decision was taken out of their hands through lack of financial and emotional security. According to a study in Australia’s Journal of Population Health, many childless women in their 30s want to have children, but can’t due to reasons ”beyond their control” such as not having a partner, stable relationship, or partner that wants children.

Perhaps in future when judging another woman on her life choices or publicly applauding your own, these statistics should be kept in mind. Not all women are awarded the same opportunities in life and not all women want or need them. Surely we can all agree on mutual respect and consideration of circumstance as a safe middle ground.

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"JESUS + Mary" Make Headline Appearance in Anti-Abortion Bill Signing

The bill is one of the most restrictive in history: it forbids abortion providers from receiving any government money or tax breaks, defines life at the moment of fertilization, and even requires doctors to falsely warn their patients that abortions can lead to breast cancer. No one’s shocked, since Brownback is avidly pro-life (after all, this is the man who was ready to tax rape victims seeking abortions last year.) Much of the bill will go into effect in July, while the tax portion kicks in during 2014.

I struggle a lot with the decision to post political stuff on places like Facebook and Tumblr, etc. Mostly because I know that posting a bunch of links to articles that support my views only serves to kill intelligent discourse, instead of stimulate it. But when it comes to stuff like this, I gotta post it…because when we talk about terrorism, we should also be talking about stuff like this. It’s allowed to continue because it’s done by someone who’s white, Christian, and holds an office of power, which, in our current climate, is not what we think about when we think about a terrorist. So we let stuff like this continue, because most of us are apathetic to the political process and the pro-life/pro-choice squabbling and all that. Which I totally get, because 90% of the time? Hey guys. Me, too.

But I’m getting to the point where, requiring doctors to falsely warn their patients that abortion leads to breast cancer? That shit will not stand. No matter where you stand on the pro-life/pro-choice spectrum…it is not okay for our governing bodies to not only condone, but to REQUIRE the giving out of misinformation - misinformation which effectively terrorizes - to a group of citizens in the name of their personal religious beliefs. Why do we ignore this stuff? Why do we stand back and let stuff like this pass across our screens, shrugging and/or shaking our heads as we read the headlines, only to go on with our day as if this stuff didn’t happen? If we let lawmakers like Brownback think that it’s okay to do this type of thing to women who might seek an abortion, then we’re basically telling him and other lawmakers that it’s okay to do this to us, too, if we are ever at risk of defying one of their personal religious beliefs.

I don’t know yet what I’m going to do. I don’t know if I’m going to rally a group of like-minded individuals who wear awesome army-colored jackets and hold evening meetings in spare looking offices…or if I’m going to go back to school and major in political science or journalism because THIS IS IT, GUYS, THIS IS WHAT I’VE CHOSEN TO USE MY MIND FOR…or if I’m simply going to keep blogging about this in a way that opens up mind, discourse, and ultimately action. All I know is, today, right now, and for now on, I’ve just suddenly come that point where this shit will not stand.

And I hope you’re getting there, too.

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beenthinking:

Once, before we ever started dating, back when we were just swimming toward each other in a night sea, excited to decipher the waving limbs and then the eyes and finally the heart of someone else still here among the wreckage, Chris asked me who the “You” was that I wrote about. It was my favorite question ever, which is the smallest best summary of why I married him.But it’s also a barometer of sorts. Because, the people who think in terms of and write to the proverbial You, the stranger You bound to them with red strings drawn across the globe. The You who raised us and the You who loved us but couldn’t choose us and the You who was crushed by us. The particular You and hypothetical You and the Future You and the lost You we have no more words for in real life. People who write like this and talk in You’s and ramble on over this terrain like geologists searching for faults with their bloody finger tips?
These are the best kinds of people for me.My dear friend Amber just published her second book. When it arrived, I jammed it into my too-full bag and took it on a work trip to the Midwest. On the flight home the next night, my clothes were rumpled and sweaty and the fat pads of my fingers were streaked with ink. I was weary with the satisfaction of good work and unwasted hours and wanted nothing but to exceed my seat’s narrow allotted space and fall asleep on the businesswoman next to me. But unfortunately, I made the mistake of starting Amber’s book on take off. And I read and read for hours. Delighted and destroyed to find this was a book full of You’s.Sometimes, I think we desperately need to know our friends’ and lovers’ scars. That we’d be better for it. That they’d be better for it. But I also think that we are terrible at being still and watching them show us where it hurt and how. We are chronically squeamish, politely disinterested. Insatiably giddy for the trite conclusion.Some of Amber’s stories bloated my lungs and guts and heart. Like someone standing above me and pouring buckets of ocean water in slowly and fully. When I walked off that flight, I weighed more for knowing her experiences. The fine details to the vague outlines I had heard over beers and brunches before. I told her once, when she was vulnerable enough to ask, that she is at her strongest when she is cracked open. Slow and authentic and faulted and wanting. That could be the title of this book, and I love her for writing it.
Years ago, I dated a fisherman and lobbyist who had a large, benign tumor in the palm of his hand. He wasn’t a very good man, honestly. But I think a lot of what drove his smarmy facade and habitual dishonesty and tendency to disappear was his brutal insecurity over this “deformity.” The first time I ran my fingers over the fleshy mound — over it and over it and over it — and assured him with my touch that it was a detail and not a flaw, you could almost see him break apart. You could almost hear the prehistoric cracks and groans that glaciers make when they thaw just enough to sluice off themselves and drift away. I never forgot the sound of that.What I mean, I guess, is that I long for people who aren’t afraid of my wounds and my weaknesses (The desecrated parts of me. The jagged, lousy story lines, the things I want and don’t get. Not the parts that conjure pretty Jessica Chastain tears, but the full on ugly Claire Danes crying. God bless her…) And I want so much to see those parts of you. Maybe it’s obnoxious to call women writers Brave. Maybe we are getting tired of that. But it’s the hum of the word I hear when I read Amber at her best.
The Courage of vulnerability and openness and lack of poise is so illusive. So precious and so hard to sustain. And when we recognize it, we ought to hold it up and keep a space for it.If you want to do that tonight, a very good place to start is buying Amber’s new book. (Hard Cover or Paperback found here)

These are the most beautiful words that someone has ever written about my writing. I want to scrawl this entire post across my bedroom wall with black permanent marker, so it always stays, so I never forget it. You know that thing where your entire body feels so swollen with gratitude that saying simply “Thank you” doesn’t feel like enough, but every time you try to think of more to add to the “thank you” it just seems to take away of add to it? It feels like that. Thank you, Erica.

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It’s real, it’s here, and it’s SPECTACULAR!

Ladies and gentlemen.

I give you the official launch of my 2nd/3rd book, “all the things you never knew/certain things you ought to know”, a 2-books-in-1, beautifully designed (thanks, Karah!) collection ofmy favorite and most meaningful writing.

A full (and fully-adventurous!) year has gone into producing this book, but it’s actually the culmination of almost a decade’s worth of work.

And I am so, so excited to share it with you.

You can grab a (signed) copy of your very own right here.

Also: Congratulations to Megan Fordice, whowona brand-spankin’-new iPod Shuffle during the pre-sale! (Your iPod Shuffle will be arriving along with your book, lady!)

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The true politics of women’s liberation is human politics. It is under the surface, the energy in a room - not in the bedroom, because there we won freedom as soon as it was discovered how much more fun life is when we are in the game. But outside the bedroom, we are still not equal partners, and until we are, the world will not be healed. Women are still in emotional bondage as long as we need to worry that we might have to make a choice between being heard and being loved.

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Later that night, a huddle of friends and I gather around an old piano in the lodge where we are staying. We suck down beers as we sing and laugh and dance our way into the early hours of the morning, and I can’t imagine this being better, with him here, I tell myself. Because you might not like this and I might feel like I have to entertain you and keep you company instead of really joining in. Halve my experience to make yours fuller. Drag you along, like a parent with a crabby kid after a long day at the fair. See, look! This is so fun! Isn’t this FUN?!

I am still thinking about this when a song by the Avett Brothers is taken up. “No, nothing in this world could ever hold me back from you…” It hits me wrong, and I tuck myself into the deep corner of the couch and listen quietly as the mixed voices and lilting harmonies float up to the high ceiling beams of the lodge. This song just makes me miss him, I tell myself, attempting to wave away any threatening sadness with a dismissive swipe of my mental hand. But then it occurs to me that it isn’t the right kind of missing: not the kind that comes with wistful sighs and sweet longings and the slight swooning over what will happen when we are together again. This kind felt permanent, final. A dying. This is the song you sing when you’re just starting to grow your love for one another, I found myself thinking. Committing to living your lives with each other. And this song used to be for us, but maybe it isn’t anymore. And maybe we could get that back, but how? Because you don’t actually miss me, and if I am brave enough to face the truth about why this song could make me cry, it’s because I know without even having to think about it that there are plenty of things that could hold me back from you.

And suddenly I remember another late summer night with friends, another Avett Brothers song. Of driving a friend home after her boyfriend had taken off without a word from the bar we had all been at, leaving Erica and I to take care of her, even though neither Erica or I knew quite how to do that. So we got her into Erica’s car, and I sat in the backseat and Erica drove while our friend sat doubled over in the passenger seat, her pain-filled sobs layered over the song coming out of Erica’s car stereo: ‘Black, Blue.’ And as Erica and I listened to her cry, to her asking why he didn’t love her, how he could just leave her, why would he do this to her, tears began streaming down both our faces…because we knew there was nothing we could say, nothing we could do to make it better. Especially since both of us knew – but knew better than to say out loud – that this same thing had happened to all of us before, and it could happen again without any of us wanting it to. No matter how much love you give to someone, they could still abandon you. Could still want to. Leave you weeping along to the soundtrack of a sad song, wondering why they don’t miss you. Won’t.