I say bull$**t on “there is always someone listening”

So I have been up for a bit, then I was flat, then here we are, and I am down. No matter how much tennis I play, I just keep spiraling down and down and can’t get out of it.

I remember a friend of mine who always posts on Facebook about how “there’s always someone listening”.. So I reached out to her. Ok, in her defense, I really didn’t say that hey I’m in such a shit hole right now and I need help. But my way of reaching out was inviting myself to join her on her bike rides. And she said no because she said that’s her alone time and she tunes the world out during her rides.

So what happened to “someone is always listening”? I call bullshit on that. It’s so easy to just copy and paste into your facebook timeline but what are you really doing to make someone feel better? What are you really doing to be more sensitive when someone is down. Or just plain being a friend?

I’ve said this to my therapist before – I sometimes feel like I always reach out to people to make sure they are ok, but no one ever reaches out to me. No one. So when I am extremely down, I even feel more isolated because whatever depression I feel is exacerbated by the fact that no one ever reaches out to me to make sure I am ok.

If there is only one thing I can convey right now, it is this: Reach out to all your friends. Even the ones who on the outside looks happy all the time (ie: me). Make sure they are ok. Sometimes they can’t talk about it, but all they need is company. To know they are not physically alone when they are fighting with their demons. They are already fighting their head demons alone, they don’t need to be physically alone too.

So if someone asks, can I go on a bike ride with you, say yes. Sometimes they only need that one day to be with someone. Or sometimes, all they need is to know that someone out there said yes.

Sometimes, I just want it to stop

I am spiraling down and I can’t control it. I ask myself why no one asks me how I am because I am not ok. Very few know about my condition, but with those few, where are they?

I know I will eventually be ok. I am in pain, but I will be ok. When you carry a baggage with you, it takes double the effort to succeed, to be successful, to do anything, to be productive.

And I cry, and I cry. But I have to carry on.

I’ve never understood anyone who makes the final decision to end it all until somebody said, “I just didn’t want to try anymore.” Then I understood.

I’m tired of trying. I wish it was easier.

Feeling good to feeling depressed in 60 seconds

I started the day today feeling good, about myself, my life and my future. I even told myself, I should document this so I can see what my perspective is when I’m in a positive mood.

It was shortlived though as I switched right back into sadness.

But let me try to recall what that felt like. I felt light, and it was ok. I felt “empty”, like there was no baggage I needed to carry. I didn’t feel like I was dragging my feet and I felt like I could actually conquer the world, at least MY world. I had plans. This is what I’m going to do, and I’m going to do it, and what are the action steps I needed to do to achieve what I wanted to achieve. I felt productive. I was excited. I was purposeful. I had direction, and it was onward and upwards from here.

What happened? I don’t know. I guess maybe I came home to an empty(ish) house. My load suddenly felt too heavy to carry by myself. I feel unproductive. I feel disorganized. I feel like a failure. To top it all, instead of working, I am writing and musing and feeling sorry for myself.

In any case, I’ll try again later when I’m in an upbeat mood. Even this blog is depressing me.

10 things I hate about (u in the mirror)

Let me convert self loathing into obnoxious, derisive and dismissive deprecation.

10 things I hate today:

I hate it that my dog farts like he just had beans for dinner. Farts then walks away. So freakin’ inconsiderate.

I hate that my husband watches TV so loudly that you can hear it in outer space. My dog should fart next to him. Maybe then he can lower the volume of the TV. I know it won’t change the smell of the fart. But it would give me a big satisfaction that he got punished for the loud TV volume. Karma.

I don’t want to become irrelevant. Like the load I carried throughout my life did not matter. To anyone. Upon my death, the world freezes for a moment, where one pauses as if to remember a word at the tip of one’s tongue. Then that moment, my moment, passes, And that was my moment, a split second, a passing thought, like the fart of my dog Kirby, maybe created a stink then dissipates in the air like it never happened.

Don’t complain you have no money, yet wear an apple watch on your poverty stricken wrist.

I hate it when people put so much perfume it sticks to you after they hug you. Then suddenly you smell like them. What’s worse is if the perfume actually smells good but now it only reminds you of them. Unless you are super hot, like goddess hot, not stinky sweaty hot, don’t wear perfume that would make sticky notes file for bankruptcy.

I hate my old boss. He has caused so much angst in my already angst ridden life. I never wish ill on people – – except for diarrhea. While driving in traffic. Or while making a presentation in public. While wearing a light colored pair of pants.

I hate failure. Diarrhea in public needs to happen. Failure is not an option.

I hate wasting time. Today I downloaded a Mahjong game on my phone. Four hours later… tick tock tick tock. 525,600 minutes. Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear. oh dear. My life is wasting away.

Fortnite. Whoever invented that game, diarrhea.

Finally, as I lay down to rest, after 4 hours of mahjong, I hate the person standing in front of me, who has to pretend everything is fine, things are going really well, I love my life, God is so good to me, while the broken person behind her drags her feet, slouched, manacled. I feel like a failure, I’m going to fail, I have failed.

I just can’t win.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should diarrhea before I wake, I pray the dog my shit to take.

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Today is the first day to the rest of my write.

But firstly, let me don my mask and my cape. I have to be incognito lest someone recognizes me and I lose credibility in the real world.

I have decided to write my journey in battling with my arch nemesis, depression, who also is my friend. I don’t know what I would do without her, yet I need to cut her out of my life.

I saw a doctor a few years ago (more like decades) who diagnosed me with Bipolar II. I always thought she was too quick to diagnose me because I don’t think I am. Call me Doctor Rosebud from here on out. I know more than the doctor who has gone through several years of medical school. But maybe I am because sometimes I just have this heavy, crushing weight in my chest and I don’t see how any glass can be half full if I have already drunk half of it down – which means it is now half empty. And as quick as a snap, I will be riding on a high when something really good happens to me at work. I mean who wouldn’t be happy if you just closed a big client, or you just got asked to be part of a board, or people think you are the best thing that happened since sliced bread.

Now I don’t know about sliced bread since my carb of choice is really rice and pasta. But… where was I going with this?

In any case, life is short. I am almost half a century old. I am almost at death’s door. Or maybe death is almost at my door and I still have a ton of things I would like to accomplish. I want to travel more. I just recently made a career change, hopefully so that I can travel more. I now own my own business and I hope to expand it by next year. But on my down days, I question my own sanity and I spiral right back down to my own private hell. I want to spend more time with my teenagers, yet at this point in their young lives, they no longer want to spend it with me. There is so much to do, so little time to do it. I’m about to go on panic mode. I haven’t written the book yet how can I write it? I am not a writer. I have never written an article (ok I lie, I have, but it’s more like an advertorial) so how can I even imagine that I can write a book??? Do I even truly want to write a book or is it just a cool thing to say. Me: Hey man, I’m writing a book. Random man: What’s it about? Me: Shrugs and walks away. I want to have a column. I want to be an “influencer”. I already am. At least people already think I am. I just don’t have a medium that I use to influence and that’s the whole point. I still have so much to do – I can’t die yet.

Yet one day, I felt, I don’t want to feel sad anymore. I don’t want to carry any weight. I just want to be free of this passenger I have. Not like Dexter’s dark passenger, so dark and violent. Just my own invisible companion who sits with me, doesn’t really talk to me but sits heavily right smack in the middle of my chest. But once she’s gone, what would I do? I’ll be like an empty nester with a spare room that I probably can put a gym in. I will miss her so I don’t want her to go. She helps me write, even though I really am not a writer.

So today is the first day of the rest of my (writing) life. Let’s see where this takes us. Journey with me. Or not. But please do, it will depress me if you don’t. Don’t say bad things to me, about my writing, about my journey. It will trigger a downward spiral. Keep me company and hopefully I can also keep you company. Hopefully one day, we will truly be empty nesters and be ok with that.

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