We are the women who would prefer to sleep in bed solo, tangled up in our own sheets with legs sprawled as wide apart as possible against the mattress- the legs which only belong to us.  We prefer cozy nights in, under the security of fuzzy blankets and a book which takes us to worlds we haven’t yet visited or never will visit over a crowded downtown bar with loud mainstream music and boys whose drunken words make us roll our eyes.  We avoid small talk at all costs, unless you engage in it first, because we have avoided appearing “snobby” for the majority of our lives.  We are constantly critiqued for our preference for solitude.  The remarks vary from “you need to get out and actually have some fun” to hushed ones behind our backs excusing our hermit-behavior(“she’s a little socially awkward.”)

The truth?  The most fun I could possibly have would consist of myself and a night to research the internet on random topics which I can later analyze, apply to my own life, and craft words which can speak to an audience of people whom I have and never will meet.  We could dazzle a room full of people, partaking in conversations as light as the dread of the upcoming snow to as deep as the “One Child Policy” changing in China.  We could sit at a bar and rip a line of Jack Daniels without flinching, then grab the hand of the nearest boy and head to the packed dance floor.  We are perfectly capable of all of these activities, just like others’ are capable of spending a night in rather than going out but don’t…because they don’t want to.  You have a choice, and so do I.

Were we always this way?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Some of us have spent our youth following the “the norm”, always surrounded by people and booze and selfies and subtweets.  This confuses you, as I was once just as excited for the weekend you still look forward to- spending two hours picking out the perfect outfit, applying make-up, and drinking beer in a circle of people in a college-style apartment, where everyone glances at their phones more than actually talking to one another.  Or when they do actually acknowledge one another, it’s an opportunity to film a snapchat story.

I’m here to tell you that when I don’t want to do something you want me to do, it’s not because something is wrong.  Or I have no idea how to interact with other people.  Or I’m not having any fun in my life. It’s because I don’t want to spend the minimal free time I have obliterated, plagued with a hangover which only increases in severity and longitivtiy as my biological clock ticks.  Am I judging you for partaking in this lifestyle?  No, absolutely not…because once in awhile, I like to join you.  But my hint at hostility when I describe the way you live your life is examplary of how I feel when you try and pressure me to live my life like you do.  I am not socially inferior to you because I PREFER less interaction on a daily basis.  We are all different.  We all need certain types of nurture to function.  Mine just happens to be a lot of time reflecting on my own life- alone.  Society calls me an “introvert”, but I don’t really think we could possibly mold each individual into a category.  The human experience is much more complex than that.  I am much more complex than that.

The Anxiety-Ridden Prize.

I don’t fall often, but when I do…it’s hard.  Like, I’m talking…balls to the walls, give me all you got, infatuation nation…HARD.

And nothing fails to bring out that “inner crazy” more than fuckboy behavior, even in the most trivial sense.  I’ve been screwed over before, so I am prone to analyze everything down til the last second of that Snapchat opened or “read” message.  It’s not only obnoxious to myself, but also to my friends, and honestly, probably even the boy in question(as I am a huge believer in energy, as some of you may know).  My anxiety is on a whole new level when it involves a guy.  It takes a lot for me to just “chill” out, despite the fact it also takes a tremendous amount for me to even get to the point of liking somebody a lot.  I wouldn’t consider myself a “stage 5” by any means(the social media stalkage is there, but not any more intense than your average female millennial), but I get so wrapped up within my emotions of WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT, it’s hard for me to focus on anything else.

I don’t do surprises well.  I NEED TO KNOW WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN.  ANYONE with anxiety can probably relate to this wholeheartedly.  Do not tell me you “have to tell me something LATER”(even if it’s wonderful news and you clarify that), as I emotionally cannot deal with the wait.  My patience tolerance is at like a negative infinity when it comes to that stuff.  It’s difficult for me to live in the moment when things take an unexpected turn, whether the decline is entirely made up in my head or very much real.  Although I must give myself credit as in areas of every day life, I am getting MUCH better at trusting myself and letting things go as they will…however, there’s something about boys that really shake my world up when I’m involved with one I actually like.

I could blame it on the past heartaches.  Totally point the finger at all of the boys who have promised me the world then left without an explanation, or if they bothered to “peace out” with words, they made little sense, even to the most sensible of friends I have.  It’s easy to find a scapegoat, especially with a history of “almost boyfriends” like mine.  But over the course of being completely “single” for like months now and then completely losing my mind over my most recent boy, something I dissected to the core, it’s come to my attention this has absolutely nothing to do with the guys I hang out with.

It has EVERYTHING to do with me.  It has everything to do with the way I view myself.

For some reason, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been convinced I will never find love or end up happy.  Like I’m not worthy of it, for whichever reason.  So when I find somebody I truly am smitten with(and trust me, it takes some major winning over from their end), I am certain every moment spent in absence will surely be the moment he finds someone BETTER.  This is a red flag of insecurity, I am well aware, but it generally disappears once I find myself completely comfortable, once I have that moment of true security, once I am able to proclaim THIS IS MY BOYFRIEND AND HE IS MINE…I don’t care who looks or who he talks to.

…but the thing is, I am the quintessential “almost girlfriend.”  I rarely make it to the “official” point.  Like…ever.

I’ve had a rough weekend.  Birth control changes have made me intensely hormonal.  I haven’t been able to eat or sleep without an aide, complete with the majority of my day in hysterical tears.  The amount of thought I’ve put into one entire situation could probably challenge an entire day, hour-wise.  It’s moments like this when I confide in friends and they assure me I am being RIDICULOUS(which I know, I KNOW I AM, I AM FULLY AWARE OF THIS) and everything will be just fine.

But will it really?  I can’t do the whole “waiting” thing.  I have had enough sense to at least be in control of relaying HOW I CURRENTLY FEEL to this particular person, because I know I am acting irrationally.  If it’s supposed to work out, it will.  If not, well…another one bites the dust?  It will take a few months if the latter is what happens, but eventually I’ll be completely over it, as I always am.  But why should I get so worked up about this shit, always planning how I will react to and when the “exit” will be, instead of just going with the flow?

It’s not in my nature, it never has been.  Until now.

Thursday was a complete shit show for me.  I spent the majority of my day crying, so I headed off to Barnes and Noble, stumbled across the copy of a book I have heard a ton about, and thought “why not?”  Best decision of my life so far.  The reality check I think I’ve needed for a long time.

I bought a copy of Why Men Love Bitches, DEVOURED it in less than 12 hours, and now…I feel like a brand new fucking person.  I feel like a bitch.  And I love it.

Yeah, it’s a “cliche” statement to make over those self-help books, but I’m telling you, Sherry Argov knows her shit.  Everything she said made complete and total sense to me.  It’s like the lightbulb that has been burnt out in my head regarding men just lit up my entire fucking noggin.  Like I’m obsessed with her logic.  But first, let’s make one thing clear.

A “bitch” is not what you’re thinking.  She’s not rude or mean to people, or self-absorbed.  She is still very much kind, sweet, and polite to all of those deserving…but she puts herself first.  She doesn’t bend over backwards for anyone, definitely not a MAN.  She doesn’t seek approval, especially from A MAN. In fact, in Sherry’s own words(and one of my favorite quotes from the book):

 “Bitch (noun): A woman who won’t bang her head against the wall obsessing over someone else’s opinion – be it a man or anyone else in her life. She understands that if someone does not approve of her, it’s just one person’s opinion; therefore, it’s of no real importance. She doesn’t try to live up to anyone else’s standards – only her own. Because of this, she relates to a man very differently.

Do not let him have control.  It doesn’t have to be a power struggle, but if you keep your emotions in check, you are the one who will be calling the shots(without him even knowing).  Now to tell someone with extreme male anxiety to “keep your emotions in check” is almost a conflict of interest, but nonetheless, I think it is definitely attainable for me, to some degree.  As someone who strongly believes in the “law of attraction”, I need to start viewing myself as a “prize” with the notion that nobody who fails to see and appreciate and WORK for it, deserves me.  No.  Matter.  What.


Before I begin to tell you about who I am, I must be straight forward about who I am not.  Perhaps the two coincide, but it is important for me to note: I have never claimed to be a role model nor do I feel the necessity to compare myself to others who hold influence on social media(particularly, Twitter).  However, I feel as if I must be straight forward when I state there are those of us who fell upon this “internet fame”(which I feel so dorky saying, as there are account holders who are brazen enough to refer to themselves as “elite” because of their internet presence) by mistake, more or less.  Yes, I happen to have a successful(if that’s how you measure success) anonymous Twitter account, but my intention was never for it to blow up as it did.  DGC was created solely for myself.  DGC was created as a space for me to create scenarios in which I could apply my thoughts with feedback from people who would not judge me, at least not for superficial or biased reasons against my real identity.  And, as many of you know, DGC didn’t start out as DGC.  So first, a little background briefing and refresher course.

I fell in love with the written word at 3 years old.  My mom Bible-swears I just picked up a book and began reading to her one day.  Everybody assured her I had probably just memorized the bedtime stories I had heard dozens of times, but it wasn’t until my mom brought me a children’s book I had never heard before(to her knowledge) and asked to me to read it, was her suspicion confirmed.  I recited the entire book without a single stutter.  Somehow, as a mere toddler, I had taught myself how to read, nearly flawlessly.  In no way am I trying to toot my 36 month’s horn, but just stating facts…I have always been mesmerized by beautifully crafted words.  It wasn’t long until I was filling my own notebooks with short stories, mostly centered around girls who faced obstacles similar to my current debacles at the time.  In sixth grade, I wrote a 78 page Microsoft word story about a girl named Savannah who faced an intense amount of peer pressure to fit in, complete with middle school boy problems and body image issues.  I was pretty proud of my hard work.  As cliche as it sounds, I was relatively close with my school librarian at the time, as I was always looking for new books to devour and she always had the goods for me.  I printed it off and let her read it shortly before my 6th grade “graduation”.  Her reaction to the content matter is still pretty fresh in my mind, as I do remember her saying “I can’t believe an 11 year old wrote this” with a following of “You will absolutely write a book some day” and the reassurance to follow my dreams.  I don’t think we ever spoke again.

In junior high, I wrote articles for the school newspaper, and by the time I was a sophomore, I served as one of the editors until my graduation.  I had my own column, which was full of flimsy pieces which were pre-approved by my small conservative community, although I did gain some attention from a pro-gay piece I wrote once.  It didn’t matter anyways because during this same time period, the beloved “MySpace” era was coming to fruition, so I actually was many of the few friends I knew who utilized the “blog” feature on my profile.  I gained a decent following and updated my blog posts nearly weekly, mostly full of original material, inspired by a recent heartbreak and friend drama(you know, the good stuff).  It just became something I did, something I was known for…it became who I was, as it always had been.  My English teachers encouraged me to pursue a career which would showcase my writing talents, but I was discouraged from my mother, who claimed there was “no money in journalism.”  These years were very notably the beginning triggers of my “decline”, although I managed to graduate high school in the top 20 of my class, with honors.  Looking back, I appeared to be extremely “normal” in terms of my behavior, but my thoughts were anything but.  My senior year of high school, a freshmen committed suicide, and while everyone was angry, shocked, and called him selfish…I secretly admired his ambition to take matters into his own hands.  And while I could never admit this out loud, it didn’t appear an unusual thought to me until years later when I, too, faced the pits of a complete depressive state, with every intention to also, take my own life.

My late teens/early 20’s are a blur of drunken nights but had significant stability and functionality.  I was unhappy, but I was convinced it would pass, so I continued to do as I needed to do, all while maintaining a booming social life and a part time job.  I still wrote frequently, and I probably wrote some of the most beautiful pieces I’ve ever managed to come up with, mostly because of my melancholy(not full on depressive) nature.  It was my coping mechanism, and it was the only way I had ever really known how to “let it all out”, if you will.  I could still write, and that is what saved me.  My words were raw.  This behavior was pretty consistent until I was about 21 or so, when simply put, I lost my fucking mind to the freedom to get fucked up whenever I wanted.  I can’t quite pinpoint when I slipped and stumbled down the rabbit hole, but I do know one thing…my mental illness had brought along friends.  I was smacked in the face with a severe case of writer’s block.

It didn’t matter what I tried to write, but I couldn’t do it.  My healthy form of self medicating was all of a sudden stolen from me, and I didn’t understand WHY.  As many of you know, I was plagued by the stigma which surrounds mental illness.  I didn’t know what was going on, and I had absolutely no outlet except for binge drinking.  THAT made the demons disappear, at least temporarily.  Luckily for my nasty habit(and not so much me), I had friends which supported this lifestyle.  I was getting drunk AT LEAST 5 out of 7 nights of the week…but at some point, the bar scene didn’t appeal as much anymore either.  I was still pretty prominent on social media, mostly as an attempt to assure worrying family members I was still “okay.”  I frequented Twitter often, and I found myself relating to these so-called “anon accounts”(although truthfully I don’t remember if they were referred to as that back then or not).  Many of the accounts I “fan-girled” over are ones which I actually correspond with today, which is pretty cool.  Funny how that works.  Anyways, the idea of it all seemed extremely liberating, and although I can’t quite remember the moment I decided to give it a whirl, an account was created.   Desperate to find a way to make the words flow once more, I tried.  But I found myself tweeting mostly generic, cliche, and boring things about my life.  It wasn’t deep, but it was kind of fun.  I eventually deactivated the account.  It didn’t fill the void.  A few months later, I recreated another…and again, eventually, axed that one as well.

I’m not entirely sure what inspired me to create one more, but maybe third time was a charm.  I don’t know.  And thus, “DrnkGrlConfess” was born on November 28, 2012.  She was quintessentially “me” but with an edge…because I decided I would use this platform to create scenarios in which I would develop a character in the novel I had been so desperately working to finish.  At this point, I was severely depressed.  I rarely left my bed, and when I did, it was to make a fast food run or a stop at the liquor store.  I went out, but not nearly as much as I once did…drinking in bed was more appealing.  As much as I tried to separate this “persona”(if you will) from “me”…it was too hard.  The tweets became much more about my own personal struggles, mostly with a faltering on again/off again relationship.  I kept my suicidal thoughts out of it(more about that later).  “Drunk Girl” was like, the version of me I WANTED to be, rather than what was actually me.  It was like an alter ego I had complete control of…the “good” side of me.  It was something I had control over, when everything else in my life seemed to be spiraling recklessly.  What I was unaware of at the time was that some of my friends had caught on to my “little secret” and had a group message devoted to overanaylyzing everything “Drunk Girl” tweeted about.  I can’t say I blame them, especially because at this point, I didn’t have much of a relationship with those who wondered if it really WAS me.  The account blew up.  I had nearly 30,000 followers in about 3 months, which made it hard to even not see my own account retweeted onto my personal timeline.

On January 23, 2013, I was taken to the ER and admitted into the psychiatric ward on suicide watch after a mental breakdown in my doctor’s office, which of course is another story on its’ own.  Obviously, I did not have access to my cell phone, which confirmed my friends’ suspicions as my personal account nor “Drunk Girl” had tweeted for over 48 hours.  I continued to keep my mental illness a secret from the Twitter world, as I had to move home to attend intensive therapy sessions.  For a few months, I truly felt “normal” tweeting off “Drunk Girl” as pretty much everybody else knew the “situation” I was currently in.  It wasn’t long before I was writing regularly again and was able to get a REAL kickstart on the novel I had been trying for YEARS to complete- literal years.  The instant feedback is what kept me moving.  I could write virtually anything I wanted, and I would have a reply(“mention”) within 30 seconds.  It sent me into a frenzy…I could not be stopped.  It was a wonderful project to work on in-between therapy and meditation classes, as I couldn’t hold a job at the time.

But then, there was the subtweet that changed everything.

I don’t remember the exact wording of it, but it was a blatantly obvious indirect tweet to me.  Perhaps something awkward about knowing somebody’s “little secret.”  About 5 other people had “favorited” it, clearly also involved in what I would later find out was a group message devoted to finding out if “Drunk Girl” was me.  My stomach sank almost immediately as I read it.  I had been found.  I instantly knew although the stress of keeping it a “little secret” was over, writing from my character’s perspective would not be the same.  Shortly after the confirmation to my friends it was I(and another sworn secrecy to not spread the news), I came “out” with my depression and mental health issues on “Drunk Girl”.  The response I received was overwhelmingly warm, to my dismay.  Of course, I lost a lot of followers…but the feedback I received was more than amazing.  I was not alone.  Gradually, I began to tweet more and more about mental health.  It just felt…right.  And while I am (still) bitter at times that I have not been able to finish my project fully(at least to my standard of complete) because of the gossip and way it was handled for months surrounding “Drunk Girl”, honestly, there would be no “DGC” without my exposure.   And for that, I am most definitely thankful, since I have been able to reach out to a far larger audience who needs to hear MY story instead of a fictional one.

“Drunk Girl” gradually turned into DGC over the course of the last year or so.  It just didn’t seem right to refer to my account as “Drunk Girl” since I have changed so much.  My evolution has been live tweeted for the past 2 years.  Those who have followed me since day one can attest to the maturity differences.  I’ve grown up a lot.  I’ve sought help for an ongoing problem and shared my experiences with strangers in hopes they too can and will understand it does get better.  I was in a horrible, horrible place…but now?  I’m content.  And like I always say, I still have bad days, but I am aware of the resources accessible to me when needed.  Simply put, without the expose of “Drunk Girl”, there would be no “DGC”…and I need to remind myself that when I’m down about not finishing what I so desperately WANT to finish.

And to break it down for you…and to make this very clear.  I am not here to make money or build an “empire” or to impress the world wide web.  I am here as a blatantly normal girl trying to fulfill her dream, all while giving you hope and inspiration that it is indeed, attainable.  I am a 24 year old girl from Minneapolis, Minnesota.  I have never had anybody work with me or tell me what to do in terms of “promotion” of my own account. In fact, there’s only one true “betch”(shoutout) I would trust ever in terms of business advice.  There is nothing particularly “special” about how I operate my Twitter account or this blog.  I have “branded” myself in the weirdest, most bizarre way…being myself.  This should speak wonders to you all…BE YOURSELF.  People will like you if you are genuine with good intentions.  They will respect you if you show them respect.

I am not an affluent white girl with the stereotypical inflated ego to match, one which is sustained by Daddy’s credit card and a false sense of entitlement.  Chanel?  Cool, but whatevs.  Couldn’t care less.  I can’t afford it, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.  I’ve been brought up in a world which appreciates comfort rather than excess luxury.  You got it?  Flaunt it, by ALL means…do your thing, but keep your superiority complex to yourself.  Do you TRULY believe my life is not as remarkable as yours for the sole purpose your parents fund your entire designer wardrobe?  The notion is hysterical.  I am a modest girl; thinking about flashing diamonds or extremely expensive designer brands just to impress makes me cringe.  Literally…I just shuddered.  I would never complain about what my parents have been able and not able to provide for me nor would I EVER look down upon someone who was on a different socioeconomic scale than myself.  In fact, this can go either way.  So let me start out by saying…I don’t care if you are rich and I don’t care if you are poor and I don’t care if you’re as blandly middle class as myself…if you’re a good person with a big heart, we will get along just fine.

Not all anon accounts are the same.


This will be short, sweet, and unorganized.  I utilize this blog as a place to reflect, with no real intention of building a follower base or even generate content that makes sense.  Again, maybe I am selfish for this, but DGC was never created as a place for others.  It was always for myself, a place where I can write with limited expectations…so naturally, my blog is no real exception.  I don’t care if it’s wordy or simplistic.  This is for me.  And sure, I wish I had the talent and skills to really design myself as a brand…but I really don’t have the patience or energy to do so.  Especially when days like this are becoming more frequent.

Regret.  We throw this word around simply enough.  Shouldn’t have ate those 10 cookies in one sitting.  Shouldn’t have blown off studying for that huge final test.  Shouldn’t have spent the night with that boy who always breaks hearts.  But MY definition of regret has never been something I could just as easily brush off as a mistake to toss onto the pile.  It builds and it builds and it builds…until I am nothing more than the aftermath of an explosion, the falling debris whispering my faults and flaws of the past into my ears as I am collapsed.  Broken.  Waiting to be rebuilt again by something…ANYTHING.  Myself?  Pretty much always(and successfully so).  But until then I run through the motions but wait, all while dwelling on the past which haunts me, the past which I seemingly can never escape from unscathed.

They tell us we’re young…we have TIME to be foolish with our finances, our relationships, our responsibilities, our entire LIVES.  But is this true?  When does the light-bulb just switch on?  When does the notion of living in the moment without fear of consequence just evaporate from our youthful minds?  When will I suddenly find myself emerged into the world of responsibility with open arms, ready to welcome the adulthood I am not yet ready to face, despite I have been considered one for nearly six years?  I hate this ideology that we can piss away our 20’s without consequence.  “You’ll look back and laugh” they say.  But will I, really?

I’m not ready to grow up.  I don’t even know who I am as an adult.  I’m just figuring out who I was when I was a kid.  But I don’t think this gives me the right to be completely idiotic with my money and time.  I don’t want to be foolish with my love and “date as many boys as possible” because I don’t like broken hearts, and I sure as hell don’t enjoy breaking them either.  Or what’s this all about again?  Finding myself, right?  I shouldn’t have to force myself to find myself.  Maybe I should travel the world.  But why are you telling me I should?  Are YOU paying for it?  How does one hold down a job and also lavishly travel the world?  Can you please inform me?  You seem to know everything about where or how or what I should be doing based on a number.

I’m sick of everyone telling me what should be expected of me at a certain age.  I find these expectations to be completely unauthorized.  Your OPINION of where my life should be ranges from “justified” drinking and money spending binges to financial frugality and online dating(if not already married, of course).  I don’t understand.

Regret.  Some people are able to deal with it.  Others are not.  All I know is we should at least be able to control what we wish we could take back instead of some Thought Catalog article claiming to know what we will have “missed out on” if we don’t do it NOW.  At least let me have my regret.  At least let me control that.

In Honor of Mental Illness Awareness Week…

When I was 9 years old, I spent Saturday mornings laying in bed with my mom, watching morning cartoons while she napped through the rest of the AM, usually after a night at our local bar(sorry Mom which of course you aren’t reading this, but you know it’s true).  This particular Spring day was no different, as I watched Recess while she snored quietly on the pillow next to mine.  My dad was a golfer, and Mother Nature had blessed us with an early abundance of crisp comfortable air and sunshine, which meant I rarely saw him on weekend mornings.  I was okay with this…as it freed open my parents’ bed and also gave me an escape from my 15-year old sister and the room we shared…she wasn’t particularly fond of me during this era of her adolescence.  It was on this particular morning, as I tapped her on the shoulder as a freckle-faced, buck toothed, and glasses-wearing third grader, and asked if she would stab me with a butcher knife, as I knew I no longer wanted to live anymore.

During these pre-pre-teen years, girls began their conniving and passive aggressive ways of bullying.  I was not innocent, but I certainly had been victimized quite more often than normal in the past few weeks.  My “friends” had built up a silent treatment pact against me, for whichever reason third graders may justify it with.  If I remember correctly, I had let it slip to my very best guy friend that my very best girl friend had a crush on him…and clearly that was means for being ostracized.  Ok, regardless…it sent me into a frenzy of dread going to school, knowing I would have nobody to hang out with on the playground or lunch table.  Perhaps it was a whim of dramatization, but I will never forget my mother’s reaction to this statement, one which helped shaped the ideology of suicide and mental illness, even as young as I was.

“If you EVER say that again, YOU ARE GOING TO A COUNSELOR!” She screamed at me.  And when I say screamed, in no way, I am not exaggerating.  I won’t forget it…this memory is as vivid as ever in my mind.  Her words shook me to the core, as I immediately knew I had said something very very wrong.  The negative connotation of “counselor” really wasn’t a foreign concept to me- kids in my classes saw the guidance counselor all the time, but THOSE kids were different.  Divorced parents with mismatched clothes and learning disabilities.  Parents who died tragically with behavioral issues.  Not kids like ME.  I went into my room and cried silently until my dad got home from the course.  Both of my parents came into my room and over silent tears, I confessed to my father what I said, as my mother stood in the doorway of my room, furious.  The memory gets a little blurry here, as I do not remember his reaction, but I do know one thing; it was never further investigated, and I was written off as an over dramatic, overly sensitive little girl who needed to understand that “kids will be kids.”  Their reaction was ANGER rather than concern that I had immediately contemplated I would be better off dead than dealing with a troubling situation, perhaps a tad over-dramatic but nonetheless quite abnormal for a girl my age.  I was pinpointed as being selfish, attention-seeking(although this was not in my nature, as I’ve always been a quiet kid), making their lives difficult when they had given me everything.  Yes, I felt these emotions even back then.  It’s a feeling I’ve never quite been able to shake from that moment on, even if I didn’t mean what I said.  It’s the beginning of what shaped my ignorance regarding mental illness.

As time went on, I obviously rekindled, then fought with, rekindled, then fought with, and rekindled with the same group of friends over the course of my pre-teen and teenage years.  Truly irrelevant to the point of my story…but let’s clarify something; my depression is NOT situational, nor has it really ever been.  I was never bullied severely; it’s always been inner-circle passive aggressive bullshit all females for some reason like torturing each other with.  Some of these girls are my absolute best friends now, and others I seriously can’t even look at to this day.  Just wanted to clarify, as the “trigger” of my depression was not because of the way others treated me.  In fact, I don’t even really know what made my “gun” go off.  Just wanted to make that clear.

Fast forward many years later, I experienced a whirlwind of frenemy backlash from a particular friend, who sought joy in seeing me hurt, for some reason unbeknownst to me.  For Senior Superlatives, she led a secret campaign to try and get me voted “Moodiest”, despite the fact it not only failed, but was dismissed as an inappropriate award for our yearbook.  When I asked her about it, she wrote me off, as if it weren’t something to be considered offensive, and although I played it off as a joke, I secretly knew my mood swings didn’t affect anybody else as much as they affected me.  They weren’t outlandish depressive or mania states…sometimes I just need to be alone, even in a group of friends at school, and people saw this as “weird” or me being in a “mood.”  Sometimes on weekends when everybody was out, I preferred to stay at home, unless there was drinking involved.  When I tried to explain this to her, and even brought up the fact it may be linked to some sort of depressive behavior jokingly, in a true sign of desperation to write off the fact it MIGHT be true(while thinking OH GOD please let her disagree) she shrugged it off and told me “I don’t believe in depression.”  And that was that.  I felt idiotic but secretly agreed.  I had taken psychology- it definitely existed, but not for me.  Nobody would believe in depression for me…I was just going through a rut, and people could see it however they wanted to. The reassurance was short-lived but made me feel better about my declining emotional state, even in high school.

I mean honestly, I could recount tales and tales and tales of things which were not “normal” growing up or even as recently as 2 years ago and the way I lived in my life, most especially my body image and growing up with somebody who was utterly infatuated with physical appearance.  But it could honestly be a novel in itself, and I’m not sure if I would ever be ready to share that with anybody at this moment in time.

Again, fast forward YEARS later, during the VERY beginning phases of my real downfall, I confided into my father about my erratic behavior and sleeping habits.  Although he did not say much, he helped me set up an appointment to see a therapist.  I begged him not to tell my mom as I knew her reaction would not be of support, but my parents don’t keep secrets so he did anyways.  I went for a few sessions, but stopped after an encounter with my mother while returning from a rather successful appointment.  “So what did your therapist say?  Are you DEPRESSED?” complete with a smirk.

Her condescending words HAUNT my mind to this day.  In fact, I have tears in my eyes as I write this.  I wonder if they ever haunt her mind late at night, when she wonders what I’m up to.  I wonder if she ever regrets the way she spoke to me in the manner she did, which abrupted the entirety of my relationship with that psychologist.  It was truly a domino effect, as I never returned to therapy again until 3 years later, after I had been committed to a psychiatric ward for suicidal thoughts and HAD to.  I wonder if she ever feels responsible for the years that followed, the partying and compulsive spending…the only glimmer of happiness I could seek out in a whirlwind of darkness. I wonder if she truly remembers the way she treated me when I needed her the most.  Her backlash prevented me from getting help for years.  Sometimes I am bitter, and she is no stranger to this…when we are fighting, I will use words dripping in animosity to hurt her…this always makes me feel very guilty.  And although she did play a HUGE role in the way I viewed mental illness growing up, I know the ignorance was not her fault.  She saw it all as a reflection of her raising me.  She was completely unaware people could just be born this way, despite the fact it is VERY prevalent in my family history, just not really talked about.

Let me state something very clear here: my mother is NOT a bad person, but she is very controlling and terrified of what I am capable of, but not in the sense you would think.  She’s scared to lose me, to let me go out into the real world and reach my FULL potential because she thinks I will forget about her, but I have learned that I can’t tiptoe around her feelings for the rest of my life.  And in regards to my mental health, she is one of the most supportive people I know about my depression now, although VERY overprotective, despite the fact I am 24 years old.  Without her help now, I wouldn’t have survived the recovery phases, and I am forever thankful for that.  It’s been a long journey of forgiveness, and the way she treated me while I was sick but before it was diagnosed is basically THE reason why I advocate for awareness.  Ignorance is so painful.  If you don’t have the support of a parent or loved one, please seek it somewhere else.  Somebody cares.  I promise you that.  I do not want anybody to end up like me, with so many lost years to the demons of depression, completely hopeless.  The resources are there, the support is prevalent, but it may take some searching for someone you can trust in order to take action…but please, do not wait.  Time is precious.

Depression Doesn’t Discriminate

When people ask me if I’m still depressed(yes, people do have the audacity to ask THIS so bluntly, like I should just KNOW this off the top of my head), I’m usually one to smile politely and shake my head no(well, to those who are well-intended, at least). And for the most part, I am being completely honest. Even on my bad days, I am still full of hope. Hope for better tomorrows, no matter which obstacles I am faced with. Hope was the missing puzzle piece to the function I lacked in my life, the one I searched for desperately, when depression was hiding underneath the table, holding it this entire time, laughing at my declining emotional state. I was convinced nothing could ever make me happy again. And even with the knowledge I was not okay, I still continued to deny the inevitable.

In retrospect, there is NOTHING which I can compare to the plunge down the dark rabbit hole, the one which consumed my entire life for years..a gradual(yet severe) decline to the bottom. My rescue was prolonged as I denied my mental health state for years, but generally swift once I finally reached out for help. While it was one of the scariest experiences of my life, it was the most rewarding. Giving a name to my demons was empowering; it gave me a way to control them, because yes, they still return from time to time.

To be completely honest, I don’t know if depression is a disease that ever fully goes away. Like I said, my demons still lurk quietly in the background, taunting me with insults in moments of weakness. “You are worthless. You are fat. You are ugly. You are going nowhere in life. You have let everybody down.” Except no longer are the volume of their voices ear-shattering screams which consume my entire being. Now they are meek whispers, ones I can easily drown out by simply reaching out to the resources and support available to me.

People become nervous, agitated, almost annoyed when somebody like me is so open with my disease. “What does SHE have to be depressed about?” She hasn’t dealt with this or that or (insert tragedy or horrible situation here). YES, I am THANKFUL beyond reason that in my life, I haven’t had to deal with anything majorly traumatic which I could account for many of my mental health issues. But what does that change? Does that make my conditions less legitimate? Are you a doctor? Are you a scientist?  Some sort of neurology expert?  Do you know the extent of my brain chemistry? Do you even understand what you’re saying?  Thought so.

I’ve actually had the term “white girl problems” thrown in my face over my mental health issues. No, I am not “depressed” because Starbucks made my latte wrong or my hair isn’t as long as I want it to be. Nice attempt at a joke, though. And even if I were upset over something so trivial, I am educated and tactful enough to use a different way to describe my feelings than desensitizing a disease, even if I didn’t happen to suffer from this one in particular.

Why does there have to be a solidified reason? I’ve spent hours, days, months, YEARS analyzing why I was so unhappy, so unsatisfied with everything related to my life, despite the fact from the outside looking in, it was one which many would enjoy. I’ve felt so incredibly selfish over this, it took me months to even come to terms with it after my diagnosis, after my ignorance was depleted. The revelation I eventually came to is comforting(with the help of my therapists).  Depression doesn’t discriminate- it doesn’t care where you’re from, or what you look like, or who you are.  Simply put, it’s like cancer…it doesn’t care.  There are some habits or conditions which can contribute to getting cancer or a mental health illness, but a lot of the time…it just happens.  It’s biological.  It was supposed to happen…for whichever reason we may discover, or we may not.  

There is nothing I could have done to avoid it.  This notion was drilled into my head after my diagnosis…I was dealt some pretty shitty brain chemistry, thanks to genetics and well…God’s will, I guess.  Or maybe not, I don’t know…but I’m done trying to figure it out.  It is what it is.  I am who I am.  It does not define me in any way, and even if it does, I’m not ashamed.  No longer will I hide it from anybody who wonders WHY somebody like me was/is depressed.

So when people continue to ask me WHY, I will continue to counter with statements which defy the logic it’s a choice.  If that means I have to compare it to diseases which society does view as important or real or issues which need attention, then I will.  I will continue to prove wrong those who decide to belittle my condition in order to make themselves feel about their lives(actually, I have no idea WHY people decide to do this, I can only assume they’re bored but if anyone has any ideas, please feel free to share).  I will continue to educate to the best of my ability, even though I am learning about myself every day, and of course, no two people are exactly alike.  I will continue to fight to #EndTheStigma, so generations after me will be given the treatment and respect they deserve as a whole when seeking help for mental health issues, no matter where they’re from, what they look like, or who they are- no matter what.

“Things You Want To Say To An Ex” #30DayBlogChallenge

Time is a concept created by humans; a way to classify the Universe’s changes over measurable periods. We count down the minutes until 5 PM Friday and spend our Sunday nights dreading the inevitable Monday morning commute. Winter isn’t favorable(at least not in this arctic tundra), and there are some moments we truly wish could last forever.  But life moves forward, whether we want it to or not, and we continue the circular motion of lesson learning and experiences. Funny, isn’t it?  We actually think we control the essence of time, since people long before us came up with the formula for measurement. Chemistry is powerful, and even intent to do someone well has the uttermost amount of promise, but without the right timing…there’s nothing. Time may have been a concept created by humans, but the Universe still is the top notch bitch in deciding what comes into play, or what does not. It doesn’t matter if it’s Tuesday morning or Halloween or your birthday…if something isn’t meant to happen, it will not.

Speaking of concepts created by humans, you were never my boyfriend. Boyfriend is a label, one used to discreetly tell the world “HE IS MINE. WE ARE COMMITTED. WE ARE TOGETHER. I AM WORTHY OF THE TITLE OF HIS GIRLFRIEND.” Not like I have to state this, because you’re fully aware of this blatant fact…but let’s just lay it out on the line since it’s a topic which seems to be brought up every 3 months or so. You weren’t my boyfriend the first time around…or the second…or the third. And the fact there’s actually a “third” I have to hold myself accountable for makes me so angry, I resent myself for writing this blog post right now since my day was actually pretty wonderful. I mean, it’s really nobody’s fault we’ve never been able to pull it together. Let’s just blame it on the Universe and call it a day, since we could both play the blame game for hours on hours on hours. Let’s divulge, shall we?

When I met you for the first time, I was smitten…but I also had no fucking idea what I was doing. Freshly 21, out of a toxic on again/off again relationship, and an elevated obsession with getting drunk at any cost, there wasn’t a less perfect time for you to stumble upon my path. But you did. And of course, it fizzled out nearly as quickly as it had begun. I take full responsibility for the demise, however, you have this tendency to run away from anything when it gets hard. You go through life avoiding people, when things may prove to be even a little bit difficult…of course, this is something I learned about you much later in life. Round two and certainly round three. I was infatuated with the person you were before I even really knew you, which is hysterical to me, that I put you on some pedestal when in reality, you didn’t really turn out to be half the man I envisioned you to be. I hated myself in the morning after I looked down at my phone and realized I’d embarrassingly texted you novel upon novel. Sometimes you’d reply, other times you would not…but either way, in the back of my mind, I knew this wasn’t the last I would see of you. And yet, you moved on and so did I…

Fast forward several years and random casual hook-ups later complete with broken promises of a call the next day, I was surprised to see you had any desire to hang out with me again when I saw your name on my phone.   Sober.   But I knew I had to prove something to you, or even more so myself; I was much different than the drunken hot mess you had only known for the past few years.  This was months after my treatments and therapy to escape my demons, ones I later shared with you at 3 AM as you assured me I was the most genuine person you knew…that I was enough.  And I was…and we were happy, although both agreeing to stay label-less for reasons we both know to be sensible excuses…at least, at the time.  Of course, it didn’t stay picture perfect for long…as so many gray situations do.  I’ll never forget the way it felt when you betrayed me, in front of my face.  But what mutilated my heart and self esteem the most was the night before.  The night before you had held me in your arms and kissed my forehead softly as I drifted off to sleep, a gesture I took as security…one which signified “with you and with you alone, I am content in this moment.”  But within 24 hours, you had changed your mind.  I was humiliated, left alone in silence…other than the drunken obnoxious giggles of the girl.  The girl.  The girl who was not me.

Did you cheat on me?  Nope.  Because we weren’t “together”, right?  But physically, we were together because I was fucking there.  I was so aware of what was going on.  I have never in my entire life been disrespected like that.  I have never felt so much pain in one single burst of emotion.  Completely blindsided and completely heartbroken.  I cried the entire way home, the kind of sobs where your entire body heaves over and over and over again.  Enough?  I wasn’t enough for you.  According to you, I wasn’t even worth a real apology.  It was done.  It was over.  You ruined it.  I will never trust you because of this.  I still think about what happened and it takes everything in me not to blow up your phone, spewing words of pure hatred.  It wasn’t the same after this incident.  All we did was fight.  I told you to never talk to me again, to leave me alone forever.

And of course you didn’t.  Not after the first or second or third attempt to reach out to me.  Even called it a “date.”  And so you moved on…and so did I.  But you came back.  Because you always do…and of course, I eventually relented.  I didn’t plan to that night, but I did.  It was the alcohol.  It truly was the booze.  And for a split second, I was willing to forgive you because God damn it, it felt right.  It’s like…we make sense.  We do.  But you can never pull your shit together when I want you to, and I can never figure out what I want from you.  Because to be honest, I don’t know what I want from you.  You are immature and a pain in the ass, and you have this obnoxious way of needing my attention 24/7…but when I give it to you, you’re uninterested.  This isn’t college, anymore.  I’m done with the games and the chase.  Figure it the fuck out.  Because I can’t do this to myself anymore.  I told you we had to be done.  I let you go because it’s emotionally draining on me, to constantly have my mind drift back to the past and how much you’ve hurt me, to CONSTANTLY question your intentions and whether you would be faithful.

You weren’t my boyfriend.  Timing has made sure of that.  You have made sure of that.