Another Entry About Depression

I have a severe depressive disorder.
There's been a lot in the media about acceptance of Depression lately, and that's cool. However, it does not make one unashamed of this condition. It doesn't matter how many times I see things on Facebook about acceptance of this condition; it still makes me feel like a giant piece of garbage that is unworthy to be alive and I know there are people who judge me for this, which of course makes me feel worse about it. So I know people are judging me more severely for feeling bad about having this condition, which makes me feel worse, which makes people judge me more, which makes me feel worse, which makes people judge me more, and the short version of this is that "This is the song that doesn't end." Annoying and repetitive.
Everybody with a depressive disorder has a different experience with it. I have no intention of trying to speak for all people suffering with depression. But I do want to tell you about my experience.
I am deeply, deeply ashamed of my condition. This is not a condition that enhances logic, so it doesn't matter how much I shouldn't be ashamed of it. It does not help when people tell me I shouldn't be ashamed. This, on the other hand, compounds the shame, which compounds the self-hatred - "you shouldn't feel the way you feel," or "Your feelings are wrong," shockingly, are not helpful things to be told. Because of the shame felt, when I'm experiencing a depressive episode, I'll try like Hell to make damn fucking sure nobody knows. My experience knowing others with Depression has taught me that this is not uncommon. It is not a coincidence that many entertainers suffer this condition. It forces you to learn how to be a damn good actor. When actor and comedian Robin Williams died, so many people were shocked, because "How could somebody so funny and so talented possibly be depressed?" My reaction was not one of surprise that he suffered this condition, but instead that he survived it as long as he did.
When I'm in a depressive episode, I get funny. Really, really funny. At least that's my intention. However, I have an uncomfortable sense of humor. I have really, really, REALLY dry humor. I excel at deadpan delivery. Deadpan delivery of dry humor, however, often comes across as mean, especially when the humor is a little dark.
Meanness is not my intention. Hiding is. I try to be funny so people don't know I'm hurting. I am not trying to hurt feelings. I am not trying to be mean. I am throwing every defense I have up so you won't know I'm broken. I'm trying to trick myself into not physically hurting myself.
So the point of this entry is: If I've said anything that has hurt you in the past thirty years, particularly in the past three weeks, I am sorry. If I talk to you in this state, it is because I care about you, and I do not mean to be hurtful. I could not more seriously mean it when I say "You've done nothing wrong; it has nothing to do with you. It is me." It is me trying to be funny, because humor is my safe space.
I had initially thought about justifying my current depressive episode in this entry; telling all of the details of what has sent me into it. On much reflection, I don't think I should have to do that. It's not something I have control over. I haven't chosen to fall into a depressive episode any more than a cancer patient chooses to have a relapse. It is honestly rather upsetting when I do finally confide to somebody that I'm having a depressive episode and their response is "why?" It's not like I decided it would a good way to pass the time. Sometimes there is a definite cause, other times there's not. Honestly, I don't think it matters. Whether I've just been diagnosed with another painful, chronic condition or I'm just hurting for reasons I can't identify doesn't effect how severe the episode is. And it's not fair for the response to "I'm depressed" to be "Why?" Whether there's a pinpointable reason or not, I don't need to be badgered about it. I don't need to be told I'm wrong. I don't need to be told I'm unreasonable and need to get over it. I need some support.

Fat Prayer

I read something hilarious the other day. And I'm a huge jerk, because I cannot recall what I was reading or who wrote it. So, my deepest apologies to the brilliant person who I am about to paraphrase, and if any of my readers know the source, PLEASE share that information with me so that I can give credit where it is very due.

This thing I read discussed how using the term "douchebag" to describe an obnoxious man makes no sense. The author then suggested this would be very similar to calling an obnoxious woman a penis trough. I laughed for a solid five minutes and resolved to use this term when it became appropriate.

Well, folks, I met a penis trough the other day.

I was at work in the store, when I spotted a lost-looking customer. I asked if she was finding everything all right. She said yes, that we had the item she was looking for, which was great because she'd been having a hard time finding it. So far, so good. Then, she told me she had lost weight. And handed me this:

Being polite, I congratulated her on her success. She then said "I teach a weight loss class, you know."

Well, I knew right away where this was going. "Excellent. I have to get back to work."

"You should stop by sometime."

"Yeah, thanks, have a nice day."

"I'd like to give you a prayer."

"No, thank you."

Penis Trough then set her papers down on the cart I was working off and happily walked away.

Now, I'm sure this woman thought she was doing a lovely thing. Oh, here's a person I can help by sharing the word! However, the reality of the situation is that this was an horrendously rude and utterly offensive thing to do. Let's break down the levels of offensiveness.

Proselytizing. Look, folks, it's not cool. Now, I don't mean it's not okay to share your viewpoint with people you know or even strangers you find yourself in a conversation with at a party.  It's not even bad to offer to share your religion with somebody you care for. However, you can do this without proselytizing. It's great if you have religious beliefs, and it's great if you feel comfortable openly discussing these beliefs. It is not okay, however, to charge up to strangers and say "My religion is right and, even though I don't know what yours is, it's wrong." How pissed off would Penis Trough be if I had done the opposite to her? If I walked up to her at her place of work and said "Hi. I don't know what your religious affiliation is, but let me tell you why the Judeo-Christian mythology is hokey nonsense!" it would be fair for her to punch me in the face. It would be so excruciatingly rude of me to do such a thing. That holds true for a Christian person trying to change the beliefs of a Jewish person, a Hindu, an atheist, or a member of any religion (or rejection thereof).

Let's move on the presumptuousness that I'm interested in your help losing weight. Maybe, just maybe, I'm happy with my looks. Maybe I have great hair and incredible breasts. Or maybe I'm not so shallow that the way I look is the only thing I care about. Maybe I'm concerned about being good at my job; something that you're actively interfering with when you interrupt me at work to call me fat and try to introduce me to this new and interesting concept of God. 

But let's play that a different way. Let's assume that I am unhappily fat and that I do believe in God. Maybe I belong to the same religion as you. Maybe I even go to your church. Maybe I just sneak in and sit at the back because I'm so ashamed of my appearance that I don't want to be an affront to God by dragging my fatness into His house. "Well, that's stupid." No. It's what you've just suggested to me. You've just suggested that God doesn't love me and I'm fat as punishment. That my not-traditionally perfect body is a punishment for not believing what you believe. That would make your God pretty petty, wouldn't it? I'm Baptist, but God wants me to be Methodist, so I'm fat. PETTY. Furthermore, how do you know I'm not praying? How do you know I don't go home and cry every night until I can get up the nerve to go to church and pray to God that my body is different? Oh, that's right. You don't, because you don't fucking know me.

Have you ever shot a fish in a barrel? Seen a helpless little creature that you know can't fight back against you or escape, and giggled in delight while firing bullets at it? Oh, does that sound incredibly cruel? Well, cornering somebody while they're at work in their customer service job and saying extremely offensive things to them is remarkably similar. If a missionary comes to my door at my home to talk to me about why their religion is best (even though they don't know what mine is), and tells me that until I look different, I'm undeserving of God's love, I can slam the door in their faces. I can sic my dog on them. I can just tell them to go fuck themselves. I can snark at them; I can fuck with them. I can tell them off for their presumptuousness. At work, though? I can't do anything. I can stand there and listen to this offensive bullshit, or I can get fired for punching you. Yep. That's the love and respect God wants you to show your fellow man. Forcing them to choose between being insulted or losing their livelihood. Well done. You win at compassion.

Now, I have to touch on the text on the images. "Watching Life at 334 Pounds." Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know being overweight meant I wasn't alive. Shockingly, despite your assumption I'm the fattest of sea cows and desperately need your help, I do not weight that much. However, I do not believe that gaining that extra weight would make me a non-entity. Pretty sure I would still have friends. I'd still enjoy having my pets. And I would still have *gasp* sex. Would still be in love with my partner. Still be a good a daughter. I'd still read and carry on conversations with people about what I read. My weight doesn't stop me from doing a damn thing except wearing a particular clothing size. But I appreciate your candor and further insults that not only does my fatness mean that God doesn't love me; I'm also less of a person. 

And here's the really amusing part of it, Penis Trough. Your face was really cute when you were heavier. But I'm glad you're happy you traded that cute face for a bad tan. I'll come visit you when you're receiving treatments for your impending melanoma, and I'll be sure to remind you that you just need to accept somebody else's religious beliefs.

I Wanted a Puppy...

A few years ago, my grandfather become very, very ill. (This would be the husband of my grandmother, of robbing Royalty Ranch fame.) Concerned that he might not make it through, my then-boyfriend (Nerfherder, as many of my readers know him) and I hopped in the car and made the four hour drive to visit him in the hospital.

Now, my grandpa has always been...goofy. In an hilarious, lovable way, of course. He has always been known for saying the most ridiculous crap you could ever hear. My mother and grandmother are both very squeamish about anything being on or near their neck, which includes whispering in their ears. My grandpa has always loved sneaking up behind them and doing his frog impersonation in their ears. He used to make up bizarre songs about such things as feeding gingerbread to pet monkeys. The basic summary here is, Grandpa's weird. To the point where, now that he's getting older, people sometimes mistake his humour as confusion or dementia.

When Nerfherder and I arrived at the hospital, my mom and grandma were sitting by my grandpa's bed. Nerfhereder and I pulled up some chairs and joined them. I don't recall exactly how this came up, but we somehow got to talking about when my mother was born. Grandpa suddenly got a very upset look on his face and glared at my grandmother. "She lied to me!" he said accusingly.

Nerfherder and the nurse, who had just entered the room, looked nervous. Here we had been, having a happy conversation about this couple's second child being born, and now this elderly man is accusing his loving wife of being a liar. But my grandmother has always known better than to take what he says at face value.

"What sort of nonsense are making up now, Barry?" Grandma asked.

"I'm not making anything up!" he replied, his face beaming with disingenuous animosity. "You lied, Dot! You told me we were going to the hospital to get a puppy!"

Nerfherder and the nurse looked terrified, while my mother and I were cracking up. The two non-family members thought my grandfather had just insulted my mother horribly, and he was just getting started:

"I didn't want some stinky baby. I never would have come with her if I'd known she was going to have a baby! I wanted that puppy!I tried to sneak away and take that baby to the pound to work out a trade, but Dot never let me alone with her long enough!"

At this point, it was obvious the nurse was thinking about interjecting but wasn't sure how to go about it. Nerfherder had begun to be amused, but still thought my grandfather was being serious, so he didn't dare laugh. After all, this man was pushing ninety and had been showing signs of confusion, and surely nobody would say they wanted a puppy instead of their own child! Meanwhile, my mother, grandmother, and I were wiping tears of laughter from our faces. That's when my grandfather turned, looked Nerfherder straight in the eyes and said, completely deadpan, "I really wish I'd gotten that puppy."

Nerfherder looked like he had been sucking on a lemon. He had his lips sucked into his mouth and was shaking slightly in his attempts to stifle laughter. My mother managed to stop laughing long enough to say "Nerf, you can laugh. He knows exactly what he's saying!"

Nerfherder and the nurse then joined in the laughter. A few minutes later, my grandpa was getting sleepy and motioned for my mother to come close. She leaned down towards the bed, putting her ear near my tired grandpa's mouth, and we could hear from the other side of the room, "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrribbit."

If your take-away from this story is anything other than "Roz's grandparents are fantastic," you should read it a few more times. They're the best.

Sitting Here, Thinking About Food

I really like Melissa McCarthy. Not only is she talented and funny, she's freaking adorable! As a feminist, I'm happy to see genuinely funny women being successful in comedy. As a person who thinks talent trumps physicality, I love to see larger people succeeding in a business that used to be boring and irritating because it was full of traditionally "attractive" people who couldn't act their way out of a paper bag. I realize, and am thrilled, that Melissa McCarthy is not the only larger lady who is gaining success. I can't figure out where in the Hell Adele was hiding for so long, but man am I glad she made an appearance. Rebel Wilson? Hilarious. Tess Munster? Oh, how I love Tess Munster. That girl is gorgeous and she rocks her body. If you folks aren't familiar with her, look her up. She is somebody you should all definitely be aware of. Have you seen Roseanne lately? I know she was known for portraying a semi-"white trash" character, but when I see her now, all I can think is "Damn, is that one classy looking lady!" I have always found her to be hilarious - if you haven't read her autobiography, go get it! Catherine Tate has always given me some serious hair envy while making me roll on the floor laughing. And sometimes bawl like a baby, depending on the work. And she may be the ultimate proof that physicality and talent have no relation on each other. She's slimmed down, but is exactly as talented and funny as before. No more, no less. I have *the biggest* celebrity crush on James Corden, because, seriously, go try to find a cuter man than James Corden. But I'm not talking about men right now.

Sorry, had to take a "look at photos of James Corden" break. *Dreamy Sigh*

So, if I'm not blathering about James Corden, what is the point of this? The point is, as much as I love that Melissa McCarthy is having success in all of her adorable funniness, she kind of pisses me off with the work she accepts. I just saw a commercial for the new movie she's in, and oh, look, there's the fat girl, talking about food, and how she's going to eat all of the food. Because, y'know, that's all us fat girls do. If we're not sitting at home alone, eating food, we're sure talking about food! I love her on Mike and Molly, where she plays an actual person with a job, a boyfriend/fiance/husband, friends, dreams, aspirations, etc., etc. And I acknowledge that TV allows for more depth of character than movies do - that's one of the reasons I prefer TV to movies. But here's the thing about fat girls: we're people. We have jobs, partners, friends, dreams, aspirations, intelligence, and conversations about all of the above. Aside from ordering at a restaurant or grocery shopping with the boyfriend, I can list on one hand the number of conversations I've had about food in the past year. And if we don't include politely listening as a friend details the menu she has planned for her wedding, what type of cake is best to serve at a birthday party, and "I'm at work in the grocery department and we're out of eggs!" I can probably count these incidents on one finger.

I'm going to do quick little experiment and grab my phone to see my most recent text conversations.

• Boyfriend and I discussing how our cats are going to get along when we're all living together in a month (Follow that saga here: Jerk Tips For Cats)
• Teasing work friend about a customer who obviously has a crush on her
• Mom saying she may have to go out of town
• Work friend asking me to go over to her place to hang out
• Close friend and I making plans to hang out today
• "Hey, Marty, let's write a horror movie together!"
• Social commentary on the lower-class area we were driving through
• Friday the 13th!
• Harry Potter

So, am I doing being fat wrong? None of these conversations were about "Eat all the food!" Yet, Melissa McCarthy, that beautiful, funny woman, keeps perpetuating that stereotype. And it's such a stupid stereotype! I don't know about the rest of you larger ladies, but I find it demeaning. "Oh, you're larger in stature? You must do nothing but eat! I mean, even if you take short breaks from eating, you must think about food all the time!" Yeah...I'm also a woman. That doesn't mean I spend all of my time either menstruating or thinking/talking about menstruating. (And yes, what just happened in my head is an imaginary 30 Rock bit in which Jenna Maroney, playing the Overly Confident Morbidly Obese Woman, is eating a sandwich, whilst saying "I like brownies! I can eat more brownies than you! Me want fooooood! Oh no! My period!") 

I'm a person. I have a job. I have dreams, some of them about having a better job. I go out with my friends. I like taking my dog for long walks. I am deeply in love with a man with whom I get physical. When I'm not recovering from ankle surgery, I really enjoy going to the gym. Do I eat? Sure. Is that the main focus of my life? No. And I find it really offensive when people assume it is. So Melissa, you beautiful, funny lady, please stop a stereotype fat moron who only talks about food and farts. You're better than that.

Now, I'm going to go find my favorite James Corden interview on The Graham Norton Show.

The Haunting of my Apartment Complex

A few years ago, I suddenly found myself unemployed. This sent me into a pretty severe depressive episode. While I was unemployed, my days consisted of a pretty regular pattern: Print copies of my resume, walk the dog, go to an interview or two, walk the dog, apply for jobs online, fall asleep on the couch, walk the dog, wake up, walk the dog, watch a floppity jillion horror movies, walk the dog. In case you, dear readers, couldn't determine this from my blog being called "The Garbled Babbling of an Insomniac," I don't sleep well. I particularly don't sleep well at night. It's typically quite rare for me to sleep during the psychic hours. My brief period of unemployment was no exception to this. Because of this, I frequently take my dog for his long walk around three or four in the morning. During this time, a series of crazy, creepy events occurred.

One night during unemployment, I decided it would be brilliant to power watch all of the "Paranormal Activity" movies that were available at the time, which was only three. I finished up PA3 around 3 a.m., which meant it was time to walk the dog. I called my bestie, Jocelyn (my late night phone calls are the only time I'm glad she lives in a later time zone than myself), so I had somebody to talk to while I was walking the dog. We walked around for about twenty minutes before Lenny (the dog) stopped to sniff some things and be a dog. While he was dogging it up, I was yapping away on my phone. Suddenly, I glance up, and see this bizarre, blue-ish face in the window of the closest building, about only five feet from the sidewalk, staring intently at me. It's eyes met mine, and I was overcome with a sense of horror. Then a horrible, blue-ish hand reached up and towards the window. I was certain I was going to die. Then that horrible, ghastly hand slammed the window shut. My logic kicked in. I had been standing outside somebody's open bedroom window at 3 in the morning, talking on my phone, and had woken up my neighbor. The look hadn't been one of malice, it had been one of...well, maybe malice, but justifiable malice, as I had woken this person up and stupid o'clock. My neighbor had an eerie, blue appearance because she had turned on her television.

A few days later, I took Lenny out for another 3 a.m. walk. This time, I was on the phone with my mother, who also prefers to be awake at night. Explaining the architecture of my apartment building is a little tricky. There are two doors. The back door opens into a sort of common area like you might find around college dorms. When I take Lenny for short walks, we go out the back door, go around this courtyard, then walk around the attached buildings, making a wide circle in order to enter through my building's front door. The front door is in sort of alcove. The door itself is set back about twelve feet, with the apartments jutting out that distance. On this particular night, Lenny was getting a short walk. As we rounded the corner of the building and started towards the front door, I saw a flutter of something white and transparent flitting from the alcove. Then something misty appeared, floating a little higher than that white transparency. Panic. Complete and utter panic. I felt as though my heart were in my throat. But Lenny was okay with this. He wasn't bothered. In fact, he kept pulling me forward. He was ANXIOUS to reach this apparition. So I proceeded forward. The mist continued to float as we got closer and closer to the alcove. The white transparency sporadically fluttered, making itself visible. Finally, as Lenny was dragging me to that alcove, I saw the source of the mysterious substances. My neighbor, who I'll call Carla, was standing outside, leaning against the wall of the alcove. She was wearing her light-weight, white nightgown, smoking a cigarette. I had a really hard time explaining to her why I couldn't stop laughing.

A lot of weird little things like this happened outside of my building, always easy to explain, and always really funny in retrospect. However, after two years, I still haven't been able to explain why the lightbulb in my closet literally exploded as soon as I hung up the phone from talking to my friend Marty about Ronald DeFeo, Jr., the young man who killed his family in the home George and Kathy Lutz would later purchase, and would soon become the subject of The Amityville Horror, or what caused the loud knocking sounds on the walls of my apartment - the common wall to Shawn's apartment, the wall against the common hallway, and both external walls...

Easter Bunny Says Go Do the Laundry!

Happy Easter, to those of you who celebrate. I don't, so I find it quite strange that I'm about to post a second Easter-related entry.

My mother is a really fun, intelligent, creative person. She loved having children, because she got to do these neat, fun, creative things. My sister, Liza, is four years older than me. One year when we very young, probably 2 and 6, my sister asked for a new radio for Easter. My mom organized a scavenger hunt. She wrote clues on index cards and hid the index cards around the house and yard.

Mom handed Liza the first card, which instructed her to go out to the see-saw. The card at the see-saw instructed her to check under her pillow. The card under her pillow sent her to the backyard again to check the tire swing. Then back inside to the bread box. Then back outside to the playhouse. Then back inside. Back outside. Inside. Outside. Liza ran back and forth for over an hour, until she got a clue that instructed her to go to the basement. The final card read "You've reached the end of the scavenger hunt. The Easter Bunny left you this present." And there was a chocolate-covered raisin, sitting on top of the card.

Liza burst into tears and started bawling, "The Easter Bunny left me a turd!"

My mom, trying to not give it away, said "Turn the card over."

"NOOOOO! The Easter Bunny hates me! He made me run back and forth for over an hour, and all he left me was a bunny turd!"

"Honey, it's okay. Just turn the card over."

It took some convincing, but my mom finally got my sister to turn the card over. On the back was written "Now go do the laundry."

"WHY DOES THE EASTER BUNNY HATE ME SO MUCH?! I ALREADY RAN BACK AND FORTH AND ALL HE LEFT ME WAS A TURD! NOW I HAVE TO DO CHORES FOR HIM?!"

My mom hugged my sister, trying to calm her down, then said "Honey, do what the Easter Bunny says."

"NO!"

So my mom took my sister's hand and led her to the laundry room. Liza, still bawling, needed a lot of convincing to lift the lid of the washing machine, but her tune quickly changed.

"MY RADIO!"

Yep. My mom had hidden her radio in the empty washing machine. However, she did not play that particular game with us on any other Easter. And I know what Mom's getting for Christmas this year!

DFTBA!

Oh, Hank and John Green. They bring much education and joy into my home. And while I'm a huge fan of John, I definitely favor Hank.

Last night, I had a dream that Hank and John Green were my brothers. One dream night, we went out for dream dinner with my real-life sister (who I'll call Liza) and her real-life husband (who I'll call Clark), as well as a few other people. At dream dinner, Liza picked some sort of fight with me. I don't remember about what, but I remember it was really hurtful and awful. Then she threw something at me, which led to me screaming angrily. This led to all of the other women at the table telling me I was a horrible, insane bitch. So I got up and left. 

Sitting in my dream car, I got a dream text from dream brother Hank, telling me dream our sister had left and that he wanted me to come back. So I returned to dream restaurant, where Hank was waiting for me by the door. Just inside the door, dream Hank gave me the warmest, most loving hug I've ever dream experienced, and walked me back to the table. Sitting with my dream brothers, much happiness and fun was had.

In reality, I woke up warm and cozy in the loving arms of Le Boyfriend, who was wide awake and had likely been watching some Vlog Brothers while I was sleeping. I could make some speculation about how, even though Le Boyfriend is incredible and I love him dearly, I feel rather lonely and abandoned. I moved 45 minutes away two years ago, and most of my "closest friends" have never bothered to come down and visit. I had ankle surgery about two weeks ago and expressed repeatedly beforehand that I was going to be lonely and wanting company, yet very few people from "home" have come to see me, and literally none of the friends I've made much closer to my new home have come over. My sister hasn't so much as called me. So it would be easy to speculate that this dream was forged in loneliness, because no matter how awesome my boyfriend and his family and friends are, no matter how much I love them, I want the people I care about to care about me too. The dream fight? Anger that those people give no indication that they do care. The being dream-shunned? The guilt of not feeling Le Boyfriend is enough. Hank Green being my dream brother? He amuses me and I think we would have fun conversations. John Green being my other dream brother? Same reason. 

However, I think the simple explanation is I watch too many Hank Green videos, was thrashing in my sleep a bit, and the boyfriend hugged and comforted me in my sleep. Either way, I enjoyed waking up in his arms. Now, enjoy this link to a video of Hank Green talking about the psychology of dreams in a Crash Course video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMHus-0wFSo