The Gray Areas of Sexuality

For years I never understood where I stood on the lovely roller coaster ride that is human sexuality.  At least, I never FULLY understood.

When I was 15, I started to identify as a lesbian… yet something prevented me from going full-steam ahead with it.  Instead, I decided to come out as bisexual.  I thought it would be easier that way (WRONG, but I digress…).

I remember a phone call I had with my friend Lauren (who is my longest-ever friend in history right now lol) and I wanted to tell her.  I wanted to finally get the thought out of my mind… to say SOMEthing to someone, but I was terrified.  Funnily, I learned quite quickly that I shouldn’t have been.  Her question to the statement of “Lauren, I have to tell you something”  was “You’re gay?”  I kinda stared at the phone for a few seconds and went on my bisexual rant and absolutely nothing changed between us.

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18 Years of Scars

Trigger warning: self-harm


When I was twenty, my parents got divorced, my father remarried, and I gained a sister and a brother.  Those were all good things (yes, even the divorce).  The big change happened in April of that year when dad, my brother, and I went to live in the (newly updated) house that my stepmother, Jill, lived in.  It definitely felt like a home.

A couple of months after living there, I noticed I wasn’t interested in things or motivated.  I withdrew into myself and kinda was just… there.  I brought all this up to my dad and Jill and they agreed they had noticed this.  Jill sent me to her primary doctor (since mine was so far away now), and when I left the office I left with a sample dose of Prozac and a prescription for when that was done.  Now, here’s the tricky part…  I had been diagnosed as Bipolar twice before I was prescribed Prozac.  I had even been on anti-psychotics before this.  I never told this to the doctor.

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The Letter

Years ago, when I was going through a fairly deep depression, a friend wrote me a letter.  It consisted of things that I would never have to go through and how much better off I had it than others.  It told me that I should appreciate what I had.  Now, I know this letter came with the best intentions because you could tell it was written with concern.  I never even got mad at this person about it, but I found myself replying to it with an apology because, well, it made me feel worse.

And that’s the thing, right?  Telling someone who is going through depression of any sort that they have it good and they shouldn’t be so depressed just makes the depression more all-consuming.  They feel like they’re letting people down with their sadness, and it pushes them down even deeper, and that’s what happened to me.

I was careful not to mention my sadness or loneliness around this person as much as I could.  Suppressing my depression, though, was excruciating and almost impossible for me.  I mean, it was “easy” to do it around co-workers, etc., but they weren’t a friend.  I counted myself quite lucky that I didn’t live with this person and that I had people I DID live with that I could legitimately talk to about it.  I also didn’t see this person as much as I could have, so I could breathe more often than not.  But those times I couldn’t breathe were horrible.

It was an unintentional side effect of the letter.  The person who wrote it actually suffered from a form of situational depression at times, so that’s why they didn’t understand being sad when a person is in a good situation.  They didn’t understand being sad for “no reason” or how all-consuming this type of depression could be.  I forgave them for writing it because of this.  Because they didn’t understand.  The thing is, most people DON’T understand.  I, personally, don’t understand the depression that comes with MDD.  I suffer from bipolar depression and that’s completely different, even if it’s just the knowledge that it might end… that I might feel better at some point… remembering the happy times.  But that means it feels like my happiness was ripped away from me, which is crippling.

In the end, this person never knew how their letter affected me.  I didn’t feel as though I could explain how and why I felt the way I did, so I “became happy” and waited until I was away from them to fall apart.  Now, I don’t see them all that much, if ever.  But that’s pretty much true of most of my friends.  I don’t have to hide if I’m depressed or manic (which is pretty impossible to hide) or hallucinating (another hard to hide thing), or having a panic attack.  In a way it’s a relief, but I do miss seeing people.  In the end, though, the only thing I’d like anyone to take away from this is to think carefully what you say to someone with a mental health condition… it could affect them in ways you never even know.

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When Your Physical Health Messes with Your Mental Health

SO… since I’ve last been on here, I’ve gone to my primary doctor and had some blood tests done.  Technically I have diabetes and my vitamin D level was so low that she was surprised I was standing.  So after getting on some medication for both of them, I’ve noticed that the “foggy brain” I was having and trying to treat with psychotropic meds was lifting… especially with taking a ridiculous amount of Vitamin D.  So I stopped taking my one med and I’m feeling much better.  It had been so long since I had gone to the regular doctor that I was assuming everything that was going on was mental.

This is a great danger to us with mental health disorders.  If we, like me, just assume every bad symptom we experience is because of our mental disorder we could be ignoring something very bad physically.  So from now on I’m going to be viligent not just with my mental health, but with my physical health as well.  I need to be able to rule out physical reasons before I go and treat something with new medication.

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That One Good Day

I had it yesterday… that elusive good day.  The one where I didn’t feel like I was going to collapse from exhaustion and needed to take a nap.  The one where my brain didn’t feel like it was racing around itself.  The one where I didn’t feel a cloud of dread above my head everywhere I went.  The one where I didn’t have to pretend everything was fine.

And damn it felt good.

You see, I live in a perpetual mixed state from day to day.  I’m often torn between depressed exhaustion and an almost violent race of thoughts.  I go to nap because all I want to do is get away from the world, but my mind won’t let me have a moment of peace.  This is when I resort to melatonin in the middle of the day and pain pills that are supposed to knock you out.  I’m lucky if it works.

And then there are the days when I’m in a constant rage.  Nothing will satiate it.  I will put my earphones in and flip out when people want to talk to me.  My thoughts race so violently… causing my brain to have whiplash.  I don’t want to be online.  I can’t journal.  I cant do anything but stew in my own hatred of myself and the world.

So it’s hard… waiting for those good days.

Oddly enough, today seems to be shaping up pretty well just like yesterday did.  Perhaps I’ll have the rare two day in a row glow of happiness.

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