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Depression, yo.

It’s been a while.

I’ve been at the lowest emotional point of my life the past several months. I can’t find the will to do anything but work, sleep, breathe. It’s been rough.

While I’m not at one hundred percent, I do feel like I can dip my toes back into the water again. I’ve been going back and forth with what pieces I want to move forward with and what has just gone cold for me. I may come back to Hell’s Gate, but for now working on this story isn’t something I can put my heart into.

I’m going to rant a little, I hope that is ok friends.

For tl;dr just scroll to bottom. *

I try not to get personal with people in most aspects of my life. Even personal life. People do not respond well to depression because it is awkward. I don’t think it’s something that others do on purpose, it’s that by nature others are non-confrontational. With social media people sort of get tired of hearing depressed people whine.

My next few paragraphs are going to piss people off but I feel like this needs to be said. These are my views and what I have witnessed.

I am so tired of reading posts from other people that go into all this personal crap online about how awful their life has been. Every other day is something else, you know the type─ the type that mentions how they wish their life growing up was like everyone else’s and how horrible their situation is and how they’ve been beaten, and grew up with an emotionally (sometimes physically abusive) father, mother, uncle, wtf ever. And they broadcast it all. the. time. Or something is always going wrong.

Speaking from deepest part of my heart, fuck right off. That’s right. I told you to fuck off. The world is tired of hearing your shit. You want to be taken seriously? Live your life. You got social media accounts you post on often? Make, I don’t know─ a fucking positive post from time to time? Stop airing your grievances on anyone and everyone that you can. Post depressing shit when you actually need help. When you really need others to pay attention because you are in a bad place.

We can only sympathize so much. At a certain point we all will start avoiding you and your pity party. And you know what you’ll do? Cry over no one listening to you and that you have no friends. No shit.

Which to get to my next point of frustration: people like you cause other people to not take depression seriously. Or worse, get annoyed by it and file depression under whiny baby.

The absolute worst part about these individuals? They aren’t what you would file into clinically depressed. They may believe themselves depressed but you know what they really are? Sociopaths. Many sociopaths will research on symptoms of depression, go to groups, fabricate lies even they start to believe. They twist everything to seem like it was way worse than it really was. They’re the type that read through symptoms and go, ‘oh my god, I was abused, holy shit I have an abusive spouse, damn, my work place is so toxic.’ No, Karen. YOU are toxic─ Not everyone else around you that existed and disagrees with you from time to time.

Go on any board or help group that involves suicide. Ask suicide helpline workers: Trauma boards, survivor groups, the list goes on. It’s not exclusive to suicide help. These people get off on attention. It’s called playing the victim and it is very real. While some of their symptoms can stem from past trauma and abuse, they use it as a crutch and excuse for everything in their life.

They don’t even realize that is what they are. So they will argue forever, making you feel bad for questioning what they are going through what they’ve been through. How could you, a normie, understand their life? It’s a shitty excuse for everything in their lives. Horrible to their current partner, spouse? They didn’t know any better, they were abused and hurt by so many people in the past so they don’t know ‘how’ to trust anyone anymore. These types especially tend to avoid any definitive answer you confront them over. They also tend to string people along emotionally and make others believe they are crazy for accusing them of doing things. (like cheating.)You start a sentence around them that involves your life? They turn it around to make themselves the center of attention.

Stay with me here, I know I am ranting but it’s not without purpose.

Am I a callous asshole toward the downtrodden? Hell no. I know what real depression looks like. I live it. Do people cope with depression in different ways? Uh. Yeah, I’m not a damn idiot that thinks people react the same fucking way. Are other people reluctant to believe that actual depression exists and don’t take others ailments seriously? Abso-fucking-lutely. Because we are creatures that connect physical injuries to take priority over non visible ones, it’s glossed over in people’s minds as something that isn’t really life threatening.

It’s based off on archaic belief system courtesy of post war attitudes from parents that saw a lot of hardships and didn’t have the luxury of focusing on what wasn’t life threatening. Depression existed, but it wasn’t recognized as something that couldn’t be fixed─ eventually, the person would snap out of it and get better. That generation truly believes that the people suffering can just pull themselves out of the shit they love to roll in and can get better.

Hey, you know what else? Getting to be out in the open about depression and your struggles and so on and so forth─ wonderful, please do that. I encourage you to. If you need help, please reach out because people in your life do care. I’m talking about you realizing that what you are doing is not working and you need help. I would love to help that person in my life.

I’m talking about emotional vampiric assholes. You, you alone can piss off. Grow up.

While I’m not saying everyone is quietly depressed, there just seems to be a strong correlation between the two. By quietly depressed, I mean people that have become experts at hiding all those thoughts, feelings, and actions. A lot of times, you would never know that they even are depressed. Because we don’t want to be seen as burdens. Even we think we are burdens. I choose not to dump things off on others because it’s not their problem how I feel.

Speaking for myself here─ I have gotten to a point that I can accept where I am at emotionally. Mommy issues over here, what what~

But that’s my point. I recognize what’s going on in my upstairs mix up. I realize that seclusion isn’t necessarily bad all the time, but can be if you do it a lot. Which I do, a lot. It is exhausting to exist, let alone have people there to complicate life.

Because of this, I have just about completely withdrawn from every form of social media and people. I have angered more than one person and even had someone unload on me because I hadn’t responded to messages and blocked many people online. I make no excuses, they are right. There is a method to that madness when you are depressed. By angering people, or becoming absent in their life it is easy for them to forget about you. It means if something happens to you, they won’t miss you. One less person in the world to upset. If you think about it from that perspective someone may get upset for a while, but they aren’t going to try forever.

I took a break from, well, everything. I just can’t bring myself to care recently. I have found little to no joy in living day-to-day and busy myself with cooking, gaming, painting, sewing, and writing quietly in the mornings. When I think about reaching out I find myself realizing that ain’t no one got time for my shit.

It’s the same about posting pictures of myself because I have to question why I would post pictures of myself. The obvious conclusion is that I would do that for attention and no other reason. I could air my own grievances (which I have on this blog) but also realize, who cares? Why? If you’re reading my blogs or stories, you’re either bored or occasionally enjoy them. Let’s be honest here, I am not a known author. Rationally, that includes the lack of fucks people give. I can’t push myself to ‘throw myself out there’ on social media and find it exceedingly annoying and stressful to do that.

I quite enjoy the idea of quietly writing my stories without the expectations of the trade. Posting on communities to receive feedback and improving my writing is one thing, but trying so hard to get noticed is just not something that sounds appealing to me. There is no money, only the joys of writing and entertaining others. 🙂 Making money be damned, fuck it─ I accept that there will be no money in what I do.

That’s enough for me.

**tl;dr

I’ve been down, started writing again and will post more things soon.

Many hugs, thanks for listening to my bitch-fest.

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Tuesday Musings – Anxiety in Men and Women and How they Differ

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Before we begin, let’s just all take a breath. A deep one.

Ok, we ready?

Anxiety sucks. For anyone that has ever experienced it knows─ it is the worst.

From panic attacks to full-blown panic disorders many people in the U.S. (and in the West in general) suffer from this. It affects their daily life, and their long-term life.

It’s so prevalent in our society that many people affected by it are shown to take more time off of work, are far less social, and are less likely to finish school. Think about how that impacts their quality of life. 

Could you imagine waking up, your heart pounding for no reason as you lay in bed? Everything feels off. I mean, really off. Like at any moment, the world would explode around you and you just want to run away. But, you can’t. You are stuck in your own skin, feeling this miserably-awful gut-wrenching fear and that you are not ok.

Your skin is clammy, your fingertips like ice.

Your chest is tight and your heart just won’t stop beating like you’ve run a marathon, both ways, uphill in the snow.

It gets better. Many people that have crippling anxiety also win the genetic lottery with depression. Oh yeah, this girl right here knows.

Party at Grey’s place, wut wut

While mine stems from my childhood and early adulthood trauma (yay PTSD) many more are affected by this in some form or fashion. Women are two to three times more likely to suffer from anxiety than men. Why is this, I’ve wondered?

Well, there is some debate to this but many people believe it is due to girls and women experiencing trauma earlier in life. That, or if it is possible that it is inherently increased in women.

Oh great, thanks ancestors.

Another fun thing our brain tends to do is process serotonin release slower than our male counterparts. 

While we all laugh it up and drown our sorrows in wine and other recreational drugs

Molly-Percocet

Let’s be real.

Women tend to ruminate and medicate to cope while dudes get physical. Curiously enough, men also have the positive side of their brain light up when they are under pressure. Damn, I wish my brain got overloaded with serotonin and cortisol.

Ladies, we can learn from this. One of the biggest challenges I faced when going through treatment was to shut that shit down. My brain tends to do this thing where it loops all the bad things on repeat.

Oh, you don’t like that? It used to taunt.

Let’s turn this shit up to you crying in the shower for thirty minutes to end your day.

Yeah. My life was hell for the better part of fifteen years emotionally. I still get bouts of it, but I’ve learned a super secret technique I’m going to share with you:

It’s called keeping yourself busy, mentally and physically.

Get real physical guuurl. Because thinking is the devil.

No, not in an unhealthy way. Clearly if you have issues that you need to go talk to a professional about do that along with this. However, several studies have shown that as Westerners, we have way too much idle time and we also suffer from more anxiety and depression than those in other countries. I think if I had to work my fingers to the bone every day, I’d probably collapse in bed in a heap of exhaustion and not have time to focus on all my mental hang-ups.

Except─ hold on, I have.

This year, I quit my full-time job to help run a company. On top of all that, I write and stream. I started noticing something I never had happen before. My anxiety was easing because I felt like I had purpose─ which gave me drive. Something I haven’t experienced in a long time. My depression and anxiety have always centered around feeling worthless and that I didn’t feel accomplished at the end of the day.

It was something I always lacked because I had the same facts drilled in my head every day of my childhood:

you aren’t good enough, you never will be, you’re useless, you’re pathetic. 

It all goes on.

So, while our hormones react differently (and different centers of our brain light up during stress and anxiety) there are a few similarities between men and women with anxiety.

The major one that a lot of people report is the feeling of impending doom (yay flight center of the brain!) shortness of breath, tight chest, and the feeling of discomfort in their own skin.

Unfortunately, having estrogen and progesterone kind of plays havoc on our brain-place. Ugh, as if women needed more added stress to their lives.

Don’t fear, ladies─ there is hope! With a healthy dose of physical activity, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), and daily mindfulness and rest, you can combat the daily demons.

Numerous studies have shown that taking as little as two minutes up to twice a day of breathing exercises and mindfulness of stressors/triggers(TRIGGERED) you can lower your stress (and blood pressure) to a healthy level.

I use the breathing app in fitbit. Some people love Calm

There are many others, but I’ve heard good things about these. I know they help keep me stay on track, just like having a regular daily routine and lots of sleep. (but damn, sleep is important.)

I think we can all take a little time to appreciate the importance of ourselves, and others and value what we have to offer each other. I tip my hat to the guys on this one, so far it’s worked for me and maybe it can work for you too.

But hey, just my thoughts on a Tuesday.

Take care everyone and feel free to discuss below. I’m more than happy to share my own battles and victories with anxiety and depression.

Love yourselves,

❤ Grey

 

 

 

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Understanding child abuse – An Open Letter To The Public – Part I

Warning. NSFL age 13+ recommended*

You just can’t understand. I don’t mean that to sound rude, but it’s true. Just like any other person that has experienced something you haven’t will tell you.

I can’t speak for other survivors of abuse.

I can’t tell you their story, how they were hurt, or how it affected their lives.

What I can do, is offer you an open invitation to my life, what I’ve gone through, and what others might be (or have been) experiencing.

 

No one likes to talk about child abuse. No one likes to admit it happens, especially when you are a child reaching out to the law.

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If they do know it is happening, many will tell you that it is better that you stay with your abusive parent than go through the system.

For a lot of cases and friends that I grew to know, this is sadly true.

 

I want you to take a moment and think about that statement.

 

 

 

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It is better to stay with an abusive parentthan to go through a system that is supposed to be designed to protect the child.

But it isn’t, is it? It’s a business. Just like any other. Except it shouldn’t be because a human life is on the line.

 

I listened to a podcast earlier in the year called Broken Harts. It was a horror story about how two mentally unstable women managed to adopt several kids. The kids were beaten, starved, and eventually─ lost their lives.

This really digs deep into many situations involving society and children. Way more than on the surface of kids getting bounced around, abandoned, and used as a business.

If you’re naive enough to believe that children aren’t used in sex trafficking that grow up in homes, my friends can tell you a very different story. It is a big money maker, and it’s enough to make you sick about humanity.

 

I won’t get too preachy, and this alone could be another topic of discussion, but we’ll move on.

 

I’m not the worst case you have heard involving abuse. I know there are worse─ far worse─ stories than my own. My stepfather was a prime example of the evils parents can do. (his own life, tragically, did not end well.)

I offer my own story to help with perspective on many others that have had similar experiences and my own thoughts about myself and others. I hope to help educate people through this experience, most importantly to help spread awareness and some compassion.

This journey is very personal to me. It’s raw, it’s very real and not appropriate for anyone under the age of 13. Be warned, things get very uncomfortable.

It’s opening up old wounds I’d long thought I had buried, or perhaps helped me realize several things about myself along the way.

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You ready?

 

Let’s go back to the beginning.

We won’t pour over every little thing, but we are going to journey through the memories that stuck out the most, and hard lessons learned at an early age.

 

Lesson 1: Stay Quiet, Stay Still.

Thankfully, many of us don’t start forming memories until we’re over the age of 3. There’s strong debate on whether we still retain things, or form habits before this age, but for argument’s sake, we’ll stick with what I remember learning.

To backpedal a bit, my own mother came from a cycle of abuse. Her mother abused her. Did it make it right that she did it to me? No. That was her normal, therefore, she continued what she knew.

Throughout the years, there was always a constant in my relationship with my mother. Tension/Anger would build, she would snap, sometimes yell, and then the beating, followed by a complete quiet and calm afterward.

This was usually because I would stay quiet and stay put. It was a mantra I would later learn to say in my head so that the pain would go away.

 

Stay quiet, stay still.  

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You learn this very young. As long as I make myself as small as possible and don’t fight back, it will be over soon.

I learned to read my mother’s triggers. Mostly it was a look when I would ask for something, or if she was in a certain mood, or angry about things in her life. I was the cure-all for her frustration.

Basically, I learned how to read body language and facial expressions very well. My survival depended on it.

My daily world was constantly changing. There was no such thing as normal, routine, etc. because my mother’s moods changed from moment to moment. Yes, she was bipolar, no she was not medicated.

Imagine life with a person who’s mood could swing one way to the next in seconds over the smallest things. Everything overwhelmed her. Now imagine that person had controlling issues and always snapped to anger. It was the first thing they jumped to and it was an uncontrollable rage.

 

Want to know the hardest part about this?

 

Also imagine a parent that would read stories to you at night, occasionally give you back scratches, and spend time and money on your room for you. She threw birthday parties, took us out, you know─ normal things too.

It can all be so confusing, not knowing which parent you would get.

Anyone that grew up with their natural parents and were abused─ wasn’t abused all the time. Don’t get me wrong, it was a daily occurrence and it was horrible, but it wasn’t everything that I remember.

Especially after my mother’s passing.

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You get so conflicted, and wonder─ was it really that bad? Maybe I’m being dramatic.

But you aren’t, and you know it because of the awful things that you wish were false memories, but were very real. You come to mourn what could have been, instead of what was. This is a later chapter we will get into, so for now we’ll put a pin in it and save it for later.

Appearances are everything to an abusive parent, and they will go out of their way to seem like things are fine.

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My mother spent hours perfecting herself before we would go anywhere. Her makeup, her clothing, her hair. We couldn’t leave until she felt she looked perfect, and that I looked perfect. Two perfect girls, with a dream life.

She constantly made strides to appear like everything we weren’t. Which was poor. I knew this was a frustration to her because when I would ask about a toy at the store she would snap and say, “we can’t afford it.”

We most certainly could always afford things for her. Interesting how that works.

 

Lesson 2: Cry Out For Help, I Dare You.

After the years passed, I reached around the age of five (kindergarten) when I realized that other children were not treated this way. I remember meeting other parents and marveling at how sweet and calm they were.

But it didn’t really sink in until I hit seven years old. I’m unsure about what the significance was at this age, or why, but my mother hit a new type of tactic at this stage. I was growing, my hair changing colors from blonde to a sandy brown. My mother, (who had been divorced from my natural father since I was a baby) hated it. She dyed my hair.

She dyed a 7-year-old’s hair because her daughter’s natural hair ‘looked filthy.’ She tweezed my eyebrows, dressed me in the frilliest dresses she could find and finally I could look how she thought I was supposed to look. Her darling dear with blonde curls, and sweet dresses.

I look a lot like my father. I suspect that there was a lot of hate held for me because of this. My mother hated my father. She would later describe that I would give her a look and it would set her off.

You see, all of my beatings were my fault because I was such a difficult child.

Her words would drone on and on about how hard I was to deal with and that she had always done her best. Denial is very strong with anyone, especially parents.

At school, teachers had noticed things about my behavior around kindergarten through first grade but nothing much was done about it. It wasn’t until around second grade that teachers really took notice of the bruises around my neck, and arms. I’m not sure if there was a change in policy, or they were more noticeable but never-the-less, CPS was informed.

There is only so much a school can do about abuse. The child has to have come into school with filthy clothes, bruises, and bags under their eyes for them to actually do anything about it. The parent has to be a repeat offender of dropping off the child late and showing up late. And that has to happen for weeks on end. It may be different now, but I’m speaking about what I experienced.

I learned that I would need to walk to school in order to make it on-time. So much of grade school, I walked in the mornings and walked home many times when my mother would forget to pick me up or was too late.

When all of it sort of came to a head, they notified my mother that a caseworker was going to be assigned to us.

She calmly drove us home. I remember that look─ the horrifying look of calm that was my mother’s face as we drove from the school to our house. It was the second house that my parents had rented. It was on a circle drive near train tracks with a small back yard surrounded by other little box homes like it.

It was at this time that my brother was nearing the age of two. He was my mother’s joy and she loved him very much. He was my stepfather’s child, which was very special to her. To clarify, I have never held a grudge against my brother for this. We actually get along and he is a great guy. It just was what it was. I was the product of a past she wanted to forget.

What I learned to fear the most from my mother was not screaming. Screaming meant a few slaps, hair pulling, maybe a few whacks with the belt.

Silence, calm─ it was terrifying. It meant something far worse.

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I remember that day, her gently laying my brother in his crib for a nap. She told me in a controlled voice to sit on the couch. She rocked and sang to him, her voice carrying through the thin walls. His room was just behind the living room t.v. so anytime he napped, we had to be quiet.

I remember hearing the love, the gentle coos, the wood from the chair creaking as she rocked in time. I secretly wished that it was me in her arms.

Then it was done, the door closed softly with a click.

I’d hoped that some of her anger had gone away. Maybe a bit of it had.

She sat next to me, wrapped her hand under my chin and tilted my eyes up to meet hers. None of this was done gently, there was clear anger there. White-hot anger beneath her blue-green eyes. She spoke one sentence,

“What did you do?”

Her voice was shaking as she held me in place and began squeezing my jaw into a death grip. She shook it once as she tugged me closer to her face.

My mind raced, I didn’t know how to respond or what I had done wrong. I just knew that my mom had been in the principle’s office. I knew I had to have done something, I just didn’t know what. I knew that my jaw was on fire and the pressure was killing me, but I dare not cry out.

She shook me, hard.

“I said,” she paused between shaking me and this time she gathered a handful of hair and pulled my head back, “what did you do?”

This was different. She didn’t want me to be quiet, it wasn’t going to suit her this time.

I don’t know why I did it, I’m still not sure if it was just instinctual or a form of defiance, but my head pulled away and I tried to run. I remember tears coming, even though I didn’t want them to.

My head went to a different place that day. It was something I think my mind began doing to help ease the distress.  I remember being pulled to the ground and my head screaming from the pain.

The world rang off-key, and it wouldn’t be until later that I realized I had been slapped in the head around my ear. She held my hair the entire time, keeping her voice low as she pulled and pulled dragging me on the floor. My face numbed as the adrenaline coursed through my body and I curled on the floor.

She finally released me after apologies flew from my mouth between crying. I didn’t know what I had done, but I knew that I should apologize. She stood up and told me that if they got into trouble over any of this, I was going to pay.

And if I ever, ever told anyone like that again I would live to regret it.

I wanted to ask what I’d done and what she meant, but I knew better. I had once asked and been hit harder for questioning her.

This is how an abuser works. They use fear to make you stay quiet. Believing that it will only get worse when you try and reach out.

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I hadn’t fully learned my lesson from this experience, or maybe I had grown tired of it when I grew older, but at any rate, this was a precursor to what was to come later.

That was the first time I’d heard her snap this way.

This was when she learned how to be sneakier with her hitting.

 

The CPS (child protective services) worker, like others, came and reviewed our family. My mom smiled, I smiled, we were the perfect family. I never opened up to my teachers again about anything that had happened. You see, my mistake was telling a teacher that my bruises were from my mom.

Lesson number two had been, never trust adults to protect you.

 

This is part I in this series. I will be posting more soon.

Remember to get hugs and love after reading these.

❤ Grey