So Leonard Nimoy passed away today. It's strange that that reminds me of this past summer when I found out Robin Williams passed awasy. While the circumstances of their passings were different, I can't help but feel personally affected by both. I know a lot of other people do as well. This is what happens when you live your life in a spotlight and create characters that other relate to. And I think that's what hurts the most. These people create worlds and characters that we all escape into because in some ways it's so much better than our actual lives. I finally started reading Loki fanfic a couple weeks ago and it kind of brought it home to me. We need the other worlds they create because otherwise we get so caught up in the everyday, mundane practicality of our own lives that before we know it, years have passed by and we wonder where that wide eyed, idealistic, full of take-on-the world confidence person has disappeared to. I know there are plenty of people out there doing exactly what they always wanted to and making a difference and I am so happy for them, but for the rest of us, we need that fantasy. That there are people out there dealing with things so much bigger than us that we know, deep down inside, aren't real but relate to the small mortal problems we exhibit in our daily lives. When Robin Williams passed away last year, I had just been on my depression medication for about 2 months and I was nearing the end of my supply. I hadn't called in my refill yet because one of my problems from my depression is constantly forgetting to do the things I know need to get done. I lose time as if I were trapped in a vortex. It's very discouraging. I found out he had passed away, committed suicide in fact, and I lost it. My poor 2-year old didn't understand why Mommy was just sitting on the couch crying. She never really does but since I couldn't really stop it for longer than a few minutes at a time, I think it worried her more. I was torn when I found out I had clinical depression. I wasn't ashamed of it, because I had seen my mother dealing with it for so many years and I knew that it wasn't something that I really had any control over. But after reading about his battle with it all his life, it made some things very clear. I found myself remembering a few people who I had told at work after I was diagnosed and they said they couldn't believe it because I was one of the happiest people there that they knew. I realized that I had my mind set up like an ocean. There's the shallows where it's perfectly safe to wade and play and splash and have a good time and everything is hunky dory there. Then you creep out a little bit further and a little bit further and before you realize it, there's an undertow that's wrapped around your ankle and pulling you further and further no matter what you do. You find yourself in a deep abyss of dark water and you're drowning but there's no relief because you can't die. It's all mental. That abyss is one of the most terrifying places to be. The monster under the bed has nothing on the monsters that lurk in the depths of your own mind. What's worse is that you feel that since they are the monsters of your own mind that you should have some control over them, but it's like the engineer who creates the first sentient A.I. Once it's been created it takes on a life of its own and it feeds on your despair, confusion, hurt, rage and apathy. Sometimes it's all you can do to manage they everyday, practical things, like dishes and laundry and showering. And there are days where even that is too much. The world is not kind to those that can't manage their inner demons. No job is going to let you take weeks off at a time until your head is able to deal with things again. You can take weeks off for pneumonia, but not depression. You better get your a%* on some drugs and get back to work. But that doens't really fix it. The medication is, imagine that you are fighting a beast of enormous proportions, with multiple heads, arms, legs and weapons as part of its body. It's skin is armoured against almost anything and it heals so fast you're not even sure it was injured to begin with. Then someone puts you on medication and instead of being a simple human with no weapons, armour or shield, you have a dagger. One dagger against this monster, but it's more than you had before. It gives you hope. And that hope is able to carry you forward. Sometimes the monster is able to wear your dagger down and you need something new or stronger to replace it. Sometimes you find youself with an unknown skill to wield the dagger so ferociously that the monster is kept at bay. But it never really dies or goes away. Maybe you can force it to retreat to lick its wounds but it always resurfaces. And you are always walking a knife's edge of the monster winning. The least little thing can upset whatever fragile internal balance you have managed to concoct from spiderwebs and dreams. And that's just what comes at you from the outside. Too much stress is a common factor and if that leads to loss of sleep, than you have that working against you too. It is a NEVERENDING BATTLE to stay sane. To not lose myself to complete and total apathy and uncaring. Or maybe its caring too much. Sometimes it's really hard to tell the difference. I push things into the deep end of my ocean so I don't have to focus on them. Focusing on them simply pulls me into the abyss where that eternal monster waits for me with it's maw of unending internal poison and recriminations. Maybe it's just ostrich syndrome. If I don't think about it then it isen't real. But it always is. IT's always there, creeping along the edges of my consciouness, waiting for me to crack. Because I do. Because there is nothing that seems to permanently seal the cracks that already existed. And I loath myself because of it. Then my daughter looks at me with her dancing eyes and a beam of sunlight manages to pierce the darkness and I know that I can fight for a little bit longer. For her.

I don't know if anyone will ever read this except for myself. But that's OK, because I'm writing mostly for myself. If others read it and are able to take something away from it, I'll be pleased as punch. (Can punch be pleased? And if so, how do you know if it is?) I'm not very tech savvy, so this blog will most likely not look as pleasing as some but maybe, if I can get out of this what I'm hoping to get out of it, I can eventually dedicate some of my focus on learning to improve it. I am a 35 year old woman who has been diagnosed with depression. Now this is not an unusual occurrence in this day and age. It seems as if everyone has some type of depression, anxiety, bi-polar disorder, etc. That being said, it's still a little bit different for everyone. I remember when I was about in 4th, maybe 5th grade, my mother started going to see someone for depression. I didn't understand what was going on at that point. I knew she went to go see someone who was a therapist (now that I really understood what that meant back then) that we also went to church with. A Sister Thibaut (I honestly do not think that's the proper spelling, but I so very much don't remember how to spell her name). My father was an active duty member of the U.S. Navy at the time and since we were stationed in Virginia Beach (my father was technically stationed in Norfolk but we lived in Virginia Beach), he was stationed on a ship. I don't remember the type of ship but I believe it was called the USS Shenandoah. I'm the oldest of five girls and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. I remember Sister Thibaut (for those who don't understand why I call her Sister, I was raised as a Latter-Day Saint and that is the appropriate title that you call someone by in the church. Since I really knew her more through church than anything else, I think of her that way.) would occasionally take me and the next two oldest of my sisters out once in awhile. I always just thought she was being nice. I think I realize now that while it was that in part, she was also doing it as a way of helping my mother out. It's funny what you don't think of until you're own life starts to lead you down a similar path. I have depression. Most of the time I can simply shrug and go about my life even knowing I have it, but sometimes, and these are the times that make the bigger impression, sometimes I can't. Sometimes it becomes this all consuming thing in my life that creeps into to every thought and every action or inaction, and takes it's pound of flesh. Or, I suppose, in this case, sanity. I'm not really insane, I don't think. Not in a criminal way, or something that you would see on television or read about online kind of way. I think we all have to be a little bit insane to survive in this world but untreated mental illness can literally make you feel like you are losing your mind. Even treated mental illness can sometimes still have that affect. You know why? Because there is some part of your mind that has stopped working properly. Or perhaps never worked properly at all. Just like if you have diabetes and your body doesn't produce enough insulin. Or if you have allergies and you body's immune system tends to attack things that it shouldn't because it doesn't recognize them as benign. There's a lot of bad press about mental illness and it's because it's scary. It's not the same thing as having a broken bone, which happens because of an accident and you can watch the doctor make right, you go through a period of recovery and then it's over, it's fixed. Nothing more to think about. It's not quite that simple and yet at the same time it is. It's complicatedly simple. Because everyone is different. No two people are exactly the same and as a result, no one treatment or combination of treatments will work across the board, like they do with most other things. We all have different things that make us tick, that make us who we are, and those are all interwoven with the same parts that have slowly stopped working properly. (Disclaimer, I am not a doctor nor am I a medical student. This is based off of my own observation and understanding of how it was explained to me). My personality is very different from my mother's, although anyone seeing use together would see the similarities too. My circumstances are different. I do, however, share my mother's genetic base. And now I encounter one of the problems I'm still dealing with, even after nearly a year on medication - I can't stay focused on this. I feel like I have written everything that is in me to write about this at the moment. So I will close this post and come back for another one. When I need to.