why bother?

So I've been in a "mood." This particular mood got me an ambulance ride to the ER from my psychiatrist's office. I talked them out of admitting me, which I've regretted ever since.

I have been mistaken for a football today. I've been handed off from one person to the next without getting any actual help. I am DESPERATE for help. I'm suicidal, for Christ's sake! Why isn't anybody taking me seriously?

Sarah said she figured I was thinking she abandoned me. It didn't occur to me at first, but yeah, I'm taking her potential cancer diagnosis personally. She did it just to ruin my life, right? Why did she have to get sick right when I fucking needed her? Why couldn't Teresa tell me she was leaving directly, instead of copying me on a forwarded email to Betty? Why can't anybody hear me screaming for help? The only person who's tried to help is Dr. Exposito. He's so earnest it's almost painful. I know he means well. I know he has far more technical knowledge than I will ever possess. But I have knowledge of me, and "me" really isn't feeling well. He must have seen that or he wouldn't have sent me to the ER. I don't see him for another two weeks. I'm out of town all next week, so I don't have any help at all next week. I'm drowning.

I drop a stone into the ocean
Every choice another turn of the screw
Another wheel set in motion
With every single thing I do
It's there in the air that I breathe
It's in my whisper and scream
Inside everything I believe
And it's all gonna come around someday

As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me

There is no absolution whether I'm the garden or the rose
If I ain't part of the solution, yeah you know how that goes
You can always leave but you bring it all back home someday

As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me

Every single thing I say, everyone that I betray
Any love that I take when I do not make it in return
Every thing I do and every time I've been unfaithful too
All the things that I believe are lessons I must learn

As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me

As the smallest stream runs to a river
And every river runs to the sea
So every little bit of love I give to another
You know that I believe it comes back to me

-- Rick Springfield, "Karma"

you just never know

My mental health has been in the shitter since my teens, but I didn't get treatment until my early 30s. It took finally moving away from my parents for me to take matters into my own hands.

My first psychiatrist was Dr. G., at Marquette. He was a couple years older than me, cuter than hell, but more important, kind and caring. He took the time to listen and understand. He helped me find a suitable therapist. He kept trying with meds until we found something that worked. And he listened. My parents never listened when I told them I was depressed, and never got me help (when I was a teen). Having someone who listened was huge.

I have never forgotten Dr. G., and a while back I wrote him a letter. It's been 20 years since I first saw him, and I didn't even know if he would remember me (he did). We've been corresponding a bit (he doesn't do email). I got a note from him yesterday where he said my last letter was very meaningful to him, because sometimes he wonders if he makes a difference.

I was staggered. He's cute. He's successful. He's good with people (believe it or not, not all mental health practitioners are). But he doesn't think he makes a difference. I wrote him back and told him a few ways in which he'd made a difference to me. I hope it helps.

I struggle sometimes with wondering if anybody cares, but that's not really the same thing. I'm a fucking restaurant host, for Christ's sake. It's not going to permanently impact anybody's life -- it's not going to impact them beyond the hour or so it takes them to order their meal, eat, and leave. Doctors impact people's lives permanently, for better or worse. When I 'm down, I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared. I had a friend tell me my friends would be traumatized if I killed myself. Maybe so. When I'm in the abyss, I DGAF. I just want peace, and death strikes me as really peaceful. (And I don't believe killing myself will send me to hell.) I know people would notice if Dr. G. disappeared. I know I would be sadder than hell if he disappeared. He was so kind to me, and treated me like a human being instead of just another crazy person. I wonder why it's so hard for him to see the good he does.

Ray

Where do I start about Ray?

Ray is my boss, for a while longer. It started during the interview, about halfway through which I said something and he said, "Well, I already know you can do the job." I was taken aback, because frankly, I didn't know I could do the job! But that was the beginning.

Despite my having no hospitality and almost no retail experience, Ray hired me. I think people had bets as to whether I would last the first week. I was really bad, and really stupid, and had to be told and shown things multiple times. I made Patrick (I miss you, Patrick) tell me the table numbers at least twice a day and it still had a hard time clicking until someone was able to explain it to me in a way that made perfect, logical sense a couple months into it. I don't know how long it took me to learn to take to-go orders, and to remember to label them to go for the kitchen. I was pretty bad for a long time. Ray put up with it, and didn't give up on me.

I was on Depakote when I started, which is known to cause brain fog. Somewhere in there I met a psychiatry resident who thought I was overmedicated, claimed it was hard to have a conversation with me because I was so slowed down, and took me off it. I got un-stupid.

That same resident just put me on Topamax, which also causes brain fog. I told Ray it's a good thing he's leaving, because I'm about to get stupid again. He said, "Just remember, you're still in there."

I chewed on that all day yesterday and have decided it is the best advice you could possibly give and kindest thing you could possibly say to someone who is on a literally mind-altering drug.

Before I landed this job, I got fired in 2 days from 2 others. My confidence was at an all=time low. Ray believed in me and kept building me up. The stupidity may be coming back, but I'm ready for it, and I have confidence now because he didn't give up on me no matter how much of a mess I was. I'm going to miss the hell out of him. But I've also learned a helluva lesson about how to treat people.

Rick sisters

I was never in a sorority in college -- they didn't accept fat girls -- but as an adult, I'm in a sorority of women who love Rick Springfield. I'm going to see him in a couple weeks (7th time) and 7 times is really low among some of these women. LOL Kim and I have seen him going on 4 times together. We're saving our pennies to meet him someday with backstage passes.

I posted in one of my Rick groups on Facebook about having lost my "Rick Springfield Fan" car magnet in a car wash, and asked where I could get another one, because they weren't for sale on the merch site anymore. Someone responded to me and said she would be glad to send me hers, free of charge. That's a Rick sister for ya.

I work at a restaurant in a hotel literally across the street from one of the Mayo Clinic hospitals, and half a block from the main building. Frequently, I see people at their worst. You don't come to Mayo Clinic unless you are very seriously ill or need specialized major surgery. The stress is amazing and many people don't respond to it well. They can be incredibly rude and hostile and demanding.

But my new Rick sister, Mary Ann, reminds me that people also can be very kind. I just did the Polar Plunge, jumping in a frozen lake to raise money for Special Olympics Minnesota. I raised close to $800 among my friends and family. It's a reminder that not everybody is an asshole. I need reminding of that now and then. It gives me something to aspire to as well -- to not be an asshole even if that would be the easy thing to do.

Ben

On the eve of the Polar Plunge, during which I will jump in a frigid lake to raise money for Special Olympics, I am thinking about Ben.

Ben was a Special Olympics athlete I interviewed many years ago. I asked the coach (it was softball, I think) if I could talk to one of his players, and he pointed me to Ben.

Ben was about 6-2, lanky, and sweet as pie. I don't even remember what we talked about, but I remember him vividly. He answered a couple questions and said "You're nice!" and gave me a hug. I asked a couple more questions and went to shake his hand to thank him. He looked over at his mom, pointed at me, said "she's really nice!" and gave me a huge hug.

In about 5 minutes, Ben taught me more about life than I'd learned in all my years of living. Specifically, he taught me that it costs nothing to be kind to everyone you meet. That old saw about everyone you meet is fighting some sort of battle, so be nice, is true. I was having a hard time at that job, and eventually lost it. My EIC kept saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I said, "It's OK!" and it really was, because it was the biggest damn relief to get out of there. There would be plenty of time later to worry about the whole no money, no insurance thing. I was just glad to be done. I had like one friend there and my bosses all hated me.

I find myself now in the best possible situation with a job. My boss is hella understanding, and aside from one little shithead who I don't like either, everybody seems fond of me. At least one of them, and maybe 3 or 4, are coming to see me Plunge tomorrow. I have a multitude of friends outside of work, so many of whom donated to Special Olympics on my behalf. My psychiatrist keeps trying to put words in my mouth and paint me in situations that don't exist. I'm not alone just because I don't have parents. I have Sweetie. I have my sibs. I have, as I said, a multitude of friends who care about me. I'm about as far from alone as one can get. I would devastate them, I'm pretty sure, if I offed myself.

I'm a huge Rick Springfield fan. I'll be seeing him in concert for the 7th time at the end of this month. My dream is to meet him someday. But I don't love Rick just because he's hot, or because he puts out great music (the new one is awesome, dark lyrics aside). I love him because he's been depressed his whole life and openly talks about it. He's been on a media tour for the new one and one interviewer or another asked him what his family would think if he killed himself, as he's been struggling with those thoughts of late. (Me too.) He said it would devastate them, BUT he wasn't thinking about that when he was in that dark place. Many of my friends have tried to remind me of that lately. It's not that I don't care about them, it's that the pain is so bad I just want out, and everyone else be damned. It's all about ME when I'm suicidal. You can tell me you love me to infinity and beyond, and I'll feel it, but I won't give a shit. I don't know if that sounds selfish. Probably. But it's just the way it is.

I'm wearing a Wonder Woman outfit, tiara included, to plunge in. My favorite tool of hers is the Lasso of Truth. When it's wrapped around you, you can't lie. You're required to be completely honest. This is my Lasso of Truth entry. And Ben, I salute you.

Welcome back...

Things are going to shit again, and my therapist's suggestion for that is to write. It's true that I express myself better while writing than speaking, and it's true that I refuse to go back to the place I blogged for years, because of the way I was treated in the end. So here I am. Surprised I even remembered the address.

I'm struggling with being deeply depressed and having no one in authority believe that I know what should be done about it. I've dealt with this shit since I was a teenager. I'll be 53 in a couple months. This is not my first rodeo. But nobody believes it's as serious as it feels to me.

So last night, after exhausting elebenty-billion DBT coping skills, I went for my tried and true: I cut.

It made me FURIOUS.

I was so surprised by that reaction that I did it again, just to see what happened.

I was even MORE furious.

I cut because it works. It's a physical release of the emotional torment. After the knife has hit, and I see the blood, I feel like a tire deflating. All the pressure is released and there's just a feeling of AHHHHH. Now I feel better.

Until last night.

So, that's the death of a coping mechanism, I guess, and now I have to find one that works as well as cutting used to.

My therapist wondered if the anger had been simmering unawares, like a volcano before it erupts. Upon thinking about it, I realize I'm angry most of the time. My sister told me once I was the angriest person she knew. I was stunned, but it turns out she's right. The trick is figuring out what I'm angry about. I know I'm still angry about the damn disability, 5 years later. I'm angry that I'm reduced to a job that requires less than a high school education, when I have a masters degree. (I told a former psychiatrist what I was doing now. He said, "I think that's a great job for you! DON'T OVERDO IT." (Emphasis mine.) I'm angry that people feel sorry for me. I'm angry a mental health professional called the cops on me and humiliated me in front of my coworkers and neighbors. (Should I be grateful he cared that much? Probably. But I'm angry.) I don't even know what else I'm angry about, just that I am. I try not to think about it too much.

I'm even angry writing about being angry. Time to go watch my stupid show and snuggle the cat. More to come.....

Memories

The thing about memories is, I have very few of them. My memory doesn't extend past the previous day, and sometimes it's even just a few hours. (My sister asked me the other day what I'd had for dinner the previous night, and I had to struggle to come up with it.)

I had 9 months of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), in an attempt to get out of the most severe, longest-lasting depressive episode of my life. I got 2.5 months of peace before I ended up in the hospital, actively suicidal. Not only did it not work on my depression, it fried my brain. People tell me things, or show me artifacts from places we went together, and I just don't remember.

It's troublesome with work, too. Even if I've done something several times, if there's been a gap since the last time I did it, I'll have to ask to be shown again. It pisses off my boss. Last time, between the time I asked him to help me and the time he responded, I remembered how. But it took me several hours to surface the memory. I know he's busy and he relies on me to do stuff he doesn't have time for, but I can only do what I can do. I try my best in the face of my limitations. The fact is, they're not going away, ever. It frustrates me, too. But I took a crapshoot with my brain and I lost. It's something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life. If anybody has any ideas for ways around it, let me know.

Le Misanthrope

Yep, that's me.

Misanthropy is defined as the general hatred, distrust or disdain of the human species. I think it's safe to say I detest mankind. People are stupid, and annoying, and a general pain in the ass. I prefer the company of my cat. She can't talk, and she's never abandoned me or let me down. How many people can you say that about?

This is a shit time of year for me. There's Mother's Day (on which I am never acknowledged by my child), and said child's birthday (painful for several reasons), and this year I'm preparing to wave goodbye to one of the only people who has ever understood me enough to help me. I don't know what I'm going to do without him.

I wish I could just find a cave somewhere and hole up. (As long as the cave has wi-fi.)

Wise Mind ACCEPTS....

So I finished a DBT group today. I started in May. I was supposed to be done in early December. My therapist decided I needed to stick around another 2 months. I may never forgive her, just like I'm not going to forgive her for making me come to the damn group THREE DAYS after major surgery "because there will be new people there." Who gives a fuck?! They could have waited a week to meet me and I could have stayed home with my pain pills.

Anyway. I don't know what I really got out of all this. DBT has four components. I can remember three of them. It is FILLED with acronyms that are supposed to help you remember this or that. They don't, at least for me. My therapist says my skills have improved. I don't see how they can have improved when I can't even remember half this shit. If I get really bad, I text her and she tells me what to do. She's all proud of me for not having cut since July or something, but I think about it every single day, so I don't think that's a victory. Last night I was talking to someone I was in the hospital with last year, and he tripped a trigger that still has me over the edge. (Nobody is able to stick a finger in a wound quite like someone you've been in the nut hut with.)

So really, I can't tell you what I just got out of the last 9 months. I guess, as Marsha Linehan would say, I was being willful. I showed up, but I didn't contribute much and all I could think about was how pissed I was to have to be there. I don't think Medicaid got their money's worth.

Those Poles are on to something

There's an old Polish proverb which states, "If 3 people tell you you're drunk, you'd better sit down."

My ass is firmly planted on my couch, because I guess I'm tipsy.

It is now up to 4 people in the past 2 weeks who have told me some variation of "you're brilliant, you just don't know how to apply (whatever it is I'm supposed to be learning)."

First of all, I am clearly not smarter than the average bear. I worked my ass off in college and grad school for my grades -- they didn't come easily, like they do to truly smart people.

Second, I think people get this perception of my "brilliance" because I'm quiet. It seems to create a false aura of intelligence, when what I am is reserved.

But I am feeling plenty stupid because these people, from different walks of my life, are basically telling me I'm an idiot. Or at least that's what it feels like to me.

Sometimes I don't apply my lessons because I don't fucking want to. (I will admit to being very stubborn.) Sometimes it's because I have the memory of a flea (hey, thanks, ECT) and I forget it if I don't write it down. (And then I have to try to decipher my abysmal handwriting.) Sometimes, as far as I can tell, I'm applying them just fine, only to be told I'm not (and am thus an idiot).

I dunno. I *do* know I don't need any help feeling bad about myself. And I don't know what to do about something that is apparently ingrained.

I'll let you know what happens if I sober up.

Ring out the old....

In this case, the old I'm ringing out on this New Year's Eve is someone I've been friends with (I thought) for 5 years.

I had major surgery in August, and people I barely knew stepped up to drive me around, take me to the store, etc. D. didn't even call (or text, or email) to say hi, how are you. Every time I tried to ask to talk to her about it, she blew me off. So I finally wrote her and told her how hurt I was, and asked one more time to talk.

She replied that she'd had a "trying" year too and was sorry, but she couldn't offer any more of herself, so have a nice life.

I don't understand how you can just toss someone to the side of the road when you have a history. I don't understand how you can be selfish enough to treat people like dirt. I don't understand it, period.

I read something today that fits: You can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep rereading the last one. So I'm going to try to move on. But I'm going to grieve a little first, and be angry.

How to Deal with People Who Drive You Apeshit

As I see it, there are three ways to handle annoying people (h/t to TB for the categories):

1. Ignore them.
   
   
2. Pawn them off on someone else.
   
   
3. Make them cry.

Ignoring them, for me, anyway, rarely works. It particularly doesn't work with PR people, who will send 82 pitches asking if you've received the last 81. Apparently there is something in PR people's makeup that makes them either preternaturally optimistic or terminally clueless. If I didn't answer you the first time, I'm not going to answer you the 82nd time, because I really, really want you to go away.

Pawning the hopelessly annoying off on someone better equipped to handle them is difficult, but if you can manage it (and the pawn-ee doesn't object), it's a good way to go. As with any area of life, there are some folks you just aren't going to get along with. Making them somebody else's problem can make both of you happier. 

Making them cry is not something I'm particularly proud of, but if you push me to my breaking point, it's likely to happen. I'm sarcastic and bitchy at the best of times (even though my friends will tell you I'm secretly a marshmallow. Only my body qualifies for that description, IMO). If you continue to act like you are the only person I have to spend time on, you are, sooner or later, going to be the recipient of my wrath and my mouth. It's ugly. Don't do it.

I wish I were an easier person to get along with. Someone once described me as a "prickly pear." It wasn't a compliment. But the truth is that I walk a fine line between being able to function in the world and just having to blow up and let the morons have it. I'm 1000 percent introvert and it's quite literally painful for me to deal with humanity. (You should see me at parties.) I never married for a reason. The cat keeps me warm at night and doesn't talk back, and that works nicely for me. I'm happy to try to work with you, but you need to work with me too.

the "yeah-buts"

Mental Health Awareness Month ended in May, and there’s still a large segment of the population unaware. I call them the yeah-buts.

The yeah-buts as I have encountered them over my decades dealing with mental illness are folks who haven’t ever struggled with the stuff themselves, but feel able to tell you what to do about it.

My favorites are the ones who are compelled somehow to get me to the gym. Yes, yes, exercise can help your mood, though it doesn’t always, no matter what the yeah-buts say.

“Yeah, but you’ll feel so much better,” they insist.

“When I’m blindingly depressed, I don’t even want to get out of bed,” I insist. “I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to get dressed. I don’t want to do anything but lay there and focus on feeling like crap.”

“Yeah, but that’s exactly the time you should be getting up and exercising,” they say, usually adding another favorite – “I know I’ve never been depressed, but…”

Right. So if you have no concept of what it feels like, how can you tell me how to fix it? I got news: It’s not fixable. Meds and therapy only go so far. Once an episode begins, you pretty much just have to ride it out. And as soon as it’s over? Guess what? It’s going to come back. Almost nobody gets a one-and-done deal with a depressive episode. If you’re lucky, you can figure out how to make the time between episodes relatively lengthy. Exercise isn’t it, at least not by itself.

The yeah-buts mean well, I know. It’s just like taking advice from an unmarried marriage counselor. They never seem to realize that they’d be much more credible if they’d experienced that which they’re trying to convince you of.

I have a friend who’s a yeah-but. She does at least preface her remarks with “I know I don’t have depression,” which is something of a sop. But she still doesn’t really understand. She’s an expert in another area I struggle with, though, and there I’m all ears every time she wants to tell me something, because I know both that she’s been there personally and that she has academic knowledge as well. And I know she cares, hence the yeah-but-ism. Most yeah-buts do it out of concern for a friend or family member, I’m sure. I think maybe the afflicted just should reinforce the need to find another way to express it. No matter how well my psychiatrist and therapist and friends know me, I am still the expert on me. No ifs, ands or yeah-buts.

Aimless? Not Quite

I had a friend tell me the other day that he worries about me a lot because I seem “lost.”

Taken aback, I asked another friend what she thought of that, and she agreed.

There’s this old Polish proverb, “If three people tell you you’re drunk, you’d better sit down,” so I’m waiting for one more person to tell me I’m lost before I quite believe it. I think what people are mistaking for aimlessness is something else entirely.

I’ve been on disability for 13 months now. In a nutshell, this means I do not get up and go to work from 8 to 5, Monday through Friday, like most other adults over the age of 22. It means the government deemed me incapable of that, thanks to a severe illness, and so I get a check once a month from Uncle Sam and spend my days going to doctor appointments and the like. And I do have a job, just for the record. There are just rules about how much time I can spend on it, and there are days I’m too sick to do it. I have a very understanding boss, luckily, who gets that.

But because I don’t spend my time like “regular” grownups, I get dinged for the lack of structure to my days. Yes, it is troublesome sometimes, trying to figure out what to do next. Sometimes I’m not interested in going to the grocery store, no matter how badly I need to. Sometimes I don’t want to do laundry, no matter how badly I need to. Sometimes I just want to stay in bed and wallow in how bad I feel, and that’s part of the disease that nobody really understands. (I get a lot of the “think happy! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!” type crap. IT. IS. NOT. THAT. EASY.)

Do I need a schedule? Probably. Is it easy to make and keep to one when you’re in the condition I’m in? Not even close. So do I need to hear that I’m “lost” and people don’t notice me because I’m just standing off to the side, doing nothing? Au contraire. Nothing is the most I can do sometimes.

Next time you see me looking aimless, come say hi and find out what I’m really doing. Betcha it’s something. Even if it looks like nothing to you, it’s probably taking everything out of me I have to get it done.

When I was a kid in Kansas City, there was a commercial for a car dealer named Frank Ancona. His tag line was, “PLEASE be kind to Frank Ancona!” Please be kind to me too. You might find out something you didn’t know.

the bucket list

My recent birthday made me think I probably needed to start one of these. Here's what I've got so far:

Before I die, I want:

-- to be thin
-- to NOT be alone
-- to travel around Asia
-- to learn how to play an instrument
-- to learn a language (I took French in high school, but it was totally useless)
-- to write a book
-- to not be taken for granted by certain people

That's a start....more to come.

say what you mean

... mean what you say. Life would be so much less complicated if everybody did that.

I've been thinking a lot lately about definitions, and context, and casual vs. deep meaning. Specifically, I've been thinking a lot about the phrase "I love you."

We say it to our pets (who are just happy for an extra treat). We say it to our family members. We say it to our friends. There are a number of different shades of it. But it gets all mucked up when people substitute "love" for "like."

Someone told me they loved me a few days ago. It's not someone I'm romantically linked with, or who I even know that well, particularly. And while those words are always nice to hear, it gets confusing when the person saying them is trying to communicate deep affection instead.

We either need a definition of terms in this language or a clear distinction. A big hug and an "I like you!" doesn't carry the same weight, but it doesn't make somebody you hardly know wonder where it's coming from.

Sweetie

I never expected to be an adoptive cat mom. Yet today, a year later, that's what I am.

And although the circumstances in which Sweetie came to me were sad and less than ideal, in time we adjusted to each other and – dare I say it? – have learned to love each other.

I get up at 3 a.m. and throw her purple catnip mousie. She flops over the back of my legs when I’m sleeping on my stomach and warms me up. I keep her food and water dishes filled to the brim and her litter box sparkling clean. She lets me pick her up for hugs and smooches and will roll over for belly rubs.

I always wanted a cat, but haven’t ever been allowed to have one. I’ve always rented, and most landlords have a strict no-pets policy. But the ones I have now are reasonable. When they told me they had a prospective tenant for the other part of the house and she had a cat, I immediately said that was OK with me and asked if I could have one too. They couldn’t really say no and be fair about it.

There was one short-lived attempt with a shelter cat who was not particularly well socialized. Sweetie came along because she needed a home after her previous owner died. The woman’s daughter, a good friend of mine, thought Sweetie and I would do well together. She turns out to have been right (of course. R. has always been a good judge of character, either human or feline.)

It’s hard to overstate how much difference it makes to have another living creature in the house. I don’t have a spouse, or a kid, or any other form of family member living here. I don’t have a roommate (of the human variety, anyway). Even if she isn’t the same species as me, Sweetie’s still happy to see me whenever I get home. Even if she can’t talk the way humans think of it, she talks plenty – and chirps, and purrs, and has her whole own language with which to tell me what she wants. Sometimes all she wants is to nuzzle me and ask for a kiss back. I’m always happy to oblige (even if it means I get fur in my mouth).

I’m happy to have my curious, playful little furball around for company. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to the pet store to buy some treats (if not sweets) for my Sweetie.

Today brought to you by the letter "S"

S, for sizeism.

I wrote about this and managed to get it published in a literary journal. If I can ever figure out how to get a PDF of it done, I'll post it here. But I wanted to talk about it now because, although in the article I talked about having been judged for my size all my life, today I was the guilty party.

I'm down about 30 pounds from where I was this time last year. I need to be down another 50. At least. I look at my reflection in my laptop screen, and in my dresser mirror, and in my rearview, and want to throw up. It's just not possible for me, anyway, to have anything but massive self-loathing and a hideous body image. My guess is that even when I'm 140 that'll still be the case.

Today at the grocery store I kept finding myself behind this guy who must have weighed, I'm not kidding, close to 600 pounds. You would think I would have some compassion for him. But all I could do is stare, and wonder -- and think unkind thoughts -- about how he must have got that way.

Let's say he does weigh 600 pounds. That puts me 400 below him. And yet people still judge me. Hell, I even judge me! I hate my own guts for being a cow! And yes, I have a thyroid problem, but you know what my real problem is? Eating too much crap and rarely getting off the couch. I'd be willing to bet that's pretty much every overweight person's problem. Maybe this guy had a rare metabolic disorder. Maybe he blew out a knee when he was younger and finds it hard to exercise. I don't know. I just know it was incredibly unfair of me to do to him what I hate having done to me.

the perils of depression

So while it was apparently no surprise, country singer Mindy McCready killed herself today.

I am not remotely a country music fan, and I'm certain I've never heard one of her songs. But I am certain I've been depressed. Often. Enough to want to kill myself? Enough to at least give it some serious thought.

I get so tired of people who say "I don't understand how people can do that. They had so much to live for," blah blah blah. You know what? If you're able to say that, you don't understand, and you need to be grateful and then STFU. There is nothing worse than being trapped in the hell of your own mind. If you're just a little down in the dumps on a random Sunday afternoon because you have to go back to work on Monday, you aren't depressed. If you can't go to work for a month because you're too miserable to get out of bed, take a shower and get dressed, then you sort of have a clue.

This poor woman left behind two little boys who no longer have parents. (One of them still has a father who isn't in the picture, and the other's father also killed himself.) They are in for a lifetime of therapy, have already been in foster care once, and may end up there permanently again. One of the Big Lies of depression is that "nobody will miss me if I check out." I admit to thinking that myself. Playing poor, pitiful me is weirdly soothing; it gives you validation for what you're thinking about doing.

I may not have an intimate partner, and I may not have raised my child, but I certainly have a stack of friends who would miss me. It would be unfair of me to traumatize them for my own selfish reasons. But you aren't thinking reasonably when you're thinking about doing it.

I can't say I blame her for taking the road that she chose. I hope that she's found some peace at last. I hope all who are thinking along those lines reach out for help first. But if there comes a time it gets to be too much, one last time -- I understand.

2nd Street Joey

I keep thinking Joey needs his own blog post, so I'm giving him one.

There's a tax service in town called Liberty Tax. Some poor schmo gets recruited to dress up as the Statue of Liberty -- green toga, spiked crown -- and stand out on the sidewalk in front of the place and wave at people driving by. (I should mention this only happens in tax season and I live somewhere winter lasts until May.) I always wave at the poor guy.

I'm not sure who was whose inspiration, but I suspect Joey's been at it a lot longer. Somebody from the local paper stopped and talked to him for a bit once and tried to find out what his deal was.

His deal is that he has a number of disabilities, both psychiatric and physical. To break up his day, he dresses up if it's near a holiday, and stands on the sidewalk outside his apartment -- which is on the main road past a major hospital -- and waves at the passing cars.

I always wave at Joey too.

The reporter asked him why he did it.

"I like to make people happy," he said.

A reporter friend of mine (not the one who did the story) recently tweeted that he saw Joey in a skyway connecting a couple of buildings downtown.

"It was like seeing Santa in the grocery store," he said.

It never occurs to me to think that it might take so little to make people happy. But I know my favorite friends are the ones who can make me laugh my way through anything, no matter how horrible I may think it is at the moment. Joey serves the same purpose -- a quick smile in a busy or stressful day. I have to figure out how to be more like him.