I remember distinctly looking back on my life and thinking “the good days are gone, never to return,” and then sitting down and having a good cry over my lost youth.
That was when I was three.
It’s only gone down hill from there.
I started off this summer with hope. With purpose. I was going to earn the money I needed for college, have fun, make lots of friends… et cetera, et cetera. The average eighteen year old ‘darn it I’m still stuck taking a gap year’ goals.
I started off doing pretty well. For, you know, two days.
Here’s a phenomena observed in people with depression that doesn’t get talked about enough: we name our depression (or anxiety, or OCD, or whatsoever have you disorder/comorbid disorder).
Not all of us, of course, but when I talk to others who have been diagnosed with various mental disorders, more of us than not have named the intrusive voices in our heads. One of my coworkers had given hers a Donald Trump voice — she said it was easier to blow off that way. Another one of my friends named her depression Deborah.
And me? My depression’s name is Linda.
I got a message from my cousin the other day.
“Hey! Cool blog post!” she said. I’d just set up my writing portfolio and had shared it on facebook. “I have a question, though. You called yourself a lesbian Calvinist. Is that an identity or…?”
Well, I’m not quite sure what else calling myself a lesbian Calvinist would mean. My sense of humor can be off-color, but I like to think that I’m not that bad yet.
“Yeah,” I said.
There was a brief, shocked pause.
“I’ve missed a lot,” she said finally. “We should talk.”
I was fine with…