Sunday, May 13


I woke up at 2pm today. I slept for 14 glorious hours. Fantastical.

I love sleeping in, but unfortunately it throws off my meds. I'm supposed to take my Zoloft in the morning so when I wake up in the afternoon I kinda wig out.

Today I got up, had breakfast, watched Lindsay Lohan's Most Shocking Moments on VH1. Talked to my mom, went shopping on Steinway, had dinner at this great cafe Il Bambino down the block. Came back home, laid on the couch and watched What Not to Wear. Started to have panic attack, began crying, turned on computer and here I am.

Depression is awful for so many reasons. The worst part about it is not knowing what's real. One minute I'm fine, the next minute I'm not. It's exhausting trying to keep up with my moods. Actually, everything is exhausting when you're mental.

I've never been able to trust what I think, how I feel, or who I am. This is why I have barely any sense of self and pretty crappy self-esteem. This is also why I'm constantly looking for validation and approval from others. I have no clue how I rate in other people's eyes, when at this point in my life I should only care how I rate in my own.

I have been depressed for 19 years. I knew there was something wrong with me around 5th grade, I just didn't know how to describe or deal with it. Then I started getting sick. I was diagnosed with Lymes disease, even though I didn't have a tick bite. In 6th grade I got reactivated Mono, even though I never had mono before. By senior year I had chronic fatigue syndrome, college Epstein-Barr. I think all of these were legitimate diagnoses, but now I think that my depression was a contributing factor. If I remember correctly, the strongest symptoms I had each time were pretty vague: migraines, arthritis, and exhaustion. Could have been anything.

I went to my first therapist when I was 11. My parents and I were always fighting so we went to therapy together. I didn't know what to say, so the therapist asked what were all the fights about. You know what you fight about at 11? Curfew. I wanted to stay out and play Manhunt with the boys in the neighborhood, but since my curfew was so early it wasn't very dark out before I had to come in. The therapist must have thought I was a spoiled brat because she basically told me to listen to my parents. End of story. I hated her; I think that was the only visit I agreed to go to.

My next stint with therapy was at 17 when I had gotten arrested for eluding police. Yep, I got into a cop car chase.

All I wanted to do after high school was get away from my parents. I didn't want to go to college, I didn't want to stay in Jackson, I didn't want to do anything except smoke pot. For some idiotic reason I didn't seem to get that if I went away to college I would (SURPRISE!) be away from my parents. Stupid stoner.

One weekend we went to visit Trenton State. We fought the whole entire time. We screamed at each other that whole night, I'm sure my mom was smacking me, too. It was awful. I've said before that fights were over only when my mom said they were, so soon after she was laughing and watching tv like nothing happened. I, on the other hand, decided to steal my parents' car and run away. And I did.

I only had my license for a month, but I knew how to get to NY. I was okay until I tried to parallel park. Then I cried and drove around until I found a big enough spot to easily maneuver the car into. I was a few blocks from my grandmother's apartment in Bay Ridge and desperately wanted to go inside, but didn't. I didn't feel close to her at the time, but then again I didn't feel close to anyone then. I walked around Brooklyn for awhile, but then this is when things started getting hazy.

Somehow I was back in Jersey, not too far from home. I say "somehow" because I don't really remember. I think I was so upset that I kind of blacked out and somehow drove myself home. When I snapped out of it I said, fuck this I'm not going home. I saw a sign for Atlantic City and said, okay I'll go there. (Dude I was 17, I had no idea what I was doing.)

So here I am doing probably 65 on Route 9 when a cop went to pull me over. Well, I didn't stop. Again this is hazy. The last thing I remember is saying "I want to go home" and flooring it. I can't tell you much about it.

I remember seeing about three cop cars with lights flashing in my rear view mirror. I remember the faces of the people I was passing pressed up against their windows watching me fly by. I remember seeing cops on the other side of the highway trying to catch up.

And I remember the red light. I think my mom said the cops chased me for about 5 miles, luckily there were green lights the whole way. When I got a red one I slammed on the breaks, skidded across traffic, and slammed into a guard rail. You know what? I kept driving for another mile or so.

Finally I pulled over. The first cop kept trying to open my door as I was trying to unlock it. He kept saying "Open the door! Open the fucking door!" and I kept shouting "I can't if you keep pulling the handle!" He got me out, threw me on the hood of my car. All the cops were screaming "What are you on????". I honestly wasn't on anything.

Long story longer, I got photographed, fingerprinted and in a helluva lot of trouble. They clocked me at 96 mph in a 1986 Toyota Corolla. Everyone asks if I really thought I was going to get away in that piece of shite. My answer is always no, I wasn't thinking anything.

Since I was a minor with no criminal history and (get this) straight A's, I didn't have to go to juvie. I did have to go to court, therapy, pay for the car and all the tickets, and lose my license for 3 months. Once I turned 18 this incident was erased from my record.

Ya know, looking back my punishment was nothing considering I could have killed tons of people that night. Thank Shizza no one got hurt. Anyways, that's how I met Therapist 2. She was very nice, but again, I wasn't ready to be helped.

I already spoke about my third round of therapy, right after my break up with PJ. Basically I was too self-destructive to get any good out of it. I had a therapist, a psychiatrist for my meds, and they wanted me to go to NA/AA. I never did and only lasted with this therapist for about two months.

Which brings me to my therapist now, who I love, love, love. I'll call her Cee. I've been going to Cee for about 15 months and I gotta say, it gets better and better with every visit. She is so understanding and supportive. Even when we discuss shitty things, I always feel better.

I think fate stepped in for me to find her. I had no idea how to go about picking a therapist, so I randomly looked up doctors who accepted Oxford. I found Cee's name and noticed she had an office near Company. Totally convenient.

I didn't make an appointment for a while, until one night I had a dream about her. I can't remember exactly what the dream was about, but at one point I was looking at an old yearbook or something and her name was in there. Weird, right? I called her the next morning. Even cooler, it ended up she actually has an office a block away from me in Astoria, too. Fate I tell ya.

SSIIGGHHH...of relief that is. I feel better now, just in time for Family Guy.

Thanks for reading.

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