depression

Name some media you connect with queerly: 30-Week Genderqueer Challenge part 16

This post is part of my participation in the 30-day genderqueer challenge, which I have modified to a weekly exercise.

Today’s prompt: Name some media you connect with queerly

This is one of those prompts that is so open its a little paralyzing to me, so I’m sure that whatever I put here will be kinda arbitrary and not super representative of the ways in which I engage queerly with media. I am also choosing to interpret this prompt as referring to media that is not intentionally queer, but that I headcanon or otherwise engage with queerly.

…Really, I would argue that I connect with all media queerly, because that is the perspective and experience I bring to the table with everything. But I guess I can give some examples of what that looks like?

Connecting Queerly Type 1: Queer/Trans Headcanons
Example: Inside Out
inside-out-why-does-riley-have-male-and-female-emotions-549434This one is not terrible original or personal; many people have pointed out that it is very easy to make a case that Riley from Inside Out is non-binary – everyone but her has feelings personified as only one binary gender, while hers are a mixture of men and women. She even has the nearly obligatory gender neutral name going for her. I also particularly like this reading because of just how utterly and completely I relate to Riley – the onset of her depression so completely mirrors my own experience from around that same age, it is downright eerie.

Connecting Queerly Type 2: Connecting with different characters
Example: Gravity Falls
gravity-falls-finale-1280jpg-c74659_1280wAlthough there are kids animated shows that are way more easily related to queerly (I’m looking at you, Steven Universe!), I definitely do this with Gravity Falls. It’s a really interesting show about a pair of 12-year-old twins (Dipper and Mabel Pines) who have been shipped off to spend the summer with their cranky great-uncle at his sorta sleazy tourist-fleecing destination the “Mystery Spot”. Of course, the mystery spot turns out to be full of real mysteries and supernatural phenomena, and the duo and their friends take on all kinds of danger. The show has amazing messages about friendship and chosen family, and is generally pretty great.

The show is definitely centred on Dipper, the boy-twin – the show creator has spoken directly about how he based the twins generally on himself and his twin sister, but ultimately Dipper is your very standard, blandly nerdy NiceGuy McEvery(White)Boy. The audience is clearly meant to relate to him and write themselves into his position, but he mostly just annoys the shit out of me and I want him to shut up and listen to Mabel.

Because Mabel? She is amazeballs. She is written as a silly and occasionally annoying counter-point to Dipper’s self-importance, and is *very* Manic Pixie at times, but I can’t help but love her. She is an amazing unapologetic femme, smart and creative and full of boundless energy. Every episode she is found wearing a new sweater that she knit herself, she has a new crush on the boy-of-the-week (while Dipper spends the entire summer boringly pining away after one unattainable cool older girl), and just generally being awesome.

Those are the main ways I can think of that I connect queerly with media. Tell me about your queer headcanons plz!


Catch the rest of my 30-week genderqueer challenge here!

Jerkbrain Double-cross

y-u-no-work-brainIt’s the holidays, and I am a retail worker, so I’ve been plugging along in a general state of near-exhaustion for the last few weeks. I managed to nearly seriously injure myself on Boxing Day on more than one occasion, including falling down one of our sets of rolling ladder-stairs (I work at a warehouse outlet store, mostly in the warehouse part) and bruising my thigh super badly. So my body has been pretty beat up, is what I’m trying to say. And I’d been achy and cranky for days on end.

But yesterday was meant to be a lovely, relaxing day with my hubby. Sundays when neither of us are working are great! The entirety of our plans for the day involved getting groceries, and heading out to pick out yarn for a knitting project I’m going to do for him. Stuff that’s fun, that I enjoy doing!

And yet.

After breakfast, I wanted to shower before we went out. But before I could do that, I really, really needed to just flop down on the bed. You know, just for a minute. No reason, I just felt like it, ok?

When I got back up, and started pulling together clothes to wear after showering, it became clear that my desire to be flopped down on the bed was far more insistent that I had realized. Basically, my brain started yelling at me: “Holy fuck what do you even think you’re doing? You can’t do this right now. Why are you trying to do things?!?!?!? Stop it!!!”

This is a pretty common feeling I have, and I can sometimes fight through it when there’s shit that just plain needs done. But today was not one of those days, and though I was fully aware of how ridiculous this whole thing was (jerkbrain wasn’t even giving me made-up reasons why it wasn’t worth it to try to get up! It was just telling me not to. Lazy, much?), and even put up a little bit of mental resistance (the equivalent of shouting “No, you stop it!!!” back at my jerkbrain) I gave in and flopped back down on the bed.

Eventually, I did overcome the malaise, though. And eventually, showered and dressed, we made it out of the house for our planned excursion to the yarn store. Yarn was successfully bought!

And then.

As we were wandering through the shopping centre, trying to figure out which exit would most efficiently get us to the next stop on our route, I was overcome with physical exhaustion. We had to find a bench for me to sit on.

And it was only at this point when a bunch of things came together for me. I’d been achy. And cranky. For days on end. When I’d been at work on Saturday, I’d actually thought I was starting menstruation early, the aches were so generalized and shitty, but the menstruation part of that process had never materialized.

My brain had been telling me not to leave the house. And I’d told it to shut up. But it had been right.

The part of me that I had thought was the rational part, seeing through my depressed jerkbrain’s (really rather half-hearted, now that I think about it) attempts to keep me from doing things I wanted to do, was actually my jerkbrain, talking me into ignoring my very real need to rest. Because I was very obviously sick wih some sort of winter bug, and probably had been for days, but I hadn’t let myself even consider that as a possibility.

I spent the rest of the day with a mild fever and achiness. And thankfully, I have today off work as well, so with any luck I will actually be able to recover. But yeah, I am apparently not as good at identifying what impulses are stemming from my depression as I thought I was.

On Not Committing Suicide

semicolonToday is World Suicide Prevention Day. I’ve been dithering about whether to actually post this, but it seems appropriate now. This is about one of the reasons that I am alive today.

This isn’t going to be a post about general long-term management strategies with depression, or even my list of short-term methods for dealing with depression in the moment. I think that writers better than me have said everything I could possibly have to say about those topics.

What I wanted to talk about here is a sort of last-ditch defense system. It’s about what happens when whatever coping strategies you may employ have all failed you, and you find yourself absolutely in the grips of depression. And your jerkbrain has taken over, and everything it tells you is making perfect sense, and is totally correct, and it’s even convinced yourself that you would be better off dead.

It’s about what kept me from committing suicide through my late teens and early twenties, when I didn’t have coping mechanisms, not really, and I had suicidal thoughts on a fairly regular basis. I actually made a suicide attempt when I was sixteen; this is about what happened after that, and I why I never tried it again.

And it’s a simple thing, really. The reason I haven’t attempted suicide again is that I promised I wouldn’t. I didn’t promise myself, of course. That wouldn’t have done me any good, because I would have absolved myself from that promise when it came down to it.

I made the promise to the person who, at the time, was the most important person in the world to me; my first love. When I told her about my suicide attempt, she made me promise that I wouldn’t do it again. And when I made the promise, I wasn’t sure if I meant it, or if it was something I really had any say in. But I made it anyway, because I didn’t know what else to say, really.

But the thing that I found, as the years passed, even as she broke my heart, and we both moved on with life and found love in other places, that no matter how hard my jerkbrain fights to convince me to just kill myself (Just do it. Life is too hard. It’s so much work, all the time, just being alive. And it never stops being exhausting and painful. And it’s always going to be this way, you know. It never gets any easier. So you might as well just stop.)

No matter what it has to say to me, it can’t tell me that I didn’t make that promise. It can’t argue me out of it, as long as I insist on clinging to it. And it’s a tiny, almost meaningless thing, but it’s what has stayed my hand many, many times. It doesn’t make me feel any better, and it doesn’t make my life any easier, but it ensures that my life will continue beyond that moment, and eventually, I always find my way out of that hole, and am grateful.

It doesn’t even really matter that I haven’t seen or spoken to her in probably half a decade, at least. Of the few things in my life that I am sure of, I know that at one time she was the most important person in the world to me, and that I made her a promise. And the only way I have left to honour the love we once shared is by keeping that damn promise, and so I will.

It’s not even a question anymore. It’s just the way things are. And because I have this one solid thing to cling to, this one tiny sliver of reason to keep on leaving, that has nothing to do with myself, and therefore can’t be unseated by my internal monologue, I am still alive today.

 

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I’m not really sure if this is an experience that other people will find useful, and I don’t know how generalizable this anecdote is to other people, but it’s one way of approaching bare survival that I’ve found immensely valuable, and if it’s useful to even just one other person, than I’d be glad to have it out in the open, and so that’s why this is here.

And if you are feeling suicidal right now, and have found yourself here for whatever reason, please reach out to someone. Call a suicide hotline in your area. It doesn’t matter if it feels silly, or if you don’t know what to say to them, do it anyway. It certainly won’t make you feel any worse than you already do, right?

Oof: Productivity Fails

In the nearly two weeks since I last managed to write something here, I’ve been thinking a lot about productivity and initiative. The thing is, I’ve kind of had a lot lately, and I’m taking on new projects with a kind of gusto I rarely achieve in any aspect of my life.

And, I must admit, I’ve kind of been cheating on this blog in favour of writing dumb, newsy posts for the place where I work, and soon I’ll be adding fun, newsy posts for the library where I volunteer to that list. It’s not that I’m not doing anything. And it’s not that I don’t have all kinds of ideas for things I want to write down bouncing around in my head. It’s not that I don’t have a bunch of half-baked posts in my drafts. It’s just that I’m not quite inspired to sit down and write any of those ideas down lately.

And this is worrying me, because I kind of love having this blog. It’s a good thing in my life. But I think that my desire to maintain a semi-regular posting schedule is starting to make me treat writing like one of the regular, never-ending chores that have to be done over and over in order to simply be a person in the world.

I’m talking, of course, about things like dishes, and laundry, and shaving. You do them again and again, and they never get you anywhere but back to square one. And it doesn’t matter how many times you do it, you’re going to have to do it again. To me, very often, the thought of doing dishes is simply too exhausting, to defeating to contemplate.

Now, I’m under the impression that this is, in fact, a characteristic attitude of depressed people toward these kinds of tasks. And I mean, if you’re not really in love with your life in the first place, it makes sense that you wouldn’t be willing to put so much work into maintaining it, and chores would fall by the way-side. I’ve been reading Prozac Nation this week, and it’s certainly one of the aspects of her depression, and she even references how, in The Bell Jar, Esther Greenwood wishes at one point that she could simply shampoo her hair once, and just be done with it.

And boy, do I empathize with that sentiment (even if I happen to actually take joy in showers and shampooing). And, I mean, I am certainly a person who suffers from depression, a depression I used to be able to trace back to when I was nine years old (though I can’t remember those young ages as clearly any more as I used to, and am thus less sure about it all). But, really, when I think about it, it astounds me that anyone, anywhere, regardless of how mentally healthy the may be, could possibly see day-to-day tasks that get in the way of our just plain living as anything other than utter drudgery.

Like, if anyone thinks about it for more than two seconds, this *has* to be obvious, right? Is there actually another way of looking at these things? Some positive (or even neutral) light that can be shed on them?

I don’t know.

And for the record, I don’t really think I’ve been feeling quite that negatively toward this blog. I just haven’t quite had the will-power to get myself to sit still for long enough to produce something real. But hopefully, I’ll be back up to snuff soon!