The Happiest Depressed Person I Know

My previous family doctor was the first person I told I was depressed. He put me on Zoloft and I would continue to see him until he retired several years later. (It would be a few years later that I would be diagnosed with bipolar and realized Zoloft was a bad idea. Oops.)

He had a wonderful nurse that worked for him (all of the staff were amazing) and she once told me "you're the happiest, depressed person I know." She said this because even though I was diagnosed with depression and even if I was in an episode of depression, I would always say hello with a smile on my face. I was always friendly, laugh if someone said something funny and crack my own jokes as well.

I've thought about that statement off and on over the years. Originally, my first thought was "I have to be like that, it's my way to survive. I'm putting on a brave face."  

But that's not true. I've been thinking about that statement recently, because I've been in an episode of depression and I've realized in those moments, when I'm being nice to people, when I'm laughing, making jokes and so on, it's genuine. I'm not acting. Depression conned me into believing I was putting on an act.

Lately I've been very depressed. One moment, I can be cracking a joke, dancing around and then when that stops "the weight of depression returns."  Thoughts of hurting myself or moments of binge eating return. The laughter, the joking, the interacting with people, doesn't get rid of my depression, it temporarily pauses it. Then the depression rushes back in like one of my IBS attacks, fast and furious.

It's amazing how depression can be so deceptive. My depression loves to tell me in those moments when I'm interacting with people, laughing, helping, whatever it may be, they are fake, they aren't real. Only the depression is real, everything else is an illusion.

When I remembered that statement and had the idea to write this post, I realized, that's bull shit.

It's not an illusion. It's the depression part of my brain trying to win over the healthy side of my brain. It's the depression part of my brain trying to mess with me. Telling me lies. Making me believe that I can't actually achieve feeling good. But, it's bullshit. Those moments are genuine, they are real and I need to remind myself of that. I need to keep reminding myself to try and hold the depression at bay. 

Depression is a crook, it's trying to steal my good moments, it has a strong front and it's relentless. To build up the defences and create a strong front for the good part of my brain, I need to allow myself to acknowledge those good moments are real, they are genuine and they can continue to happen. 

So when an employee tells me "I love how excited you get about things", I am going to tell myself "that statement is true and I bring joy to others" instead of "they are trying to tell me I am over the top and they don't like me."

When someone tells me "you are always so friendly when I see you", I am going to tell myself "I am friendly to others and it makes a difference" instead of "they think I'm miserable and I need to be happier."

When someone tells me "I really appreciate your help." I'm going to tell myself " I was helpful, I am knowledgeable" instead of "I'm stupid and they feel bad for me, they are just being nice."

I am going to allow myself the opportunity to acknowledge the truth. It won't be easy. At times, depression will do what it does best, attack me, to bring down my defences. 

There will be times where depression is an A+ con artist that pulls one over on me. My challenge will be, when that con artist does pull one over on me, not to take the blame. It's not my fault. Depression is a thief, a con artist, a liar, a manipulator and more. 

I can be happy and depressed, that is valid and I will make the effort to acknowledge the happy moments and when the negatives ones creep through, I will attempt to make the effort to wade through the shit and find the truth. 

And if I can't wade through the shit, then at the very least I need to know, it's not my fault, the fault belongs to depression. 

Depression is not me, it's a separate entity that has squatter rights in my brain. Get the fuck out, you have overstayed your welcome, you weren't welcome in the first place.

Forgiving Myself - A letter from my adult self to my adult self

I've been struggling lately. I'm depressed. In my last post, I wrote about an experience I had at the bathhouse. This most recent experience made me re-live being raped there. I left the bathhouse upset. Instead of blaming the guy who didn't want to accept my no, I blamed myself. I told myself that it's my fault that this happened to me. It's my fault because I'm a whore for going to the bathhouse. It's my fault because I sleep with too many guys, I'm disgusting because I use sex as an escape.

In my last therapist appointment I brought up how I was feeling. I got really upset. I was shaking because I was so angry with myself. I wanted to hit myself I was so angry. I talked about how I keep watching more extreme porn, using bigger sex toys and having so much sex and making more extreme sex choices because it's like trying to achieve a high. I'm trying to numb how I feel. I know the numbness from the sex is only temporary but it's better than nothing. After my appointment, I realized something. I need to forgive myself.

I previously wrote a letter to myself, my child self writing my adult self, forgiving me for everything I had been through and forgiving me for how I felt. I realized I needed to write a letter from my adult self to my adult self for what I've been through as an adult, choices I made to help me survive my feelings.

The letter:

You're hurting, a lot. You're sad. You're angry. You feel ashamed. You blame yourself. You're disgusted with choices you've made. Sexual choices. You've been chasing a high to avoid how you feel. It hasn't worked. It just makes you feel worse. You keep making extreme sex choices because you feel lonely. You feel empty. Because it takes away the pain even knowing it's only temporary.

I forgive you. I really do. This isn't your fault. You do it because you don't know what else to do. I forgive you. You do these sexual things because of your past traumas. Being raped, having an alcoholic, angry father. A sister who committed crimes. Being bullied. Feeling abandoned. Feeling unwanted. Feeling unloveable. Feeling worthless. Feeling like an inconvenience.

Watching porn, using large sex toys. Going to the bathhouse and having sex with lots of guys. Putting on a blindfold and letting guys fuck you. You did all that because you blame yourself for everything. Because of what you've been through. I forgive you. You are not worthless. You're not an inconvenience. You're not unloveable. You are worth everything. You are loveable. You are worth kindness. You are worth respect.

You don't need to be extremely sexual. You don't need to escape your feelings anymore. You are capable of managing your feelings. You are capable of changing your circumstances. Your family loves and cares about you. Your friends care about and love you. I care about and love you.

Your past doesn't have to weigh you down. Your past doesn't make you less than. You are worth loving. I'm excited for you to accept and move past this. You've been surviving for so long. You have permission to live your life. You deserve happiness. You are forgiven. I love you.

Overwhelmed with Feelings

Fuck. The darkness is back. It's heavy, it's exhausting, it won't leave me alone. I went grocery shopping today. It felt like I was trying to complete a marathon. I kept wandering around aimlessly, forgetting what I needed. A mental fog slowing me down, my brain tingly with confusion. There was one point where I wanted to give up shopping for groceries and just sit down in the aisle. I didn't. I pushed through and got back to my car. I sat in my car for a few minutes, I was so exhausted.

I tried to give myself credit. Credit for getting out bed and showering. Credit for buying groceries and putting them away when I got home. I know those are accomplishments when I'm feeling like such garbage but the negative talk takes over. I start telling myself, people do these things everyday. They are expected of us. People do these things with kids and other obligations. I'm pathetic. I'm not, but I am, but I'm not. Fuck off negative thoughts. Fuck off.

The darkness, the depression, the negative thoughts are because I've been avoiding something. My previous post was about writing a letter to the man who raped me at the bathhouse. I was finally starting to free myself of that. It wasn't consuming my thoughts, every minute of every day anymore. I was breaking free of it's grip until I was at the bathhouse a couple weeks ago. I was laying on my stomach, this guy was fucking me. I wasn't enjoying it and I wanted to take a break. I said "I need to take a break." He responded "ah, really?" in an annoyed tone. "Yes, I want to take a break."

When I tried to get up he wrapped his arms around me, his arm pressed against the front of my neck and said "shh, shh, just lay there, lay there, it's okay, it's okay." I froze. I wanted to move, I couldn't. My brain, my body, wouldn't let me. When I was raped, I was also on my stomach. I said I wanted to stop. When I tried to get up, he pushed me back down.

As I laid there with this guys arms wrapped around me, his arm on my neck making it uncomfortable to breath, I was frozen. I wanted to yell. I wanted to get up. I couldn't move. I wanted his dick out of me. Instead, I laid there, replaying what happened to me the last time I said no. Remembering when I said no and tried to get up, the guy pushing me back down. Remembering when I tried to get loud, the guy putting his hand over my mouth and biting his hand didn't stop him. Not just remembering but reliving it.

This guy kept kissing me and telling me not to move, to just relax, to wait a moment, saying to me "it's okay." I finally was able to speak, I said "I want to stop, I don't want to do this anymore." He said "ah man!, fine!, lame!"in an angry tone and finally got off of me, got out of me. I laid there, unable to move, waiting for him to leave the room. He slowly wrapped his towel around him. His tone changed. In a friendly tone he said "okay, well have a good one, oh, oh, here's your lube, don't want you to lose it." After what felt like an eternity, he finally opened the door and left.

I stayed motionless, thinking to myself, how many times is this going to happen? I thought about the past, when I wasn't comfortable saying no, before I had the courage to withdraw consent, before I was able to assert my needs. I thought about all the times I wanted to say no and I didn't. The times I wanted to stop but I let the guy finish because I didn't want to make him mad. If I would have been able to say no, how many of them would have kept going?

(On a side note, I am listening to music while I write this and "Do what you want with my body" by Lady Gaga came on - bad fucking timing).

I know I shouldn't blame myself.  I shouldn't blame myself but I can't help it. I keep thinking, that it's my fault, my fault because I'm a slut for going to the bathhouse. It's my fault because I let him climb on top of me and fuck me, without even saying a word, without getting his name. I keep thinking about what a whore I am. I'm angry. I'm hurting and directing it all inward.

When these negative thoughts manifest, I become overwhelmed. I want them to stop. I keep imagining myself walking into the bathroom, grabbing a razor blade and sliding the blade across my skin. Anything to make the pain, the feelings stop. I would rather the pain of the blade than the pain of what I'm feeling.

It's been almost a couple years since I've cut myself. The last time I cut myself, I cut the word whore into my left thigh and the word faggot into my right thigh. The urge to do so again is strong, so strong. I resist because I don't want the scars. I don't want the daily reminder of what I did. I am lucky, the cuts healed last time, what if they don't this time? Instead of cutting, I eat. I eat too much. Too much fast food. After I gorge, I hate myself and I want to cut myself.

Instead of cutting myself, I am writing. I am talking about what happened. Sharing my feelings in the hopes of lifting some of this weight holding me down. Letting it out. However,

I'm... I'm... just so tired of trying to survive. When will I feel like I'm living and not just surviving? Will that ever happen? Is it possible?

A Letter To My Rapist

I was raped about a year ago, it happened at the bathhouse. In the last year, I thought that I had dealt with it. As one year since it happened came closer and closer, I kept thinking about it more and more. I kept replaying what happened in my mind, over and over. Whenever I would think about it, I was consumed with guilt and sadness.

In my last couple therapy sessions, I kept saying I wanted to write a letter to my rapist to work through what I was feeling. I did this previously, writing a letter to my dad and it worked well. Of course, I love to procrastinate and keep those feelings bottled up, so I kept putting it off. Well, finally, today, I wrote that letter. It was hard.

At one point I was so angry I punched my table, the next moment I was sobbing uncontrollably. I'm glad I finally did this, I needed to write that letter, get those feelings out. I feel like I ran a marathon but I also have a feeling of letting go. I wouldn't be surprised if I wake up tomorrow and the lower back pain I have had for over a month is all of a sudden starting to feel better. Here is the letter I wrote:

Fuck you! You rapist piece of shit. I said no. I told you to stop. I think about that night, all the time. I replay it over and over in my mind. Sometimes I wonder what I could have done differently. I get angry when I wonder this. I didn't need to do anything different. You did!

You need to not be a rapist! When someone tells you to stop, you need to fucking stop! What? Were you annoyed that you weren't going to get to cum? FUCK YOU! You know what's worse than you not getting to cum?

Having you on top of me, your dick inside me, while you say no, when I asked you to stop. When I tried to get up and you pushed me back down. When I tried to yell NO louder and you put your hand over my mouth to silence me. I bit your hand, did that stop you? No, it didn't. You kept raping me. I withdrew consent and you didn't give a fuck. I was an object for you to use.

Everything started going dark. I remember thinking to myself "I can't believe this is happening." I could hear others in the bathhouse, chatting, having sex. Here I was, being raped, with dance music and sex noises as my soundtrack. I started checking out, going to my safe place, when all of a sudden, I thankfully got angry. I yelled "I fucking said no! Get off me!" I hit you on your side, I pushed back as hard as I could and threw you off me.

You landed on the floor, looking scared and saying "sorry, sorry, I didn't meat to" GUESS WHAT? YOU FUCKING MEANT TO! YOU RAPED ME! How dare you be fucking scared, you piece of shit rapist! I said no, several times. I asked you to stop.

You said no to me. You pushed me down, you covered my mouth. You knew what you were doing. After you left my room, I sat there, naked, alone, scared, crying. I thought "do I report this?" Then I imagined telling a police officer that I voluntarily went to the bathhouse. That I consented to sex with you. That I withdrew consent, but I was worried they would view me as a slut for being at the bathhouse. I worried they wouldn't take me seriously.

I've held this in for the last year. It's been eating away at me. That's on you! You raped me! You made me feel less than, scared, alone, sad, angry. I've felt guilty that you may have done this to others after me. Fuck you! I'm returning that guilt, that anger, that sadness back to you.

It's not my fault. You are responsible for you. I'm not allowing you to control me anymore. I did nothing wrong. It's not my fault.

Choosing Me: A letter to my dad

Letting go, it's not easy. Moving on, it's not easy. These last few months I've been very depressed. Irritable, angry, sad, empty. In therapy I've been talking about how angry I am with myself. I take everything out on myself. At one point, the emotions got so bad I cut myself. It was really bad this time. I cut the word whore in my left thigh and the word fag into my right thigh. Every time I get in the shower, change my clothes, I can't help but look at the scars on my leg. Every time I look at them I get angry, angry at myself. I feel ashamed for cutting myself. I feel disgusted with myself.

In therapy when we were talking about my negative feelings towards myself, he asked me to close my eyes and think of the first time when I felt less than. Within 30 seconds I thought of being a child. I cried a lot as a child and it made my dad angry. He would tell me "boys don't cry", "man up", "we don't cry." As he said this, there was always this look of disappointment in his eyes. I always felt he was disappointed I was gay. He would make comments about the fags in the pride parade and make jokes about gay people. I was allowing him to make me feel less than.

My therapist proposed an exercise for me, to write a letter to my dad, expressing how I felt. I've done this letter writing before for other people/experiences in my life. I agreed it would be a good thing for me to do... it took me almost 2 months to write it.

It's funny, I thought I had resolved my feelings about my dad. Years ago I went through a four month group therapy program. Twice I told my dad how I felt about certain things. I talked about how he scared me as a child with his drinking and anger. I told him how I felt our relationship is one sided, that it's me always reaching out and when we talk he just spends the whole time complaining about things. I set boundaries for our relationship. I thought I had dealt with it and moved on... boy I was wrong!

As a child I felt alone, unwanted and a burden. I was very lonely as a child. I just wanted to be loved and acknowledged. My dad was an alcoholic and would get angry at lot. I remember my mom and him getting in intense arguments, him punching holes in the wall. Whenever he would get angry, I would think "is today the day he is going to hit me." That's no way for a child to live.

I wrote the letter. It was difficult to write. I realized something as I wrote it. I've never mourned the loss of the life I could have had, that I wanted to have. I've been holding on to how things should have been. I've been directing my anger at myself, not the person who caused it, my dad. I've been treating myself like shit for so long, for too long and I don't want to do it anymore.

I've allowed myself to feel worthless and weak because of what he said and did. I'm angry that I feel a lot of my life has been taken away because he wasn't there for me. He didn't support me in the way I needed. He chose alcohol over me and that wasn't okay. I'm sad I don't have a relationship with him but I realized something important, I can't have his negativity, his anger, in my life. I need to put myself first, I deserve to be put first. I deserve to be loved and respected. I deserve to love myself and respect myself. I deserve kindness.

I can't change the past, I can't forget what happened, but I can acknowledge it, deal with it and use it to move forward in a healthy way.

This was a hard letter to write. It wasn't just a letter to him, it was a letter to myself. I cried writing this letter. I have never cried like this in my life. I cried so hard, so loud, I made noises that sounded like I just had someone important die. In a way I did have someone die, I had to let a part of me go. I had to mourn the loss of my childhood and the person who I thought I should have been. I had snot dripping out my nose, I was drooling and gasping for air. I had years and years of emotions finally being released.

At one point I stopped writing, I threw the letter on the ground and started addressing my dad out loud. At first I could only get out "fuck you, fuck you dad, fuck you! Fuck you!" Through the slobber and snot, I said "you've taken so much away from me, you have made my life so difficult, I'm moving on. Fuck you! I deserve happiness and kindness. I'm moving on!"

I ended the letter with "Goodbye dad, I'm choosing me."

Goodbye doesn't mean I won't speak to him again. It doesn't mean I hate him. I forgive him. I see a fellow human being who has also struggled with life, who doesn't know how to deal with his feelings, his demons. Just because I forgive him, doesn't mean I need him in my life regularly. It doesn't mean I will take on his negativity and his anger. I will put myself first. I will choose me because I am worth it.

Doing The Right Thing Doesn't Always Work

Happy. Tired. Empty.

Trying. Tired. Empty.

Working out. Tired. Empty.

Socializing. Tired. Empty.

For the last couple of months I have been feeling like shit. Depression has taken a hold of me, inside and out. Whenever I read articles about depression, I always read the comments section. I should know better than to read the comments section of any article, because the ignorant people always make me mad.

When I read the comments sections for depression articles I always see comments like "go for a walk", "just shake it off", "do something that makes you happy", "eat healthy", etc. I have a news flash for those people: IT'S NOT THAT FUCKING EASY!"

I have been doing the right things. I have been working out three times per week, I have been eating healthier, I have been socializing with my friends, I go to therapy once a month and I've talked about how I've been feeling depressed with a friend. Guess what folks? Still depressed! Still feeling tired and empty inside.

Each workout class I go to, I have to fight with myself to go. Everyday I have to fight with myself to eat healthy and not eat fast food three times a day. When I hang out with my friends, I have a good time, my laughter is genuine, but I still feel empty inside.

Sometimes you can do all the right things and it just doesn't work. Sometimes the only thing that works is time!

Having several illnesses takes a lot out of me. Living with HIV, Bipolar Disorder, Asthma and IBS is exhausting. I only have so much energy to expend everyday and I need to get better at managing it. I've done a lot work on myself through therapy and I feel like my brain is reaching a precipice. I can either scale the mountain in front of me or I can turn around and go back to what is comfortable.

One side of my brain is trying to get me to stick with what we have always done, give up. Stay in bed, eat like crap, stay isolated, have a pity party. The other side is seeing light at the end of the tunnel, it recognizes all the hard work we have been doing, is remapping our brain and for it to stick we need to keep moving forward, we need to keep working out, eating healthy, facing our feelings, facing things head on, loving ourself and not giving up.

Bathhouse Rape

It was a Friday night. I was at home bored and feeling like some sexy good times. I had a shower, got ready and headed to the bathhouse. I was going to get laid! Oh yeah! I arrived at the bathhouse and it wasn't very busy yet, it was still early in the evening. I walked around, smiled at a few guys, went into the steam rooms. As the evening went by I found someone or I thought.

I was laying on my stomach, he laid on top of me and slid his dick inside. He was thrusting and it wasn't feeling good, he was really big. I tried to move to switch positions but he wouldn't move, kept his full weight on me. I really wasn't enjoying it as it was hurting too much and I wanted to stop. I said "I need a break." He mumbled "no" and kept going. I then said "I need to take a break, I need to stop." I tried to get up and he pushed my shoulders down and said "no" and mumbled something in another language.

My adrenaline was kicking in, my heart was racing, I was feeling scared. I said in a more loud stern voice "get off me, I want to stop." I tried to grab him, he grabbed my hand and shoved it back onto the bed." I then said "no! I want to stop." He said "no" and put his hand around my mouth.

I was scared, feeling light headed, I couldn't believe this was happening. I started to feel myself checking out, going to a "safe space." It felt like everything was going dark. Thankfully I was able to get angry once more. I bit his hand and then I yelled "GET OFF ME! I FUCKING SAID NO!" I hit him in his side and thrust back as hard as I could. He went flying off the bed onto the floor. I opened the door and yelled "get the fuck out you piece of shit." He said "sorry, sorry" grabbed his towel and ran out of my room."

I closed the door, sat on the bed and started crying. I felt embarrassed. It makes me angry that I felt embarrassed. I felt embarrassed because I thought "can I get raped at a bathhouse? I came here for sex." I started imagining if I were to tell my friends or the police, would they even think I was raped? I allowed him to have sex with me, I allowed him to put his dick inside me.

But you know what? IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER that I was at a bathhouse. It doesn't matter that I originally gave him consent to have sex with me.

WHAT MATTERS is, I withdrew that consent. I said no, many times. I tried to get him off me and he wouldn't get off me. When I withdrew consent he said "no", that was him acknowledging he knew what I was saying, that he chose to use me for his own pleasure despite me saying no.

It wouldn't matter if I had sex with 15 guys that night. I can say no at anytime.

It makes me angry that I felt the need to question myself about whether I was raped or not. Thanks media, thanks rapists, thanks everyone that has treated someone who has been raped as less than.

The other part that makes me angry, while I was repeatedly telling him no, loudly, I could hear guys walking by my room. I find it hard to believe no one heard me, I was not quiet. Not one person stopped to knock on the door and ask if I was okay.

As I opened the door and kicked that rapist piece of shit out of my room, there were guys out there, as I yelled "get the fuck out you piece of shit." No one asked me if I was okay.

Ignorance isn't bliss, ignorance is being complicit.