Symptoms

        Recently I acquired a husband. I find that the arrangement is mutually beneficial, like how I bleach the toilet and he brings pizza home from work. 

But really, when I was younger I really never could picture myself spending my life with someone. The idea of having another person in your space was unappealing. I am deeply introverted, and that trait plus years of retail experience and general constant anxiety caused me to vaguely dislike all people, generally. Now, knowing a person individually— I can get with that. But I don’t like parties, I detest the dating scene, and I loathe group projects. But I was also very lonely. So a life partner was something that I wanted, but I was anxious as to whether I’d find someone kind and chill and people-hating all at once.

But. Y o u   g u y s.

     I found him, and I learned that introversion and social anxiety isn’t by default a detriment to marriage. It’s like I had a small circle that was just me, and now he is also in that circle. And we only grow stronger. The desire to cancel plans and stay at home and eat yogurt has been multiplied to the power of two. Why go face the populace when we can create together, or share a beer on the porch, or lay on the couch and take turns telling the other person they should shower?

         I know a lot of other partners--dating long-term, short-term, married, or otherwise-- are a lot like us, completely content in just being with each other. And so, wielding my 3 years of extremely limited romantic wisdom with far too heavy a hand, I present to you:

    

Oh look, this post devolved into a conversation about functioning with anxiety! These are mostly just really negative thoughts I have all the time. What are some of yours? 

It looks different for everyone. We have our coping methods together, and others we do individually. I wish I had more to offer my readers other than that I hope you find healthy coping mechanisms, understanding and patient friends, and a deep sense of self-acceptance. 

Doors

     There are some days I am totally unprepared for what is to come, even though it has happened a thousand times. 

     Regardless of what I’m doing, there are days the depression just creeps in, so slowly that I don’t realize when or how it got there. It’s familiar, and not really surprising, but somehow I just don’t expect to feel it. It’s like an old roommate that I’ve since moved away from, but today they are in my house, using my kitchen and bringing their friends over. 

     It’s so familiar but it’s like, why are you here? Why have you come back? You aren’t supposed to be here today. 

     And depression, the old roommate, responds with, 

     Some days it isn’t so bad.

     Other days fifty extra pounds hangs from my soul, and it often fills me with judgement and impatience, which in turn makes me hate myself even more. It is an endless cycle. It is a trap I set for myself.

     You might say I need different meds, and while i very well may, the ones I do have work really well—when I take them. 

     But so often I miss a dose, or I took one that got kinda wet a while back and I can’t afford to buy new ones because medicine is so damn expensive, and the door is opened, just a crack.

      And the blackness comes in.

     I didn’t know that depression was even real growing up. I lived in a community with a tragic lack of awareness, discussion, and understanding of mental illness. While people around me might have been total advocates for seeking mental health, I never heard from anyone. I sought help from anyone who would listen. 

     It wasn’t until 2014 that I discovered that what I had was depression, and that it was real and treatable. My mental health has gone through a series of ups and downs since then. I’m not better, but I can keep the darkness at bay rather than leaving the door wide open. My dear husband, family, and friends have helped me hold the door when I can’t do it by myself.

     Sometimes the darkness just envelops me, and I’m in a fog for days, weeks. I cry, I have panic attacks, I find ways to hurt myself, try to clock out of this life a bit early. I don’t have my mental problems under control—and I might never have them completely under control. 

     And that’s okay.

     I revived this old blog because I so desperately want to advocate for mental health, and while there are so many wonderful blogs already doing so, I want to add my voice.

     There is a lot of stigma surrounding people with mental disorders and illnesses. Medical problems with your mental state are real, debilitating, and often misconstrued as being weak, trying to be special, or get to attention. 
      Sometimes people will tell you you're selfish, you're not praying enough, you're not grateful enough, not trying hard enough to "get over it.” Some people will think you’re just plain crazy. Everyone seems to have their own diagnosis of you. 

     Don't listen to those people. They mean well, but they don't understand what it's like, can't grasp what it is to have your own mind working against you.

     Do what makes you well, friend. If medication makes it where you can live and function better, don't be ashamed of taking it. Make sure you take it on time, and stick to it. If a therapist, mentor, or other kind of counselor helps you unburden and process those heavy thoughts, continue to seek help from them. Keep your appointments.

     If you find peace in prayer, or meditation, music, running, anything that works for you, make yourself do it. Don’t sacrifice your wellness for fear of being stigmatized. You are not alone.

      I have spent my entire life fighting major depressive disorder, panic attacks, anxiety, self-harm and dermatillomania and it is NOT because I am weak, because I want attention, because I haven't been a strong enough Christian or strong enough person, not because some doctor told me so or that some people just can't handle feeling bad. It's none of that. 

       Depression is as real a medical problem as a congenital disease or a concussion.

You don't have to apologize for it. 



Words and Art Copyright Sabrina Walsh, 2017.

The Promised Post

Hi. 

I realize my following is not large. But I thought I'd let you guys know what's happened in the past few months, as well as what is coming in the near future. 

I finished school, I got a job, I quit my job, I'm going back to school. I'm moving away from everything I have ever been familiar with to a city I've been to a grand total of three times. I barely know what I'm doing. And frankly, I have not had time to be creative enough to draw. 

So I have finally gotten the energy to come up with a few post ideas. There are several in the works right now. Seriously. The drawings are right here, trapped beneath a cat. I haven't slept for, like, twenty-five hours as of right now and I have had plenty of time to get started on a few stories.

I will have more than enough time in the next few months to write and draw and, above all else, try to make you laugh.That's the whole point of RWC. 

So, be on the lookout. Also I am currently accepting donations of caffeine from anyone within coffee-buying/my house distance, as my car is dead. I think that it is a sign from the heavens that driving out on an actual street in a giant, metal machine for coffee would be a very poor decision on my part. Thank you.  

Frizzun Chickun Pls

            Siblings often see more of us in than we do ourselves. My sister sees me with absolute clarity. Sydney knows my every vice, habits, and secret. If there is any person I can look to to find out who I will become, it's her. And I guess it goes both ways for us. There is a certain freedom in being utterly weird when you have someone else to share it with. Few people know how awesome my sister's weird side is. It brings more laughter and light to my life than any other person or any other funny thing in the world. That aside, she's prone to strange sayings and epiphanies. I finally just started writing them down whenever it happened. 

My childhood was mostly comprised of tormenting this small, loud beast with whom I shared a bedroom.  We had a three-year gap between us, which was, to my six-year-old, apple-juice-addled mind, the most exquisitely inconvenient age gap a set of siblings could share. For the next six years or so, I felt she hindered my potential genius. I felt like I'd been cheated. I was destined to be a modern-day shaman, but all I had for an apprentice was this super chill toddler that licked me on road trips until I was old enough to sit in the front seat.

        

            Being the philistine that she was, she had a hostile reaction to live music from a young age. One of my earliest memories of my sister is from when I was singing the Kenny Loggins song from Tigger Movie. 

            Ah, yes. I should probably explain. Some time ago we began to call each other Gooby. It has been our mutual nickname ever since.

            The majesty of siblinghood knows no bounds. Sydney and I share our deepest desires with each other. For example, she adores Tyson chicken nuggets. It is only through years of trust and friendship that I have realized that it's not just a friendly kind of love. It's a once-in-a-lifetime love, the desperate kind worthy of poetry and many tears. The way she asks me to buy them for her when we're buying groceries is heart-rending.

            As I live with her, I am privy to her angsty musings. The teenage mind is a strange beast. From her theory for the reasoning behind celebrity crushes to the true nature of the moustache, I get to hear it all. For what these moments lack in relevance and sense, they make up for in comedic timing and quaintness, and listening to her rambles has an almost enlightening feel to it.

            Mm. These are the days of our lives, man. I'm so glad I have the relationship I have with Sydney while we're this age. The stories of the times we've had make excellent blackmail.     

words and art copyright 2014 by Sabrina Smith

My Own Brand Of Legendary

     I reached a new level of stupidity a few weeks back. Several Fridays ago, I was making lunch for my dad, happy and free. My emotions and mental energy were wrapped around a 2002 miniseries on the life of Napoleon. At one point I came across an unusually stubborn package of liverwurst. Now, I am not a deft person, particularly with knives. As I pulled my kitchen knife up to slice the plastic, I failed to notice that the knife edge was facing up, and I was pulling that edge towards my face. Nor did I realize that I was using the sharpest knife in my house. So, like any normal person, I was shocked when the knife suddenly popped up through the plastic and smacked into my own dumb face. 

    MY OWN FACE TRIED TO COMMIT HARA-KIRI.

    I stood there for a moment in shock, eyes closed, before reaching up to feel my face. My hand came down covered with blood, and I froze. From the outside, I seemed merely stunned, but for a brief moment there I wondered if I'd stabbed myself in the eye, or perhaps chopped the upper half of my face off. 

   I steeled myself and felt around again. My eyeball was still there, but I could make out a deep cut above my eyebrow. Still holding the knife, I ran to the bathroom. As I prodded the gash in my forehead, I wondered what sort of opportunity this might hold. What amazing stories might I weave around this new scar? What excuses might I make, what yarns might I spin to make this story seem less stupid?

     I couldn't think of any. 
     As my family and friends found out what the lame half-inch-long cut above my eyebrow was from, I had nothing to tell them but the truth. They weren't surprised at any of it, except for the apparent small miracle that I hadn't actually hit my eye. 

     It was then that I realized that, through years of experience, I have built up a repertoire of klutziness. So much so that I can't faze anyone who knows me well, unless it involves an amputation or a wake. And somehow that kind of inspired me. I may not be a hardcore falcon-wielding lone ranger with an eyepatch, a source of lores and legends, but I guess I have my own legacy. I'm as graceful as an undead manatee. With all the force of a great typhoon. So I have that going for me: my own brand of legendary. 

Dream big, guys.

words and art copyright 2013 by Sabrina Smith

I Hate It When That Happens

     When my bedtime rolls around, Mr. Sandman generally has better places to be. I've had trouble falling asleep since I was pretty young. My sleep patterns go through cycles. I fall asleep at gradually later and later times, and every few months I end up staying up all night, and it resets itself. This happened again a few weeks ago, on a Saturday night. I tried not to pay attention to the clock, but I couldn't help but notice the sky getting lighter and lighter. I kept telling myself it wasn't too late yet, and that sweet, sweet repose would soon fall upon me. But I lied.

 

 

 

 

 

      As 4:00, 5:00, 6:00 came and went, I drank a pot of coffee and watched the sun rise over the valley, something I hadn't seen for a long time. I decided to stay awake until evening and fall asleep at a decent time, rather than sleep all day. Every time I felt remotely drowsy, I sucked down another cup of coffee. Things started to feel so surreal, like my brain was separate from my body and the things I said and did.

 

     I stumbled around my house in frustration. Finally, I resorted to a can of Full Throttle and took my sister to Target.

     I felt pretty alert, so we went to see Oblivion at our local discount theatre, where we sat in a dark, empty room for half an hour. I started to feel the energy escape me with with the same ease with which convicts escape Arkham, and by the time the movie began, I was barely hanging on.

   

     

     The movie was longer than I'd expected. We walked into the main entrance of the theatre. I was so tired.

 

 

 

 

     At this point my sister and I both decided that it was probably best if I didn't drive. I called our mom and told her I was too tired to drive and asked her to pick us up.

 

 

        My sister and I sat in my car while we waited. We both marveled at my weirdness. It became less and less funny the longer I thought about it.

 

 

      On the entire ride home, I cried. I pondered the deep questions of the world. I laughed at my own jokes. I chewed my nails and thought the world was angry with me. I thought I was utterly insane, and to make things worse, I couldn't stop crying. Every time I stopped, some new tragic thing would come to mind, and I would resume sobbing in my Honey Bunches of Oats. 

     I never want to feel that weird again. Since that day, I've been trying to go to sleep earlier, keeping distractions out of my room at night, and waking up at the same time every day. But in all seriousness, even though my addled mind was under the impression my world was ending when I finally fell asleep that night, when I woke up to go to work the next morning, my first thought was, "This has to go on the blog." As long as you people get a chuckle out of it, the whole experience was well worth it. 

     Now go to bed, you noobs. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Usually This Is Healthy

     Today we're gonna have a guest writer, ladies and gents. My mom, when she was sixteen.

     Recently she found an old English paper marked 2/2/87, nicely typed. It was about one of her few running experiences. She's 16 at the time of its writing. It sounds eerily like...me.

     I have also drawn visual aids to assist your imaginations as you read. Here you go.

Stefanie Black

College Comp.

#3, Essay

2/2/87

     I like to be a spectator at most sports, and I even enjoy particiating in most of them, but if there is one sport I detest above all, it is jogging. Jogging, to me, is not a sport in the true sense of the word. You see, the word "sport" usually implies something that people would do for enjoyment as well as for recreation. Therefore, jogging does not qualify as a sport, although I admit that there are those insane fanatics who do indeed derive some pleasure from relentlessly jarring their bodies down miles of road every day. I must be the exception. They say that jogging's good for circulation, respiration, and perspiration, but I've seen whole rooms full of people getting more stimulation watching the second half of the Super Bowl.

     I learned firsthand about the wonder and exhilaration of jogging while visiting my favorite aunt in California one year. I also experienced the feeling of completely jellied knees, and of having displaced various internal organs, some of which have never fully recovered.

     To begin with, I see no reason why any normal person should, while on vacation, feel a need to atone for their sins, but California is a strange land. Thus, I found myself donning the uniform of a jogger and blindly following my aunt's "exercise routine" at 10:00 a.m. 

"Believe me, Stef," she told me enthusiastically, "you won't believe how great it is to be out there, jogging down a peaceful country road, early in the morning. The view is also really incredible--you'll love it!" I wished we could just drive down to see this great view.

     Before leaving, however, I learned that the conscientous jogger will not jog without first warming up with a "few calisthenics," I figured out that this tradition was started to either a) put off the moment of departure, or, b) to get the body into a state of semi-shock beforehand.

     A "few calisthenics" and a half-hour later, I was ready to take on Jane Fonda--after I regained consciousness.

     "Now," said my aunt triumphantly, "we're ready to go!" I started to ask her if she'd mind terribly if I stayed home and kept track of Donahue for her, but she ignored my pleas and helped me "briskly" walk the half-mile driveway to the road where, she promised, I'd find relaxation and contentment. At the main road, after looking around briefly, I announced:  

     She said it was okay, and that they were just down the road a piece. Now, understand that there is no known measurement for a "piece," and in this case it stood for about ten miles. I doubted I'd ever see them again.

     On that cheery note, we set off down what really did look like a peaceful, country road. However, contrary to popular myths, California is not only a land of sunshine and freeways, but of avid country drivers, and the left-over monsoons from Asia. It was probably one of these little monsoons which caused the twenty-foot-long-two-feet-deep "puddles."

      I thought that the land of 1,000 lakes was Michigan or someplace like that. I figured that with the new average of 1.6 cars per minute and forty-five of those killer puddles for every mile, within three minutes I'd start growing seaweed on the north side of my sweatsuit.

     Undaunted by the continual stream of cars and water, my aunt kept going on and on. I began to notice a small pain in my side and decided that it was probably the cause of the spots I was now seeing, but being brave is part of being a good sport. I think my aunt's body was numbed to the abuse it was being subjected to, because she found it possible to keep up a running conversation (literally) with me. Probably trying to keep me from passing out. 

    I made a choking sound that meant a lot of things and kept jogging.

     The miles rolled on by until, at some blessed, unseen command she stopped running. From behind, concentrating on the "exhilaration" of all this, I stumbled into her outstretched arm and collapsed facedown on the grass.

     I stayed there awhile, and then noticed that the buzzing I'd been hearing was my aunt's voice. She was still pointing toward some distant misty hills covered with sheep and silhouetted nicely against the returning monsoon clouds. 

     Her eyes gleamed. 

    I stood up and focused on one sheep until it stopped spinning and the scene was no longer in black and white. "Yes," I said between gasping breaths, "Nice. How do we get home?"

     She shrugged flippantly. 

     I thanked her for the experience and crawled home alone.







Words and art by Sabrina Smith copyright 2013