21 Comics that capture the frustrations of depression
If words cannot make you understand Depression, I hope the comics did all the talking to explain what it's like for us.
Here's my favorite
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Depression in Art
On a lighter note, here's a link to the site that showed the frustrations of the depressed.
21 Comics that capture the frustrations of depression
If words cannot make you understand Depression, I hope the comics did all the talking to explain what it's like for us.
Here's my favorite
21 Comics that capture the frustrations of depression
If words cannot make you understand Depression, I hope the comics did all the talking to explain what it's like for us.
Here's my favorite
Stigmatized
This blog is already two years old. But I never had the courage to share this to my family and friends. There were times that I would attempt to put the URL site to my Instagram and Twitter accounts but after a short while, I would delete it.
The reason for not making this publicly known to my circle of friends is quite obvious. I am afraid to be (mis)judged. The stigma many people have attached for mental illnesses is something I am not ready to publicly break. I am a member of a respectable family. I am a teacher by profession. I am part of a supposedly "normal" world where only "normal" people are accepted. And to be part of this judgmental world where eccentric actuations such as getting angry in the public, being anxious when surrounded by people, getting obsessive-compulsive about something trivial, or feeling extremely sad for no reason are considered as MADNESS, it is difficult to move your way around and tell everyone, "Stop judging! You don't know and will probably never know how it would feel to be in their situation!" Because when you do just that, you may be called as also mad. Sad, right?
What's even more sad is when you can only start understanding them when a member of your family or your loved one is a victim of such a mental illness that led to suicide. Take this story for an example:
CNN Article: I was an accomplice to my brother's suicide
In the article, mental illness was something the sister took seriously only when her brother was already gone.
It's probably an insane dream where the world just seems more accepting and less judgmental of mental illnesses.
But still, I look forward to that day, when I can write a book about my own fight against depression and not be afraid of being judged by my own family and loved ones.
The reason for not making this publicly known to my circle of friends is quite obvious. I am afraid to be (mis)judged. The stigma many people have attached for mental illnesses is something I am not ready to publicly break. I am a member of a respectable family. I am a teacher by profession. I am part of a supposedly "normal" world where only "normal" people are accepted. And to be part of this judgmental world where eccentric actuations such as getting angry in the public, being anxious when surrounded by people, getting obsessive-compulsive about something trivial, or feeling extremely sad for no reason are considered as MADNESS, it is difficult to move your way around and tell everyone, "Stop judging! You don't know and will probably never know how it would feel to be in their situation!" Because when you do just that, you may be called as also mad. Sad, right?
What's even more sad is when you can only start understanding them when a member of your family or your loved one is a victim of such a mental illness that led to suicide. Take this story for an example:
CNN Article: I was an accomplice to my brother's suicide
In the article, mental illness was something the sister took seriously only when her brother was already gone.
It's probably an insane dream where the world just seems more accepting and less judgmental of mental illnesses.
But still, I look forward to that day, when I can write a book about my own fight against depression and not be afraid of being judged by my own family and loved ones.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Depression and Career
Lately, I have become more open to sharing my story of my illness to some colleagues and friends who I think are open-minded and understanding. There's one common question I got from my different circles of friends, "Good thing your job did not get affected." The thing is, it did affect my job. Big time.
When I started taking my medicines, I did not know what to expect for the side effects. My former doctor did not really warn me. Good thing my mom is a pharmacist and she researched on the medicine. There were many listed side effects. But which of those would affect me, we did not know yet.
Yawning was one funny side effect of the medicine. I would yawn at the unlikely time of the day. I would yawn when I was not really feeling sleepy. I would yawn, yawn, and yawn. Yawn at the average of 10 times in one hour. It was so unusual that I felt my facial muscles really feeling stretched out. It had the kind of muscle pain that anyone would feel after some stretching.
The worse effect came out in my teaching. There were many times I'd pause in the middle of a lecture because I'd suddenly feel dazed - like my mind is going to hibernate. I would stutter and get really lost for words and even ideas because my mind would slow down, and eventually freeze. Those times, I thought it was just me. There was just something wrong about me. But in retrospect and now that my body has adjusted to the medicine, I learned that it was all because of the medicine.
Right now, I would still have those side effects. But my body and mind seemed to have adjusted already. I learned the best time to take the medicine so it wouldn't have its bad effects during my teaching. I learned to listen to my body and give what my body says. If my body would feel really sleepy, I'll give her sleep. If I feel like I could not really drive, then I wouldn't drive.
The illness should not be taken lightly when choosing or managing a career.
nature therapy
The next day, when I opened my eyes, I resolved to make plans for myself - one of which is to make myself happy. I decided to go the local park I have been long wanted to go to. Alone. I was alone. It would seem or look sad to be alone but I prepped myself to be okay to be alone. I knew that to be alone means moving according to my own pace, without someone telling me to move faster and go home immediately. More importantly, doing things alone just to make myself happy means I am learning to not depend my happiness on anyone - not my family, not my boyfriend. I enjoyed the nature tripping. I walked along the pavements, enjoyed the sight of the luscious trees, and simply felt, alive and okay.
Philippine Hawk Eagle
White-bellied sea eagle
Philippine Serpent-eating Eagle
The park was actually simple and not really popular. But I am grateful that it is still there and open to the public. For only Php8.00 for the entrance fee and Php15.00 for the parking, it is definitely a good escape for those who need breathing space, solitude, and life.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
defeated for the day
Depression is bullshit.
No matter how hard she tries to fight it, she still breaks down. She takes her meds, she does her exercise, she tries to sleep early, she talks to people, and she smiles.
But when there are times, she's alone and all by herself ... that dark and heavy feeling would start crawling into her again. She would fight. Sometimes, she would win. She would paint and listen to music. If none of those is available, and it's a human being she needs to be with, she would feel defeated.
So, one night, she got an invitation to meet old friends. She met up with them in a bar. Bottles of beer filled the long table while the air was filled with smoke from the cigars. They were all in a drinking spree. In the midst of this, was a duo on stage singing songs to entertain them while they were supposed to enjoy their songs while talking (maybe, shouting) to each other. Oh, she was excited to see and experience that kind of environment once again. She thought to herself, "this is what I need!" She was offered a bottle of beer. But of course, she declined. The good girl that she is, the woman that she is who wants to take good care of herself and make sure she would be cured from her mental illness, declined that bottle of beer.
Suddenly, that dazed, heavy feeling knocked her head. She didn't fall down. She was still fighting that feeling while she was talking and listening to her old friends' stories. She was having a great time with them! But inside her, that feeling was shouting at her and telling her to go home and just sleep and feel defeated.
These are the happy times that she wouldn't want to miss but she would have to miss because her mind cannot just take in too much noise and too many things going on at the same time. It was surely fun but her mind probably felt shocked.
She went home. She slept. The next day when she woke up, that feeling - dazed and heavy on her head was still in her.
She still went on with her usual day. She forgot to take her meds before leaving home. She could just have missed the medicine for the day but she chose not too because she was already starting to feel restless, sad, and just spaced out. She dropped by at the nearest drug store and continued with her day.
Just like any Prozac, it made her feel sleepy. She was in a middle of lecture listening to a master when her head could not just help but fall asleep. Her eyes were closing and her hand that was writing notes, dropped the notebook.
She thought she could still handle the day. She diverted her attention. She thought she could look forward to spending the rest of the day with her friend. They could watch a movie together. But, he wasn't available.
She went home and slept for four straight hours. Sleeping that long in the afternoon doesn't do her good. But sleep was her only escape from feeling too much sadness.
She woke up and still felt sad.
She went to the mall and still felt sad.
She went home and still felt sad.
She started writing this, feeling sad.
No matter how hard she tries to fight it, she still breaks down. She takes her meds, she does her exercise, she tries to sleep early, she talks to people, and she smiles.
But when there are times, she's alone and all by herself ... that dark and heavy feeling would start crawling into her again. She would fight. Sometimes, she would win. She would paint and listen to music. If none of those is available, and it's a human being she needs to be with, she would feel defeated.
So, one night, she got an invitation to meet old friends. She met up with them in a bar. Bottles of beer filled the long table while the air was filled with smoke from the cigars. They were all in a drinking spree. In the midst of this, was a duo on stage singing songs to entertain them while they were supposed to enjoy their songs while talking (maybe, shouting) to each other. Oh, she was excited to see and experience that kind of environment once again. She thought to herself, "this is what I need!" She was offered a bottle of beer. But of course, she declined. The good girl that she is, the woman that she is who wants to take good care of herself and make sure she would be cured from her mental illness, declined that bottle of beer.
Suddenly, that dazed, heavy feeling knocked her head. She didn't fall down. She was still fighting that feeling while she was talking and listening to her old friends' stories. She was having a great time with them! But inside her, that feeling was shouting at her and telling her to go home and just sleep and feel defeated.
These are the happy times that she wouldn't want to miss but she would have to miss because her mind cannot just take in too much noise and too many things going on at the same time. It was surely fun but her mind probably felt shocked.
She went home. She slept. The next day when she woke up, that feeling - dazed and heavy on her head was still in her.
She still went on with her usual day. She forgot to take her meds before leaving home. She could just have missed the medicine for the day but she chose not too because she was already starting to feel restless, sad, and just spaced out. She dropped by at the nearest drug store and continued with her day.
Just like any Prozac, it made her feel sleepy. She was in a middle of lecture listening to a master when her head could not just help but fall asleep. Her eyes were closing and her hand that was writing notes, dropped the notebook.
She thought she could still handle the day. She diverted her attention. She thought she could look forward to spending the rest of the day with her friend. They could watch a movie together. But, he wasn't available.
She went home and slept for four straight hours. Sleeping that long in the afternoon doesn't do her good. But sleep was her only escape from feeling too much sadness.
She woke up and still felt sad.
She went to the mall and still felt sad.
She went home and still felt sad.
She started writing this, feeling sad.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
The power of two hands
I was already feeling that voice of sadness whispering in my head when my boyfriend left for home.
"You're alone, again" said that voice. It kept nagging at me. I closed my eyes, took a plunge onto my bed and entertained that voice. I told her, "So you're there again. Just because I'm physically alone, you're already taking advantage of my vulnerability."
And I knew then, that self-talk, that self-awareness that I was starting to feel sad, that I had to do something.
And I did. I forced myself up from the bed. I looked around me. A messy vanity table. And that buzzing vibrating sound from the aquarium's oxygen.
The sight and the sound that irritated me became my reason for my cleaning therapy. Yes, cleaning is also a therapy.
I haven't had my talk therapy for two months already. So I knew I had to make my way to help myself. An incident almost two months ago sort of pulled me back from getting my talk therapy. That's a different story.
So, I helped myself. I got my hands that cleaned the mess and removed the irritating sound . I also got my heart that desired to help myself.
My still living and breathing self and the desire to help that self... powerful.
"You're alone, again" said that voice. It kept nagging at me. I closed my eyes, took a plunge onto my bed and entertained that voice. I told her, "So you're there again. Just because I'm physically alone, you're already taking advantage of my vulnerability."
And I knew then, that self-talk, that self-awareness that I was starting to feel sad, that I had to do something.
And I did. I forced myself up from the bed. I looked around me. A messy vanity table. And that buzzing vibrating sound from the aquarium's oxygen.
The sight and the sound that irritated me became my reason for my cleaning therapy. Yes, cleaning is also a therapy.
I haven't had my talk therapy for two months already. So I knew I had to make my way to help myself. An incident almost two months ago sort of pulled me back from getting my talk therapy. That's a different story.
So, I helped myself. I got my hands that cleaned the mess and removed the irritating sound . I also got my heart that desired to help myself.
My still living and breathing self and the desire to help that self... powerful.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)