Tag #depression

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Toggling between grief, depression, and happiness

Warrior Megsie 4 Comments

***Trigger Warning***

I’ve been toggling between being in a very dark place and remaining in the moment lately. There have been many reasons to feel excited, happy, and like I’m truly using my talent the past few weeks.

· Began acting classes at the Alliance Theatre and faced my fear of chemo brain affecting my ability to memorize lines again.

·  My latest blog piece on WebMD was featured on their main page for 1 ½ days earlier this week.

·  I was in a fashion show for Macy’s in Buford, GA with some other cancer survivors/patients.

·  Met up with a cancer friend from the Elephants and Tea community who was in town this week.

So why am I still struggling to keep the darkness at bay?

I’ve had suicidal thoughts in the past. I’ve battled depression since high school. I acknowledge there is scary darkness within and work hard to push those thoughts away. So far, my sheer will, and stubbornness have kept me from stepping off the ledge. I’m a huge proponent of therapy. I’ve been in therapy off and on for years. My current therapist has helped me push through some fear, shame, and insecurities that have been holding me back, so why do I still feel these breakthroughs and accomplishments are fleeting?

I think grief + depression isn’t talked about enough. There are so many layers of both. One minute you think you’re handling things pretty well and even feel some joy and like a weight has been lifted. In the next moment, you’re in a puddle of tears and struggling to get out of bed and face the day. The palpable grief of loss and the overwhelming feeling of depression continuously seek to suffocate and crush me. I often question the point of my life, even when things are going well.

September and October are particularly difficult months for me due to major losses and tragedies that have happened. They throw me down the rabbit hole of grief and depression.

·  The 6-year anniversary of the cancer call was September 14, which changed my life forever.

·  The anniversary of a personal tragedy is this month.

·  Mourning yet more friends who have died from stage iv cancer.

·   I’ve been medically induced into menopause officially four years now.

Almost every speaker at a cancer conference or any conference, especially when it’s a woman speaking, always talks of how their husband and kids keep them going, etc. Well, I have neither, so what is the point of me pushing through the struggles in my life? I don’t have a legacy to pass down. The items I’ve saved and treasured since I was a child through college mean nothing to everyone but me.

I get ticked off when I mention this to people who have a spouse and kids and they say no one cares about the sentimental things and to just toss them. I think many miss the point. To me, it is the story that I want to share with every picture or sentimental item because it’s about my life. I’m an only child. I don’t have nieces or nephews. The realization that my name and memories end with me is a continuous gut punch.

I still don’t physically recognize myself. I consistently struggle with this unnatural chemo-induced curly hair that has made a comeback thanks to more hair falling out due to a certain hair product reaction. I’ve been struggling with my weight since my mid-30’s thanks to all the different antidepressants, hormone changes, and now induced menopause. Then add all the steroids from chemo and the many, many surgeries and steroids post-treatment, no wonder I’m presently the size of a southern whale!

When I make the statement the right man for me doesn’t exist in this life, it makes others uncomfortable. I know it would be different if I fit into a category, but I’m deemed “too different” by the bulk of men. Black and white people have said this basically my whole life.

I continue to deal with chronic pain, weight gain, unnaturally curly hair, soul-crushing loss of what can never be, and what I didn’t know I wanted until all my lady parts were removed along with zero sex drive. Existing in this Black skin, in this country, and in this body, adds an even deeper layer of grief and depression that I don’t have the energy to address at the moment.

I honestly don’t know why I keep going to therapy. I suppose it’s my natural resilience to keep pushing forward. Still, the enormity of these permanent and unwanted changes literally sucks my breath away.

And now I’m going to wake my cat Baby Natey (Nathan Edgar) up because I need a hug.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

When the Strong Weep 5.0

Warrior Megsie 16 Comments

I was dealing with depression and anxiety long before cancer. Now I feel the most fragile I’ve ever felt. Just when I think I have a handle on things, everything explodes. I’ve written about this in the past. What happens when the strong need to weep? They weep alone.

I’ve struggled finding people to talk to and let my guard down, really and truly let my guard down. What tends to happen is they listen for a few minutes and then inevitably tell me the following:

You’re so strong.

You’ve got this.

Be positive.

This goes on for a few minutes until the shift happens where I become their therapist and shoulder their pain and their fears.  They assume I’ll be just fine and can handle anything.

When others can’t handle hearing your fears or darkness because your “normal” personality is sunny and zany, that’s pressure to always appear okay. That’s my current situation. Heck, it’s been my ongoing situation.

The chronic pain makes it harder to keep my emotions in-check. I no longer have the energy to keep up the appearance of being okay. I don’t get a break from what my cancer treatments and multiple surgeries have done to me. I wake up hurting every morning and go to bed hurting every night.

I’ve been very down on myself about my weight and being chronically single. I grow even more frustrated with being told the following:

Weight isn’t everything.

Dating or relationships are overrated.

You’re your own worst critic.

Not understanding my body and loneliness just adds to my depression.

Sure, I’m resilient. I don’t know where that comes from, but I somehow always get back up after being slammed to the ground over and over and over again. I’ve wanted to give up, but my nature just won’t let me.

I don’t want to be alone.

It’s not fair.

It’s not easy.

Wading through the darkness while leaping from one friend to another, sharing spurts of what’s hurting the soul but knowing there’s no one shoulder big enough to hold all your darkness is my daily struggle.

This is what strong people do.

Hurting to Heal

Warrior Megsie 3 Comments

***Trigger Warning***

I’ve been in a very dark place lately. It’s honestly the darkest I’ve been in a few years. I was reaching out to friends seeking words of comfort and compassion. Instead, I felt like most have been trying to “fix” me. The whole adage of “You have to want the change” or “You have the power to change your mindset” or “You should seek therapy if depressed” no longer speak to me. The power of thinking positive no longer works for me. Why?

I was on Instagram this morning. I follow a lot of writers and sites that post quotes. The post I read today is what gave me the push I needed to step back from the ledge. This one below from Digesting Grace spoke to me in the way I needed. It spoke to my soul.

Before I saw that post above, I was starting to plan how I would end my life. I’ve had suicidal thoughts in the past. I’ve battled depression since high school. I acknowledge there is a scary darkness within and work hard to push those thoughts away. So far, my sheer will, and stubbornness has kept me from stepping off the ledge. I’m a huge proponent of therapy. I’ve been in therapy for years until recently.

I realized yesterday that my stress level keeps reaching new highs. The palpable grief is either following me or crushing me. I’ve been questioning the point of my life.

I’m in many online cancer support groups. I always see posts of how their husband and kids keep them going, etc. Well, I have neither, so what is the point of my struggle? I don’t have a legacy to pass down. The items I’ve saved and treasured since I was a child through college mean nothing to everyone but me. I can talk about it with friends and their kids, but they won’t fully understand or truly have a vested interest on the level I do because I’m not related to them.

Why would they care that my college cheerleading jacket looks as pristine as the day I received it?

Why would they care about the meaning behind all my tiaras?

Why would they care about my many, many photo albums and journals?

Why would they care about my beloved scrapbooks?

I then realized the following stressors:

  • The anniversary of a personal tragedy is this week.
  • My three-year cancerversary of my lumpectomy/reconstruction and the nightmare of waking up in the recovery room with blood soaking my sheets behind me because none of the nurses saw a tube was loose until I sat up is this week.
  • My one month of leaving the Catholic faith forever is this week.
  • It has been a month since the shingles insanity and stopping the post-cancer medication with my oncologist’s approval.
  • My next mammogram with MRI is on April 1st.
  • I’ve been medically induced into menopause officially two years now.

I don’t physically recognize myself. I consistently struggle with this unnatural chemo-induced curly hair. It will never be naturally straight again. This is it. I’ve been struggling with my weight since I turned 30 thanks to all the different antidepressants, hormone changes and now induced menopause. I was always very thin but muscular up until my 30th birthday. Then add all the steroids from chemo and the many, many surgeries and steroids post-treatment, no wonder I’m presently the size of a southern whale!

When I make the statement the right man for me doesn’t exist in this life, I’m consistently told the right man will love me no matter what size I am. Well, that’s untrue. I’ve always been drawn to preppy or artsy men.  

I’ll talk about race for a hot minute.

I’ve always been teased and bullied by the bulk of black men and women growing up and as an adult. I’m “different” and constantly told over the years that I dress, act and sound white. I’ve heard this within my own family, too. How about I dress, act and sound like an intelligent woman with a bit of flair?

Then I always hear from the bulk of white men and women that I “speak so well” and “you don’t act like you’re black.” What does that even mean?!

When I was Catholic, I would always have white men and women asking me if I go to the black Catholic church. It’s blow after blow of realizing they don’t see me as a woman of this parish. They see me as a black woman of this parish, and therefore, should go to the black parish.

The only type of men I seem to attract (except when I lived in LA) even when I was a size 6 are black thugs with gold teeth or creepy, old white guys. There was the occasional “my type” but the timing or compatibility wasn’t there. That is why I can make the statement that I won’t find love in this life.

When I look at my features (especially when thinner), I’ve always seen more than “just black.” My mother is biracial, and my father is black. My international friends are the only ones who actually notice that I’m a mix of a unique recipe in a beautiful and positive way. ­

I continue to deal with chronic pain, weight gain, unnaturally curly hair, soul crushing loss of what can never be, and what I didn’t know I wanted until all my lady parts were removed with zero sex drive. The enormity of these permanent and unwanted changes literally sucks my breath away.

Yet, seeing that post from Digesting Grace on Instagram this morning has given me the gentle but powerful nudge to find that miracle in my darkness. I suppose that’s what being resilient is all about.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie