Someone Like Me

I’ve told myself many, many times over the years…

“Look on the bright side.”

“Be positive.”

“Get over it.”

“Think of your family.”

“Choose to live.”

I look on the bright side. I am positive. I get over it. I think of my family. I choose to live.

Every. Day. I do these things.

I do it with gratitude. I do it with love. I do it with anger. I do it with exhaustion.

I’ve bargained. I’ve cried. I’ve even tried to leave a couple of times.

I am still here. You are reading this because I am still here.

I do these things not because I can't but because I can. I do these things as a reminder to myself and as a reminder to you. I do these things so that you won't have to lose another someone like me.

You should know that as someone who lives with depression, anxiety, suicidal tendencies, these things--these words--of "looking on the bright side" or "choosing to live" or "do it for your family", these words that are said so nonchalantly may come easily for others, but they are quite a hurdle for someone like me. Please don't say them to someone like me.

Please know that if there is anything you should know about someone like me, know this:

When I am positive, when I smile, and when I see life through a brighter lens—no matter how few they are—please know that these moments are victorious for me.

Every day when I write, whether it is a post or an email or a text, you should know that I’ve revised it several times before you even see it. I’m afraid that it is too dark. I’m afraid that I’ve revealed too much.

I've written and I've walked away more times than not.

I write because I love it but I hate it just as much. It takes me back there. Back to where I have to choose again: to be positive, to get over it, to think of my family, to live.

When I smile, when I write, when I share, please know that although it may not always be happy and positive, it is still me contending with myself and hoping that I do not come out on the other side a darker version of me.

Please know that there may not be anything that you can say or do to help me, but you should know that you are still part of the process.

Everyday when I wake up I do these things: I pray, I stretch, I get coffee, I turn on my sunlamp (I love my sunlamp), I meditate, I take my vitamins, I take my meds. I do these things because I am afraid that I cannot let the mental and physical parts of me start in the dark. I know my anxiety is already there.

As someone who lives with depression, anxiety, suicidal tendencies, I have to be cognizant of anything that may compromise my immune system. A cold or flu may take someone else out for a few days or maybe a week, but for someone like me it can drop me into the depths of darkness. Not always, but for even the one time that it does, it can be crippling.

Please know that I live with depression. Please know that I live with anxiety. Please know that I live with suicidal tendencies.

I may not always live with them, but it is important that you know because there may come a time in the future when you will wonder whether or not I’ve made it.

Please know that I want to be there. I want to tell you that I've continued to walk out of the darkness, and I want to tell you that it is because of you knowing all of these things about someone like me that I will be there to tell you that I've made it.

Please know that is just a little bit of what it's like to know someone like me.

To Be A Daughter

I wonder what it must be like to be him.

I see him holding on to his crumbled pieces. I see the fear on his face. I see the pain held at bay so tightly that it almost seethes through the seams of his broken heart. But it is held together still with thread and needle, a patchwork part of him sewn back together time and time again.

I see him, not a drop, not a single drop of tear. Is it pride that holds him still? Does he wonder what everyone would think of him if he were to let it drop, just one little drop? Does it lead him to be stoic and full of unclaimed pain?

I don’t know what it is like to lose a child. I don’t know what happens to you when you have to walk out onto the ledge like that.

I’ve often wondered why the older generations preferred the birth of sons. I used to think it was cloaked in unequal gender roles, and perhaps it was, but I’ve learned to understand now that was equally cloaked in loss. To have a daughter was to mourn her from the moment she was born. We are daughters born with one foot in the family we are born into and one foot in the family we will marry into. We are born leaving.

Twice. He lost her. Twice. Once when she married and moved away. He mourned her, no longer the daughter under his care. To say goodbye and to know that her life, her future, her well-being belonged to someone else. And then again, when she died. He mourned her. I can’t even imagine it. To mourn her all of her life.

I don't wonder what it must be like to be him. I don't even want to.

Narrative via Hamilton

I cried at the end of Hamilton when Eliza sang her final song and stated “I put myself back in the narrative” and ended it with “who tells your story”. I saw Hamilton back in December with Tristan. I paid a heck of a lot of money. I went mostly for him because he had been talking about it and singing all the songs for four years now. I knew how popular it was. I knew who it was about. I knew who wrote it. But I wasn’t ready for all of the things I felt.

I watched while the stage was occupied by actors of different ethnicities. I watched while Asian actors portrayed Hamilton and Washington. I watched while black actors portrayed Burr and Eliza. I watched uneasily at first because I was unsure what would transpire. Then I watched in fascination, and finally I felt an overwhelming emotion come over me. It was important. It was a musical set in history about the founding fathers of America. It was sang in hip hop and rap. It was portrayed by actors who were descendants of immigrants, refugees, and slaves. It was powerful. It was about putting us back in the narrative. It was about us telling our story.

I sat in the audience overcome with so much emotion but afraid to feel it. Is this for real? I heard a comment about how talented Lin-Manuel Miranda was. I heard a woman say that this was her fourth time seeing Hamilton. They were both white. I looked around and saw faces who were not the same color as mine. I was surrounded in a sea of white. I thought, do you even know? Do you even know how important this musical is for me?

It's ok, though. In the end, the most important thing is that I know.

If you can, I encourage you all to go see it. It's not about the story. It's about the narrative. And, I do see it, the irony in how expensive it is to even see this musical, a musical that affects the very people who cannot even afford to go and see it. For those of you who can, please go see it. For those who can’t, just know…the narrative is changing.

May the Road Rise to Meet You

I used to be annoyed by, or better yet, jealous of the people who brought it, conquered it, slayed it…that mentality scared the frick out of me. I was the one who sat in the back of the classroom and prayed “Dear God, please do not pick me.” I was afraid that I wouldn’t rise to the challenge, and even if I did, it would be a road littered with a massive mess, unconquered and unslayed, and I definitely wouldn't have known what to bring. I’ve learned now that there are many ways to rise to a challenge. 

Now, I am in awe of the people who bring it, conquer it, slay it because I know I do not belong to that group. My group is vulnerable, conflicted, reluctant, unequivocally scared. My road is a mess, I conquer ungracefully, I slay unsteadily, and I still don't know what to bring, but I am at peace with that. 

I am rising to meet it.

To Bear Witness

This year, I am working on being more present. I am working on stepping into a space where time does not exist. For someone like me, and maybe someone like you too, it's hard as heck.

Most of my life is about timing: it’s time to go to college, it’s time to get married, it’s time to have children, it’s time to start dinner, it’s time to do homework, it’s time to go to sleep, it’s time to get up, it’s time to get ready for school, church, a meeting, run an errand, have fun, do nothing, anything in general has a timing to it. I am either waiting for time or thinking about a time that’s passed. The present is a gateway, and often times the gateway feels like a trap.

Today, I learned that to be present is to bear witness, and, wow, that turned the trap on its side. I have witnessed many things that shook me to the core, I think we all have. I did not and do not like being a witness because I felt and feel helpless. So just imagine my experience in trying to be present wrapped up in being a witness—the present helpless.

This year, I am learning to be more present, to bear witness...phew...to crawl out of that trap.

How Presence Shows Up

• Being present means slowing down my breath so that I can take deeper breaths so that I can feel the parts of my body that are well.
• Being present means identifying the parts of me that are in pain so that I seek help for it so that I can help them excel.
• Being present means I can identify when I am about to step into the worry so that I can brace myself for the drop.
• Being present means I can step in front of the anxiety so that I can gain control of it instead of letting it control me.
• Being present means that I have to stop running from the chaos and manage it before it devours me. 
• Being present means being able to see the horizon in light of the sunrise and knowing that the day has more to offer than it does to take.