A little over three years ago I emerged from a second bout of depression. The first time was post partum in 2000. I quit my anti-depressant cold-turkey, just like they tell you not to. Yeah, it wasn’t the best decision of my life, but I got through the physiological side effects all by myself.
Why did I quit and how did I get through the depression and anxiety without medicine? Intestinal fortitude. I decided to get over myself. I heard this phrase again recently and I flashed back to the decision of doing it for myself.
I had dissected, evaluated and relived all the reasons why I was depressed to the point I was sick of myself. I was done. I decided no more excuses and definitely never to give control and power to my fears and anxiety ever again. It took less than a 60-second conversation with myself, and I was cured. It was a beautiful moment. Three weeks of drug withdrawal were a little more involved but I feel like a real survivor. It was exactly three years ago this weekend that I was finally over it.
Since then, I have lived through two awful life experiences and I’m working on a third, but no depression. I have met each moment head-on with my chin up in defiance. But, I haven’t done it alone. So many people have been an inspiration for me to be the better version of myself. Depression closes you off from all of them when you need them the most.
The more I let people into my life and the more I involve myself with others, the easier life is overall. I realize my struggles are similar to others; my disappointments and anxieties are shared by many. I don’t feel alone and different. Life really is too short to give in to moments of self-pity, self-doubt and self-denial. As one of the best quotes from one of my favorite movies says, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Everyone has to decide for themselves.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Reminiscence of Gold
While shucking fresh ears of corn I picked up at the market today, I became fully immersed into a memory I had no idea I had. The sound of pulling back the husks, the feel of the soft silk and the smell of the raw sweetness overcame me.
The July day was a typical hot, humid Carolina summer haze. And, it was time to harvest and put up some corn from my grandparents grand garden. My Papa had been at it for hours, pulling corn by hand, lost in his long rows as tall as buildings. When the wheelbarrows of ears were dumped into a pile as tall as me underneath the shade trees, my Nanny put us to work.
Picking out corn silk was not my favorite thing to do. Shelling butter beans was much more fun. But, this hot day called for peeling back the husks in hopes of finding the biggest cutworm to scare my sister. Of course, my Uncle Kyle, only six years older than me, looked for the same to scare me.
The ears of gold went into huge pans and buckets to wash them then taken inside to prepare for blanching and freezing. “Putting up a mess of corn” was what my Nanny called it. I always thought “a mess” was what the process was because every surface in the kitchen would be covered up with corn. It was always with particular pride that I would hear my Nanny tell people later exactly how many ears and how many quarts of corn she had put in her freezer chest.
My Nanny doesn’t freeze or can vegetables anymore and my Papa barely keeps a garden. It’s just too much for them. Despite hating the hot work then, the memory was a gift of gold that I unwrapped again while shucking corn in the quiet coolness of my own kitchen.
The July day was a typical hot, humid Carolina summer haze. And, it was time to harvest and put up some corn from my grandparents grand garden. My Papa had been at it for hours, pulling corn by hand, lost in his long rows as tall as buildings. When the wheelbarrows of ears were dumped into a pile as tall as me underneath the shade trees, my Nanny put us to work.
Picking out corn silk was not my favorite thing to do. Shelling butter beans was much more fun. But, this hot day called for peeling back the husks in hopes of finding the biggest cutworm to scare my sister. Of course, my Uncle Kyle, only six years older than me, looked for the same to scare me.
The ears of gold went into huge pans and buckets to wash them then taken inside to prepare for blanching and freezing. “Putting up a mess of corn” was what my Nanny called it. I always thought “a mess” was what the process was because every surface in the kitchen would be covered up with corn. It was always with particular pride that I would hear my Nanny tell people later exactly how many ears and how many quarts of corn she had put in her freezer chest.
My Nanny doesn’t freeze or can vegetables anymore and my Papa barely keeps a garden. It’s just too much for them. Despite hating the hot work then, the memory was a gift of gold that I unwrapped again while shucking corn in the quiet coolness of my own kitchen.
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