I knew it was coming. When my boss told me on a Friday that he wanted to meet on Monday, I figured it couldn’t be good. We weren’t getting along, my boss and I, and while I’d seen him fight — red-faced and shouting — with other writers at the magazine, the silent tension in his jawline when I spoke to him seemed more ominous than a raised voice. (more…)
I am sitting in a social worker’s office. It’s my first therapy session. I don’t know what I will say. All I know is that I will say quite a lot of things I’ve never wanted to tell anybody ever before. (more…)
The red numbers on the clock bleed into the darkness. Soon the room lurches into focus as my eyes shake off sleepiness. 5:32 AM.
My arms feel heavy as I begin to shift. My mind is buzzing from the night before—I’m still drunk. As my senses wake up, I smell something musty, sour. I start to turn over in bed and then I realize. Oh my god. It’s in my hair! It’s everywhere. It’s vomit, caked in my hair, down the length of the bed, trailing from the bathroom.
I get up quickly (too quickly, if you ask my hangover) and stumble into the bathroom. My eyes are wide, staring back at me from the mirror. A single contact has dried and stuck to my cheek. I’m still in my party clothes. (more…)
“How was the class trip to the aquarium?” asked my husband Steve at dinner that night. “The bus ride was crappy, with all the loudmouthed kids screaming their freaking heads off,” I replied, casually. “But when we got to Baltimore it was better. I was in a small group with one of the dads, and at least he kept his goddamned mouth shut.”
I still remember the variety of reactions around the table. Julie, my fifth grader, who had actually been there with me, looked scared. High schooler PJ barely glanced up from his plate. Our Swiss exchange student, Maurus, looked puzzled. (A lot of things about the US puzzled him. Maybe he thought all American moms swore like sailors.) Steve looked sad, and resigned. Throughout the rest of the meal, my frequent comments were shot through with profanity and negativity—in other words, the new normal for me. (more…)
This is part two of Miriam’s story about coping with depression. Read part one here.
It has been three months since I was diagnosed with depression. Three long, grueling months of cajoling, prodding and pushing myself to put one foot in front of the other. It is an uphill battle with glimpses of successes. My mother says that getting through each day is an achievement. I want to believe her, but I cannot help comparing myself to how I was before the episode.
The mornings are especially challenging. I have always been one to snooze my alarm clock for a few extra minutes of sleep, but nowadays waking up means facing a new day of uncertainties and insecurities. There seems to be a force keeping me from looking at the day as fresh and invigorating. The bounce in my step has disappeared. (more…)