I want to talk to you today about triggers...and not the horse...although we can talk about horses. They are great therapeutic animals, braiding their manes, riding them...unless they buck you off when you try to drunkenly climb on their back and you break your ass...or in medical terms...coccyx...true story. It happened. And it hurt...for a long time. I don't recommend it. The combing and braiding of hair I fully support though.
My first horse was Peanut. A Shetland pony devil. She tried to kill me on a daily. But she loved to play beauty shop. Until I cut her bangs...then she was like gurrl...and we went back to me trying to ride her and her trying to behead me by running under low hanging branches. Suffice to say, we came to the conclusion that I shouldn't be her stylist and our friendship was best served if I sang her Dolly Parton songs. "Me and Little Andy" was her favorite...or maybe mine and she just went along with it. She would lay down in the field and I would put my head on her big horse belly and sing my heart out. We were content.
My next horse was Pretty Boy. I don't think I ever rode him. I just petted him. No hair styling and no potential beheading. For some crazy reason, every horse I have had or met since I have named Pretty Boy...even the girl horses. The horse that broke my ass was originally named White Socks. I have a feeling he preferred Pretty Boy...because who doesn't want to be a pretty boy? I am not mad about the ass breaking because I wouldn't want a drunk person trying to ride me either.
Yeah, I totally got sidetracked. I was meaning to talk about triggers. Not horses, triggers for depression. This time of year is a huge trigger for me. What I've learned in coping with depression is to avoid triggers. Easier said than done, because triggers are everywhere. I've tried to stay off facebook because when I am triggered, I will get into stupid fights. I will post rude comments. Usually regarding politics and I really don't know shit or give a shit about politics.
My uncle sent me a text telling me that reading between the lines of my comments, he saw a little girl who is hurting and he wishes he could make it better for me. I love you, too, J. I am a 40 year old woman, but still that eight year old girl singing to her horse...Just Me and Little Andy...if you don't know that song...you tube it. It's sad. It's lonely and scared. It's me.
I am not putting this out there for sympathy. I had a good childhood. I was surrounded by people who loved me, but there was always something missing. Depression has always been a part of my life...a part I kept hidden. It was shameful.
I am no longer ashamed. I can talk about it now. And I want to talk about it. I want you to talk about it. You as in the plural...you as in anyone who has or is suffering from this shitty ass disease.
Yes, Noelle's death has depressed me, but my depression started long before she died. It is a part of me...like my curly hair...like my size 5 feet. Like my self depreciating jokes...my brown eyes. It's genetic. But I've learned it doesn't have to define me. I can be more than my depression...you can too. Find your triggers...look them in the eye and say, "Fuck you, trigger...I ain't playing your game. I'm not going to let you put me in a depression coma. I'm going to make you my bitch." Look at me being all gansta. And yes, I realize that overcoming depression is not as simple as those previous sentences. But having a positive mindset is a good first step.
I went to my psychiatrist the other day and told her the ten thousandth antidepressant she has tried to put me on didn't work. I know there aren't ten thousand antidepressants...I'm prone to exaggeration...I felt like a failure because antidepressants don't work for me. I've done the alphabet...Abilify to Prozac...there's probably one that starts with a Z that I have taken too. She told me, "No, you aren't a failure. And you are going to be okay. You are getting better every time I see you." Yay! She isn't scheduling me for a trip to the mental hospital! That's a big plus!
In addition to the psychiatrist, I have been seeing a counselor. If you live in my area, her name is Carolyn Parks. She does non-traditional therapy including meditation, Reiki, and hypnosis. She has helped me tremendously.
Of course with my fucked up brain, I can't meditate...she tells me to picture a beach and all I see is a black wall. We are working on that. Maybe my "beach" is Peanut, the horse. Maybe one day my triggers will lead me back to Granny Mary's field and that mean ass Shetland pony and we (well me...cause horses can't sing) will change the song to "I Will Always Love You", or "Two Doors Down"... cause that's more upbeat.
Depression sucks...but I don't. "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." -Stuart Smalley (youtube that too...it's funny)
Most importantly...keep singing...keep hoping...keep living...
My next horse was Pretty Boy. I don't think I ever rode him. I just petted him. No hair styling and no potential beheading. For some crazy reason, every horse I have had or met since I have named Pretty Boy...even the girl horses. The horse that broke my ass was originally named White Socks. I have a feeling he preferred Pretty Boy...because who doesn't want to be a pretty boy? I am not mad about the ass breaking because I wouldn't want a drunk person trying to ride me either.
Yeah, I totally got sidetracked. I was meaning to talk about triggers. Not horses, triggers for depression. This time of year is a huge trigger for me. What I've learned in coping with depression is to avoid triggers. Easier said than done, because triggers are everywhere. I've tried to stay off facebook because when I am triggered, I will get into stupid fights. I will post rude comments. Usually regarding politics and I really don't know shit or give a shit about politics.
My uncle sent me a text telling me that reading between the lines of my comments, he saw a little girl who is hurting and he wishes he could make it better for me. I love you, too, J. I am a 40 year old woman, but still that eight year old girl singing to her horse...Just Me and Little Andy...if you don't know that song...you tube it. It's sad. It's lonely and scared. It's me.
I am not putting this out there for sympathy. I had a good childhood. I was surrounded by people who loved me, but there was always something missing. Depression has always been a part of my life...a part I kept hidden. It was shameful.
I am no longer ashamed. I can talk about it now. And I want to talk about it. I want you to talk about it. You as in the plural...you as in anyone who has or is suffering from this shitty ass disease.
Yes, Noelle's death has depressed me, but my depression started long before she died. It is a part of me...like my curly hair...like my size 5 feet. Like my self depreciating jokes...my brown eyes. It's genetic. But I've learned it doesn't have to define me. I can be more than my depression...you can too. Find your triggers...look them in the eye and say, "Fuck you, trigger...I ain't playing your game. I'm not going to let you put me in a depression coma. I'm going to make you my bitch." Look at me being all gansta. And yes, I realize that overcoming depression is not as simple as those previous sentences. But having a positive mindset is a good first step.
I went to my psychiatrist the other day and told her the ten thousandth antidepressant she has tried to put me on didn't work. I know there aren't ten thousand antidepressants...I'm prone to exaggeration...I felt like a failure because antidepressants don't work for me. I've done the alphabet...Abilify to Prozac...there's probably one that starts with a Z that I have taken too. She told me, "No, you aren't a failure. And you are going to be okay. You are getting better every time I see you." Yay! She isn't scheduling me for a trip to the mental hospital! That's a big plus!
In addition to the psychiatrist, I have been seeing a counselor. If you live in my area, her name is Carolyn Parks. She does non-traditional therapy including meditation, Reiki, and hypnosis. She has helped me tremendously.
Of course with my fucked up brain, I can't meditate...she tells me to picture a beach and all I see is a black wall. We are working on that. Maybe my "beach" is Peanut, the horse. Maybe one day my triggers will lead me back to Granny Mary's field and that mean ass Shetland pony and we (well me...cause horses can't sing) will change the song to "I Will Always Love You", or "Two Doors Down"... cause that's more upbeat.
Depression sucks...but I don't. "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." -Stuart Smalley (youtube that too...it's funny)
Most importantly...keep singing...keep hoping...keep living...