Comes With Sprinkles

Because everything is better with sprinkles

Big Girls DO Cry

I’ve had this post sitting in my head for weeks and weeks. Then The Bloggess wrote about her very intimate struggle with depression over here and the burning need to get some of this off of my chest intensified. Then one of my very best girlfriends sent me a very sweet and concerned text message- afraid that I was back to self-harming.

Yes, I said back.

My struggle with depression isn’t something that I talk about a lot. If it comes out, it’s usually because it’s kicking my ass and I have to let it out in short little spurts of “I hurt!” and that’s all that I can handle. I don’t share well, much to my friend’s and my husband’s chagrin.

Depression for me isn’t necessarily being mopey all the time. I can switch on and off in a flash. Usually from on to off – the pepping up can take longer. Yeah, I can be sad, but I don’t show it in public. I don’t cry in front of my friends or my family. When Ana turned two, my parents had told me that they couldn’t make it to her birthday party and I was devastated, not that I’d let that show. When they surprised me by driving across two states and a border to show up announced to everybody but me, I cried and another one of my very best friends actually commented on the occasion, it was so rare. And we’ve been friends for fifteen years.

No, depression to me is self-loathing. It’s being so consumed with self-hatred and disgust with myself that I can’t think of anything else. It’s of wanting to curl up into a ball in my bed and moan because I will never amount to anything. It’s looking in the mirror and seeing rolls, or seeing the number on the scale, and wanting to smash the mirror with my fist so I never have to look at myself again. It’s looking at the clock and realizing it’s way past my bedtime and another day has passed where I have accomplished absolutely nothing.

It’s writing ten pages in my journal of slanty messy writing, documenting every failure in recent memory – and not being able to recall any successes. It’s sitting on the computer looking at my bank account on payday and wondering when I will EVER be able to not have to worry about how I’m going to pay all the bills.

Depression, to me, is a hatred so deep so that in my past I hurt myself. That in my past I almost put myself out with Ibuprofen capsules. It’s driving down the road and wishing I had the courage to swerve off the road and into oblivion. It’s sinking into myself and not knowing how to pull myself out.

I’m not really okay right now. I am hurting and I am hating and I’m not really sure what to do about it. This is probably the most that I’ve ever talked about it and these are only a few brief paragraphs that can’t even begin to delve into this. This isn’t a suicide note or even close. I’m not harming again. I won’t drive off the road. I value my daughter and my husband too much for that.

I just… hurt. And wish I was someone else.


Pumped Up Kicks

This is going to be pretty scattered because it’s late and I’m tired, but I wanted to get a post in anyway.

Am I the only person on the planet who hate the song Pumped Up Kicks by Foster The People? Here’s the thing. I love the tune. I find myself singing along to it if it comes on the radio and I’m not consciously singing about it. But then I catch myself singing along to, “run from my bullets,” and I’m changing the station.

I find it completely baffling that I heard this HUGE kerfuffle over Britney Speaks singing “If you seek Amy,” and it sounded like F-U-C-K me. Parents were all abuzz about how inappropriate it was, blah blah blah. And then comes this song, about a freaking school shooting and how all those other kids with their pumped up kicks better run from his effing gun and… I’ve heard nothing.

Has there been a stink and I just haven’t heard it? I know that music is not what makes bad things happen. I know that. But I also know that I don’t like songs that are about a man beating on a woman. I don’t like songs that make women out to be nothing but bodies. And I don’t like a song that seems to encourage school shootings.

So what’s the deal? Am I missing a key part of the lyrics? How has this song managed to become the huge hit that it is considering its subject matter?

I’m confused.

Please explain.


Blog Maintenance

… or what become a lack of it.

My intentions with blogging this second time around is to get my writing fingers typing again. To say those things that I think about tweeting, but that I can’t contain within a 160 character limit.

I’ll use it to share links and pictures.

I won’t post every day and that’s okay.

If I choose to post a single sentence and call it good, then damnit, it’s good.

Less formality, more comfortable chit-chat.

Let’s see how long we last this time, yeah, can we beat the four-year run I had going last time?


Vancouver Pride

Just an FYI. Vancouver is NOT the city that riots after losing a sporting event.

Okay. Yeah. It’s happened before. I get that. I really do. But I also know that I’ve lived here for six years and I’ve seen nothing but celebration, fun and kindness. I felt heartbroken watching the insanity this past Wednesday as crowds surged through the streets. I was appalled at the random punches, the glass smashing and the looting. I was embarrassed to be from Vancouver.

I have been watching as Vancouver has been working on remaking itself over the last few days and it has been beautiful to see. The beautiful messages that are scrawled all over the boarded up windows. The people turning themselves in. The realization that hey, a lot of these troublemakers? Not even from here. Thankyouverymuch.

I saw people band together on Facebook and form clean-up crews and guess what? They actually showed up. There were massive amounts of citizens who showed up on Thursday morning to clean up the mess. They brought their own brooms and their smiles and their apologies. We’re sorry, world. This is not our city.

I never thought that I could feel so strongly for a city that I’m not even originally from, but I have found that I am completely in love with Vancouver. I am proud to live here and I am proud that we can pick up the pieces after a night that rocked the city and left most of us stunned and hurt.

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