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It’s All About The Little Things

posted 12th November 2010    Written by: Alisha    CATEGORY: Alisha, All Posts, Family, Life Lesson, Money, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 3, What I've Learned

I gotta tell ya, these happy pills have been pretty amazing.  My body no longer aches.  I laugh.  I talk.  I smile.  Hell, even on those rainy Chicago days that I used to groan about so much, I walk on clouds.  It is amazing!  Now that the fog of depression has lifted, I am able to see just how wonderful my life is.  It isn’t perfect, but wow.  I can not believe how much of the good I could not see.

Even if you are not depressed, I think you can agree that it’s really easy to throw yourself pity parties.  Like, life sucks because you have to buy beer in the cans instead of beer in the bottles.  Or you think you might as well just stop leaving the house because all of the shirts you own are unravelling.  Or maybe you would rather get fat and sick eating off the McDonald’s dollar menu because shopping at Whole Foods is not an option right now.  Perhaps all of your best friends are married and you still spend Saturday nights cuddling your cats.  But that’s all petty shit, ya know?  You probably have about a zillion amazing little things to be grateful for in this life.

And life is as much about the little things as it is about the big things.

Take this cup of coffee.  To the plain old person, it’s just a plain old cup o’ joe (Kirkland’s Columbian Roast) in a plain ol’ mug.  But for me it’s something bigger.

We moved here almost two years ago.  We thought it would be a good opportunity: a chance to travel on a different career path and be near family.  It was a huge sacrifice.  We gave up a lot of money, a lot of stuff, a lot of security to make this leap.  We had no idea that my side of the family would move–taking their free daycare offer with them.  We had no idea that the job we thought would be so great would be so bad; that my father-in-law would be attacked (and finally killed) by that damn cancer; that the winters would be so long, so gray and so lonely.  We didn’t know that money would be so tight that I would have to spend last spring, summer and fall selling my clothes, my purses, my shoes, my children’s toys to make ends meet.  And that when they still didn’t meet, we would go to the food pantry.

Despite how depressing many of those months were, I am happy for the life lessons I learned along the way.  I learned how to use a sewing machine.  (I made some pretty awesome pillows and pants.)  I learned how to bake bread and cook dry beans.  (My chili kicks ass!)  I learned that appearances are decieving.  (The grass is always greener on the other side, isn’t it?) I learned that it actually takes very little to survive.  (VERY little.)  I learned how to dissociate my self-worth from my possessions.  (This was a hard one.  But I finally got it.  I am NOT my things.)  And this led to me being even more appreciative and grateful for all the little stuff.

Like this cup of coffee.

I am so grateful and so happy that I can sit here at my desk and drink this cup of coffee.

(photo credit)

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Guts.

posted 3rd November 2010    Written by: Nikki    CATEGORY: Events, Nikki, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 3, What I've Learned

I have a confession to make: I’m in therapy.

No, I have never been diagnosed with any sort of mental instability or chemical imbalance; I’m not depressed or manic-depressive, and I didn’t have an overly traumatic childhood.  In fact, I’m generally a pretty happy person.  So why do I go to therapy, you ask?

Now before you go judging me thinking I’m “sooooo LA” and picturing me in big designer sunglasses, texting on my bedazzeled Ed Hardy iphone in sweatpants two sizes too small with JUICY written on the ass while I drone on about me, me, me to my tuned-out therapist, put your stereotypes on hold for a second.

I started going to therapy at the advice of a close friend who had never thought she’d be in therapy.  We both had the attitude of, oh, sure therapy’s great for someone with problems but it’s not for me.  But when she started getting ulcers from anxiety and I hit my QLC, neither of us could navigate through all these feelings alone.  Friends were great, but, let’s face it, no one wants to sit for hours listening to someone else’s problems, and, even more than that, I wasn’t about to pull out my guts and show everyone all my neuroses and fears.  Hell no.

So I started going to therapy.  And I judged myself.  I thought, geez, Nikki, you are such a freaking whiner.  Really, you think she wants to sit here and listen to you talk about how acting sucks and your heart’s broken and your parents are getting a divorce?  Oh waah waah, baby, that happens to millions of people, every day.  Get a real problem.

Then one day I told her that I felt stupid being upset about these things, and that I thought I should just be able to deal with it all on my own, and what the hell is wrong with me that I can’t deal with it all on my own, and I’m sorry that I’m wasting her time with my petty issues.  She looked me straight in the eyes, told me to look at her, to trust her, that these are NOT petty things and I am NOT stupid and that I have every right to be here and every right to feel what I feel.  These are difficult things to deal with, and we’re going to deal with them together.  Period.

From that moment on, I trusted her and started to trust myself.  I am always completely honest in therapy (otherwise, what’s the point?) even when I feel like I’m being silly or melodramatic; there’s always something bigger, deeper, less obvious under those “silly” feelings.  Being in a safe environment like that gives me permission to explore my deepest fears and confront my demons, and I almost always find that whenever I am in a tough spot and have a seemingly impossible question, somewhere inside I know the answer.  I can’t even tell you how many “AHA!” moments I’ve had, or how many times I’ve broken down in pain.

I think it’s ironic that in our society we tend to see people who need therapy or counseling or any sort of help as weak, because when done honestly, it’s one of the hardest things a person can do.  To really face yourself, without pretense or bullshit, to say all the hateful things we tell ourselves in the privacy of our own minds, out loud, to explore the things that keep us awake at night – these take guts.  They are effing scary as shit. It takes a strong person to get through it.

Therapy has made me know myself better than I ever could have without it.   It has helped me understand how my mind works; instead of repeating bad habits, wondering why does this always happen to me, I catch myself and, even if I can’t yet change the pattern, I’m no longer the victim.  It has given me the power to choose my thoughts, the clarity to make big decisions, and the self-love to move forward in a positive direction.

Therapy, for me, is not about changing myself or getting past some roadblock, and it’s certainly not just hollywood-stereotype narcissism.   It is about understanding who I am and what I need at my honest core, growing, accepting, and choosing to be conscious of my thoughts and actions.

[photo: the awesome journal my therapist got me when I left for Australia :) ]

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Confusion And Low-Points Won’t Put Out My Fire

posted 15th October 2010    Written by: Alisha    CATEGORY: Alisha, All Posts, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 3, What I've Learned

I disliked him right from the start.  Even though it was 3:30 in the afternoon, his slacks were still freshly pressed and his shirt was wrinkle free.  His bald head shone under the flourescent lights.  When he uttered my name, our eyes met but he did not smile.  Every doctor should smile.  The office was claustrophobic, crowded with moving boxes.  I squeezed inbetween the edge of his desk and the two office chairs and took my seat.

The appointment was quick.  (I can’t believe I have to pay this guy $173.92 for 26 minutes.  That’s a heck of a rate!)  Before I left he slid the prescription across his desk and shot out “See ya in three weeks!”

I knew this day would come.  It was inevitable, really.  Pride and confusion about what is and isn’t in my control kept delaying the decision until I found myself on the edge.

I have penchant for everything melancholy–I always have.  I don’t think I sought it out as a child, but when you’re so young and have already had a lifetime of “good-byes,” and an immeasurable amount of confusion,  I think it would be hard not to be just a teensy bit sad.  And, unfortunatley, depression runs in my family.  Damn you, genetics!  At age 14 I had my first major depressive episode.  Some window cleaner, bleach and a random sampling of items in the medicine cabinet resulted in nothing more than a bad stomach-ache and a long nap.  (Thank goodness!)  For some days after, I would come home from school, take a few Tylenol PM and check out until the next day.  I somehow managed to get over it.

That was my first–and only–suicide attempt.  But over the past few years, some dark thoughts have haunted me.  My lows have been low–lower than low, and there have not been very many highs.  Chronic fatigue, a short temper and high anxiety do not a good Mommy make.

Now don’t get me wrong.  Some of these feelings are a direct result of choices I made.  Choices that were at war with my values. At times I was nothing short of dying of confusion.  There were many days when I chose not to care.  I chose to give up.  I threw water on my flame.

But then there were the days when that little bit of my soul that was on fire–burning for change, burning for dreams, burning for life–couldn’t grow no matter how hard I tried to stoke it.  That’s when you know you need a little bit of kerosene.  Or, in this case, some Wellbutrin.

I finally realized that the choice to go back on medication is not an admission of weakness.  It is a testament of strength. It is an act of self-love.  Maybe that’s what this whole quarterlife crisis thing is about: learning to love yourself.

(photo credit)

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Old Demons and New Beginnings

posted 13th August 2010    Written by: Alisha    CATEGORY: Alisha, Job/Career/Work, Life Lesson, Love/Relationships, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 3

After my hasty and drama-filled departure from school, I returned to my parents’ home.  I was back in the Midwest, but this time in a different city and state.  I had no friends, no connection and this did not help the depression or the bulimia.  Soon they were shipping me to what I now affectionately refer to as The 7th Floor.  Thirty days of 7 a.m. weigh-ins, affirmations, group sessions and knitting.  That summer spent on The 7th Floor was not easy, but it was what I needed.

While there I was diagnosed with Bi-Polar II Disorder.  Ah!  Finally, an answer!  Now I understood at least one of the issues my mind and body were facing.  It was there where I met a handful of other young women whose stories compelled me to really make a change for the better.  I graduated on a Saturday; we stood in a circle, said the Serenity Prayer, and I left The 7th Floor for good. I left my demons on the 7th floor.

I kept regular appointments with my psychiatrist and nutritionist (ultimately taking myself off medication of my accord), enrolled in classes at the local community college and worked two part-time jobs.  At the community college I fell back in love with learning, taking only classes that really interested me: African-American History, Sociology, Human Sexuality, and Economics.  I successfully avoided my personal demons.  At work, I fell in love with a boy.  Well, a man, since he was 9 years my senior.  I was amazed at how long he stuck around considering my absurd curfew.  (When you’re under mom and dad’s roof, you’re under mom and dad’s rules.)  It was my first real relationship and I was head over heels.  But it turns out that my job did indeed monitor phone calls and I was fired–something about a conflict of interests because he was a customer.  Then about a month after that he broke up with me.  Looking back on it now, I’m glad that I was at home with my parents when all of this happened.  With their support and encouragement I was able to move on without letting my demons get the best of me.

I always thought a career in law seemed fitting, so that summer I obtained an internship at my local congressional office.  Every morning I wrote form letters, updated databases, deposited recycling, licked envelopes, made new friends.  I absolutely loved it.  So when it was suggested to me that I take a paid campaign position I jumped on it.  I was told that it would be a big deal; if I ever wanted a career in politics, this was the way to go.  Silly, naïve, 20-year-old me took the job.

I was making peanuts—literally, that was all I could afford to eat.  (Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit.  I ate a lot of ramen and Hamburger Helper too.  Oh, and there was free coffee every Monday at the McDonald’s across the street.)  Our office was a large room in a decrepit building downtown.  The homeless walked the streets; the sound of police sirens was incessant.  I worked 60-80 hours a week and in the beginning I really thought I was making a difference.

However, about two months into the gig I felt myself starting to crack.  I was exhausted.  My hair started falling out in clumps.  Then, one evening, I sat on the dingy, broken tile floor, my head against the cold metal stall just inches away from the toilet.  At that moment I knew something had to change.  So I quit.  Political suicide.  “You’ll probably never be able to get another job in politics,” I was told.  It stung but I realized it would be okay. If working in politics meant slowly killing myself, then this was not the job for me.

Darn you, Quarterlife Crisis! Back to school.  Again.  This time I chose a place in the city, a nice 30 minute drive from my parents’ home in the suburbs.  And did I mention it was only 3 minutes from all the bars?  It was the perfect little school in the perfect little city where I could spread my wings as a fully legal adult.  Every Wednesday night I was at the local hangout dancing into the wee hours of the morning.  I felt so free, so happy. In that loud, dirty, sweaty basement I felt myself come alive.  Little did I know, that basement had other plans in store for me.

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We’re All In This Together

posted 9th August 2010    Written by: Molly Mahar    CATEGORY: Molly, Quarterlife Crisis, What I've Learned

I shared this lovely poster on Facebook last week, and ever since, I’ve been stuck thinking about what it means…

“We’re All In This Together”

It’s speaking to me about connection and support and truly being there for each other in the fantastic and the awful times. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when it makes you look good.  And not just in an “I’ll vote for you in your online contest if you “like” my new business page” kind of way….  I’m talking about the “I’ll listen and hold you all teary-eyed and snotty for as long as you need, help you move that damn green couch to your third apartment in 6 months, call to ask how the big medical test went, even when it scares me to death” kind of way.  The kind of way that reaffirms  that you and I are truly in this together, that our love is unconditional, that I recognize you as someone just like me…

I think recognizing that we ARE in this together helps lessen the scariness of this big, bright world.  We yearn for connection, for that lovely “you get me” feeling, that heart-welling heaviness that all is fine for this moment, and perhaps even the next.

I know I do.

Out of all the things in the world of which to be afraid, I’m most scared of being rejected, of feeling alone, of getting stuck in a deep sense of unworthiness.

Deep connections change that.  A sense of belonging lightens the load.  Truly understanding that there is no possible way we can be alone because this amazing world is too full of crazy people just like us, gives hope.  Reaching out to others with our foibles, our fears, and our longing is what allows us to tackle those dark parts. And let me tell you, I’ve learned this the hard way…

There were two major times in my life when I felt truly depressed, scared and hopeless.

The first episode was my senior year in college.  On the outside, I was your typical sorority girl/resident adviser/drama actor/front desk clerk/trying-desperately-to-get-an-impressive-job Ivy League Senior.  On the inside, I was freaking out.   I didn’t want to be at school, where I felt this constant pressure of comparison and the need to be perfect.  The depression boiled up in binge eating, alcohol blackouts, and constant crying alone in my room.  The worst part about it?  I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone. That no one would understand.  That I was completely and utterly alone.

Now, I know addiction and depression run in my family, so I wasn’t clueless.  I saw a therapist in the counseling center and talked to my family about coming home after graduation so I could take care of myself in positive ways.  But for some reason, I still felt ashamed.  Alone.  I couldn’t tell my friends.  I was usually the helper, the positive one, the happy-go-lucky spirit.  Instead, I felt empty. Abandoned.  And seriously, seriously scared that “everyone” would find out.

For the last 6 months of my senior year, I suffered in silence.

I did go home after graduation, jobless, but relieved to be returning somewhere familiar. I was surrounded by the love and support of my parents, and the mountains, and a sweet southern boy, and busy days of work and play, and soon enough, I felt better.  Lighter.  More like myself.

I think back to that time, and wonder how it might have been different if I could have gotten over myself. If I could have reached out and asked for more help.  If I could have admitted that I (obviously) wasn’t perfect, that I was hurting, that I needed some extra support.  What if I had realized “We are all in this together” and truly understood what that meant?

Well, I got another chance to do so…   The second time that I got knocked off the easy path of life was the beginning of my very own Quarterlife Crisis.  I was working in hospitality sales at what I thought was my dream job. Sexy boutique hotel!  Awesome women boss ladies!  Cool clients!  And even though I was fabulous at my job, I felt like I was losing touch with the real me…  A lot of my job felt “fake”: from the suits to the sales process to the “the guest is always right” attitude.

And those damn $4.5o mini Coke bottles.  Seriously.  The thought of charging people that still makes me gag.

I think I ignored the little niggling feeling that “something feels off” for quite awhile before it finally blew up in “crisis” mode.  But there I was again, totally scared that I was once again alone.  After all, I was doing what I had studied in college, getting the proper promotions, kicking butt, making my bonuses, surrounded by great friends and a fabulous boyfriend.   What the fuck did I have to feel depressed about?

Instead of keeping it secret, this time I spoke up.  I wasn’t quiet at all!  I admitted that I was miserable.  I whined, bitched, and commiserated with people. I planned weekday lunches with other downtown 20somethings who felt stuck in their lives and especially their jobs.  I reached out for help from the Big Man, admitting I needed a life overhaul.

Of course, I still cried.  I still felt lost.  But because I was reaching out, it felt a million times better than my last episode of depression.  And this time?  I realized I WAS NOT ALONE.   And that realization allowed me to do something about it.  I used the support of everyone who “got me” and made the major dive of quitting my job and traveling around the world.

And now?  I’m here for you.   And you’re here for me.  And you’re all here for each other.  You may be in crisis.  You may be in awesomeland.  But…

We’re All In This Crazy, Wild, Awe-Inspiring World Together.

So let’s not forget it.

photo credit : sunny fiona

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