This is Bullshit

I don't typically walk away from depression better than when I went in. Coming out of the fog is a struggle but you can actually physically feel with it when it begins to lift.
I've been in it for months. The last few days, have been better. Much better. This time, I mentally unraveled a gift that I did not even know I needed to find.
Don't you just get so sick of the cheerful people? The people that talk in bumper stickers. They have a saying that relates to whatever you're feeling. "Hey, Dina! It takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile!" Or, "Hey, Dina! Don't call it a problem! Call it an opportunity!"
And that's how we all live our life. Stay positive! Dismiss any negativity! Turn the lemons in to lemonade! Glass half full! You choose your level of happiness! Okay, so, we do this. All. Fucking. Day. For months and months.
So I say to myself, "I'm not feeling it. I have a lot of questions. I have questions for God." God and I have gone toe to toe on many occasions and I want to know what his take is on my mom.
This is the dialogue to God in my brain when I began to feel depressed. Why has my mom's life sucked? She is your biggest follower. She is the kindest person on the planet. Why was it not in your 'will' to give her one small break in her life when she has devoted her entire life serving you? Why do I look at my mom and it crushes me to she her watch these people on the religious channel who clearly have been given so much, and yet for my mom, you gave her nothing? She prayed and still prays all day long everyday? And she can't get one single break? I don't get it. I look at my mom's hands and think about all the babies she's held, all the hugs she's given to so, so many people. All the dishes and laundry she's done. I can see right now in my head the thousands of times I have seen my mom's hand raised in worship during a Church service.
And I say to God, Really? So she will be rewarded when she gets to heaven? Well that's where me and mom part ways. I want some shit right here on earth. If it is not in your will, you need to do some editing because I want you to lay it down. I want to be chin deep in shit. Chin fucking deep.
When I finish my rant on God then I start with myself. I am stupid. I can't spell. I have been a disappointment to myself and others every single day for 48 years. I'm not funny. My writing sucks. I don't even know how to cook? What am I even doing here? I'm sure there are other people in this house that can do laundry and check the mail.
I roll around in this until I am in small pieces. Until I can't breath. Day after day, for months. Then one day I think, "What if I don't get the answers? And worse! What if I don't get any shit? Then the smaller things come up. What if I really am not funny or a good writer? What if I do suck in general?" Then there is a silence. A calm. A small piece of me processes the information. And with each thing, I think, okay then. Then another thing, that's a drag, but okay. Not funny? There are a lot of unfunny people. Horrible writer? I wouldn't be alone there. What about my mom? Can I accept that I may never have the answer? If I'm going to get out of this bed and put some clothes on, I guess that's my answer. It's not my question to ask. I guess that's between mom and God.
Here is where I discovered the gift. We're all walking around being really super positive and happy. When I became depressed, it was like opening a gate and letting the wild horses loose. They ran and bucked and they were really pissed off that they were locked up for so long. But after some time, they stopped running. They ran it out and stopped to eat grass. That's when I came to the conclusion that things are the way they are. There is good, there is bad. There is happy, there is sad. I am not always going to have the answers. I may not be funny and I may not be a great writer, but if I wanted I could give myself a break. I have the right like any person on the planet to say, this is bullshit. I have the right to list all the things in my life that I think suck. But I also have the right to go ahead and shave my legs and put on deodorant. Read a book, watch a movie, go ahead and join the living. I'm like the tired horse eating the grass.
What an amazing feeling to have all that noise quiet, peaceful, and serene. But I had to go through all that pain, energy and sleep to come out on the other side with the gift of acceptance. Accepting all the things about me and God and mom. I don't have to be thrilled with it, but I have to accept it and carry on down the road. And if down the road I find out that I am funny and I am a great writer and I'm not a stupid hillbilly? It's just another great gift.
The only area where God and I are still at an impasse is, I am firm on wanting to be chin deep in shit. An IPAD for my suffering? If that isn't in your will I don't even know who's chart you're looking at.

I am a huge fan

When going to a job as a corporate employee, just know, that you will be swimming in oceans of cheese. They have corporate 'slogans' and sayings that they will announce the first day you show up. At first, you look at these corporate people and notice they have glassy eyes and corporate wet brain. It's something all corporate people have. They look in to your eyes, short of saying, "Pretend that I don't sound like a complete fucking idiot right now." But to work at the job, you must swim, in the corporate cheese.
At my old job there were billions of gallons of cheese. It was constant. I worked in a grocery store where the big bosses thought they were rock stars. When in reality, they were just old, fat, bald headed, fucks. The grocery store was their life. It was their world. When in reality, they were making someone else a shit load of money. The big bosses would come in with gel in their hair and tell the store boss, with gel in his hair, that we needed to be reminded constantly about the slogans and sayings. If we missed one of the slogans, we would have to say the slogan over the intercom to pump up the other employees. Things like, "If you shuffle your feet, you may miss a greet!" Even typing that made me throw up in my mouth a little.
It's corporate work. There are people in corporate offices, some of them, women, with sensible, pressed outfits and half inch black pumps and they have two looks. Angry and angry. Then there are the corporate men. They also have two looks, the 'I'm fucking the girl in the deli' look. And the 'Jesus is my lord and savior' look. BTW, these two looks are on the same man. When angry and Jesus merge, this is where the ideas come from. Huge corporate buildings filled with people with glassy eyes and starched shirts. They are robots. They back stroke through the cheese and think of ways to make the cheese 'cheesier'. They think of ideas, because they are the idea people, to strip the employee's of their remaining dignity. 'What if we say that if they miss a greet that they will have to wear something like a party hat, but instead of it being a party hat, it could be a enormous engorged penis, standing straight up on the top of their heads? Yes. Someone send a fax."
The one thing for sure is that even with all the above, there is no shame in swimming in the cheese to buy cheese. But the moment the slogans begin to make sense, get out. That doesn't mean the next place you go there won't be more cheese to swim in, but possibly a better cheese. Like mozzarella, or feta. You'll be floating in your new cheese and you'll look up and there will be a new group of fat, fuck, wet brain bosses and you'll realize in corporate life, there is no escape.
There are rules in life, at home, at work. We are suppose to follow these rules. But when you leave your job, your anus shouldn't hurt. Unless your job involves some sort of study on anus pain. (I wonder what that pays?)
I am currently swimming in Hollywood cheese. The thing that sucks about Hollywood cheese is the leaders of the cheese smile and talk real kind. They also have slogans like, "I love your work, really." Or, "I am a huge fan." Then they do a line of coke off their Coach wallet. The softness in their voice, before the coke, makes you really think, "Wow. This could be really great!" They smile at you with their insane white teeth and then they begin to swirl their head around, "Who do I have to fuck to get a drink around here!" Then, as you're driving home without any warning, your anus begins to hurt.
I swam in the corporate cheese for entirely too long so now my tolerance for the Hollywood cheese is nonexistent. I am almost 50 and the best I can do is float on a hardened cheese like Velveeta.
If you are young, or even younger, if there is something you want to do in your life, do it. No matter what bullshit people tell you, there is a REAL window in life. The window where you make something happen or you don't. When you hear of people who did great things when they were 50 or 60, it's like five people. I'm not even kidding. Five fucking people succeeded at some great thing, and then they dropped dead. I waited and it may turn out to be one of my biggest regrets. We all say, oh, there's time, I'll work on it tomorrow, I'll get to it. I promise you that TOMORROW you will wake up and be 50 and you will know you missed the window. You not only missed the window, there is no window and there is a giant swamp cooler shoved in there as you fan yourself with a piece of paper, saying, "Sweet baby Jesus! It's a hot one today!"
I believe in people. I believe people can do great things. But to be great, you have to actually DO something great. You have to do it. Talking about it doesn't make it happen. I get messages or emails from people who say they're going to write a book. They tell me about the book and you know what I say? "I love your work, really. I'm a fan." And I'm not even a cheese leader! This is a sad world.

Matthew Austin Lennon

When you had a baby, did you really have any idea what you were doing? It's sort of a thing you have to jump in to and learn as you go.
I had my first baby when I had just turned 18 so let's just say, I had a lot of shit figured out. I read a pamphlet in the doctors office and it was filled with helpful 'mommy tips'. I read it, didn't even take the pamphlet with me, just read it in the office. I say that because if I would have at least taken the literature with me I could have referred to it when I ran in to a situation.
The first situation came when I got my baby home to my parents house. What do you do with the baby? So, I showed her around the house, "This is the living room. This is the kitchen. Out that window there is a cow."
When I had my first daughter, my baby's daddy's mom, Nana, said that if I pulled the bottle straight out of her mouth and she made that suction noise, that could collapse her soft spot and suck it right in to her head. So the proper way was to lean the bottle out sideways until she stopped sucking the bottle. The fact is, I never believed that to be true because if it were, where are the people that this happened to? I have never seen a person with the top of their heads completely dented in like a meteor crater. I have never said to someone, "What happened to the top of your head? Oh. Collapsed soft spot. Your mom didn't know? So sad."
So if me and Nana were having a disagreement about something and she would be saying something to me that I didn't like, while I'm feeding my baby her bottle, I would look right at her and intentionally pull the bottle straight out of the baby's mouth. It would make this loud 'THUP'. Nana would immediately react, "Oh my god! No! The soft spot!! You could kill the baby!" For the record, I loved Nana. She was amazing to me and my daughters and I think we may have had a total of two disagreements in the many years we knew one another. There may have been more, but everyone knows that you don't argue with Nana. I think that is a worldwide 'Nana' deal. To argue with a Nana is a loose, loose. 'Grandma', you may get away with some shit. 'Nana'? You'll start confessing shit from six years ago.
These days young parents are just crazy. My oldest daughter, the one that I used for the soft spot bit with Nana, she is going to have a baby in the next week or so. (Her head is completely round, by the way.) She's putting the headset on the belly with music for the unborn baby. Reading to the belly. Singing to the belly. Are you kidding with me? You are going to be a parent for the rest of your life! Take this time to just let the belly do it's own thing.
The hospital room where my grandson will be born is called a 'family room'. That means that your entire family can come and have the baby with you. Beds, accommodations, I think they may serve drinks or opiates. And this is for however many people you want? When I had my daughters, I was in a delivery room that the hospital also used to deliver office supplies. I'm having a baby and they are rolling boxes up a loading dock and chatting, "Hey Bob! Did you ever get that tranny replaced? Can you sign for this?" The doctor puts down the jaws of life he's using to pull the baby out with. He's signing the paper, "I just don't know if it's worth it to put a new one in that old truck." Hey! Medicine man! Focus!
My daughter has the best health insurance in the country. I was, there is no other way to say it, a welfare mom. When you have a baby on the state money, they cut out all the frills. Like water. And air. They deliver the baby, spray the baby off, hand it to you and say, "You are free to go. Good luck with that." They may cut the cord, they may not. You may be able to pull the baby around Wal Mart by their cord for as long as need be. I mean, yeah I get it. I actually didn't expect more. But now that I see how it is when normal people have a baby, wow! It really is a beautiful day! I'll have a sandwich and an Ambien!
What I find is that every single parent has some sort of terrifying tip for you. "Make sure you burp her or the gass will build up and her liver could explode. That happened to a friends baby."
Everyone has something. Too many blankets may kill the baby. Not enough blankets, bye-bye baby. Cold formula has bacteria. Sianara' baby. Hot formula? You can have more children. Holding the baby wrong could kill the baby. The fabric of the babies clothing could be a silent killer. Dog hair, silent killer. Lead base paint? It could not only kill the baby, it could kill every single person in the house and possibly a couple of neighbors. Also, a silent killer. Adios' bambino. And why? It's because of that total fucking I don't give a shit attitude that parents have. (That last line was a joke and I wish I didn't have to include this information but sometimes people take me seriously and I have no idea how to process that in my brain.)
This is what I know for sure. If the baby is crying, pick up the baby. I know that you can hug and kiss a baby as much as you want. They are helpless to stop you. Do it now because when they are about seven, that crap will stop especially with little boys. Hugs and kisses interfere with their activities. When you tell them you love them and they are only one week old, they know what that means. When a small baby smiles at you, thats the first way they express that they love you. When they spit up on your clothes, your couch, your bed, whatever. It's what they do. When they do not want you to sleep, you are not going to sleep. They come in to the world and it is their world. As it should be. The best case scenario is that when a baby gets here, he or she has a circle of people waiting for them and already loving them before they even get here. Isn't it grand to be a baby? Having a baby around just makes everything better. It's like having a flat screen TV or an IPAD. I am very excited to meet my grandson Matthew Austin Lennon. The thing is that it is hard to be a parent and we all do the best we can. It's like the old saying about parenting. "Don't let the time do you. You do the time."

Christmas

This is the conversation I just heard from the neighbor children in reference to the Christmas lights on the houses.
Sister, about 5 years old. "Oh, look! The entire community is all lit up!"
Brother, about 6 years old. "It's not called a community. It's called a neighborhood."
Sister, "So what."
Brother, "Remember! We did this last year and it really works!"
Then the brother, for whatever reason looks up at the lights on his house, cups his hands over his mouth and says, "Echo! Echo! Echo!"
Sister does the same thing, "Echo! Echo! Echo!"
Remember being little and waiting for Christmas and how it was the most exciting thing ever! My parents had this Ceramic Nativity scene. It was small. But the thing that made it an insane mystery was that the little wooden crib was empty. Then on Christmas morning, the baby Jesus would appear laying in the crib! You know, because Jesus wasn't born until Christmas morning? I remember coming around the corner and there was Jesus! And where there was Jesus, there was presents!
On my research for this investigative journalistic piece of work, I asked my mom, "Where did you guys keep the ceramic baby Jesus until Christmas morning?" After about 15 minutes of mumbling, "It seems like we didn't have a very good system on that. We put Jesus in different spots. Some years, we would have to look for him because we couldn't remember where we put him."
At some point, the baby Jesus's head was busted off because of what my parents called our 'rough-housing'. Several ceramic icons were injured, but not to the level of the baby Jesus. The head was glued back on but the baby Jesus just didn't look right.
I remember another Christmas where we were doing the Christmas pageant. You know, with all the biblical celebrities. Mary, Joesph, the wise men, Jesus. I was so excited about my part. It wasn't a speaking part. And if my memory serves me, it was the only non speaking part, but it was a very powerful moment and I was going to deliver it with such depth that the audience would gasp at the emotion I brought to the character. I believe the actual character was written on the script as 'Walking Child'. I had practiced ahead of time for weeks. All I had to do was carry a 'challis', that had pretend wine in it, down the center isle of the church and set it on the alter. Then walk back. That was my part. That was what I practiced. I still have no clue what part the glass of Chard had to do with the birth of Jesus but I was just honored to be involved.
Right before I am going to rock their world, my nose begins to bleed. Then I faint. The Priest, an amazing man, Fr. Gene was looking over me fanning me with something. Turns out I didn't have an understudy for that role. They grab some kid wearing a vest and shiny black shoes out of the audience and say, "Take this and set it on the alter." The rage made my nose bleed more that this fucking amateur random kid was stealing, let's face it. The role of a lifetime. It was complete bullshit. Not just anyone could be 'Walking Child'. It was a role not unlike that of Meryl Streep in Sofie's Choice except we were not in Germany and there was less bombing in the background.
The main thing I remember about Christmas when I was a kid was, well, the utter disappointment. Sorry mom and dad! But the only time you really got in the game was the year you bought us bikes? And the other year that you got the boys chemistry sets. One year I got an easy bake oven. That was the year I realized that nothing in my life was going to work out. The easy bake oven came with ONE cake mix. And they didn't sell them. So you bake one little cake? It's over. The toy is not only no longer fun, there is no function for it. I tried to make it in to a Barbie house, which is what I actually wanted. I would pretend it was their hotel. I'd lay them on the racks. Then take them off the racks. That was it. I took the actual rack out and then the Barbies could sit in there like they were on a bus trip or something. You know it takes three minutes to eat your little cake the size of a bisket, then you realize you were completely screwed by Fisher Price. I spent the day mumbling, "Bullshit." My brothers thought this was hysterical, "Hey, Dina! When will the cake be ready!" Me, "Fuck off." I was ten.
But what was the real idea of Christmas? That little baby Jesus. In the manger. Surrounded by the wise men, one of which had an arm broken off and the sheep with one ear. With Mary and Joesph in all their glory looking down at the baby Jesus. And the baby Jesus looking at them. With white glue on his throat and his head cocked to one side. That's what it's all about. The birth of Jesus at a Marriott in Dubai. I haven't read the bible in a while so I could be improvising that last part. But it's the traditions that create the love at Christmas. For me, it was that Nativity scene. For my kids, it's the Coach purse. We all have something that makes the holiday magic. For some kids, it's standing in the front yard and saying, "Echo! Echo! Echo!" I hope they heard some sort of echo. I wonder if when they grow up they will take their children out to the front yard and teach them to echo. I think it's a really nice idea:)

Nut Job

I am depressed. There you have it. I wrote about depression in my book, although the depression I felt then was much more severe than what I feel these days. I had to be hospitalised for that time period and ever since then I have an actual phobia of depression. Because I know how bad it can get. I'm not even close to that feeling, but I still fear it. I feel a twang of it and it frightens me.
For me depression doesn't have a specific reason. It just comes over me. Most of the time I can shake it. For example, there has only been three times in my life I can look back on and say I was definitely depressed. The other thousand times, I could walk it off and soon I would feel better.
This is how I spend my day. I wake up in the morning and I feel like my heart is completely broken. Why? I have no idea. It's just a sadness the minute I open my eyes. It fades when I drink my coffee with my french vanilla creamer and smoke. This activity actually creates a beautiful warm feeling. But then the sadness comes back, over and over through out the day. The sound of my voice makes me queasy. The way I look makes me queasy. Any task, even the small ones make me feel overwhelmed. It's a huge task to have to put on regular clothes. I sleep most of the day away and when I'm not sleeping, I'm sitting on the couch watching the Housewives. Any region Housewives. From one coast to the other, groups of pretty women with wigs and nails and tans, ALWAYS with a glass of wine in their hands. I know I don't own the market in sadness or problems, but these ladies, sweet baby Jesus. Their problems are so random and insane. They start each episode with a beautiful woman in a great dress saying things like, "New York is my playground and if you don't want a piece of me, get out of my sandbox." Or, "In New Jersey, I am the queen of my castle. Diamonds are my lover. Don't hate." They are all living in houses that 'Bravo' built.
I just published my first book. So all of this is so confusing to me. Shouldn't I be walking around feeling really accomplished? Every single review has been amazing. But because of how I'm feeling, reviewers use words that make me feel like a fraud. Like 'inspiring' or 'courageous' or 'strong'. What? I have to spend three hours to convince myself to eat a piece of toast. Sometimes, I can't even bring my self to go through the energy involved in making toast. I eat a piece of bread. Then I lay back down on the couch in my pajamas.
I find myself looking off in to space for long periods of time. Just thinking about it all. And also, thinking about nothing.
I knew something was off when I got a giant life size poster. OF ME. And while I liked it, I don't feel I felt more than like. People that know me, know that one thing that would make me feel really high on me is a god damn life size poster OF ME!! I looked at it and while it was really hot, I didn't feel connected to it. It had so many of the 'words'. Inspiring, brave, all those words that make me wonder who the hell they're talking about. I would have felt better if it said, "Meet the author! She's medicated!"
Typically when I'm feeling low I can go walk around the bookstore. My book isn't in there as I haven't sold 45 million copies yet. So I find myself walking around and look at how many situations vampires can get themselves in to. It's un- fucking real. Huge area's committed to vampires and their high jinks. I think Stephanie Meyer is at this second writing, "Dale, the office vampire comes around the corner to find Patty, the vampire from sales...." Or the god damn Harry Potter corporation. Isn't Harry Potter about 30 by now? Then are we going to devote an entire section to the Potter offspring? The Peter Potter series. Fuck man. I don't need an entire section. One god damn book and you can put it anywhere. Then I leave the book store more pissed off than when I went in.
That's another side effect of depression. The short fuse symptom. These are the things that can make a depressed person snap. People talking. People walking slow. People breathing, in and out. People who tell long stories. People who walk or talk or bend or spin.
I know it will pass and very soon I will inspire the shit out of someone. But I will say this. No matter how shitty I am feeling, I do try to smile at people even when I'm not feeling it. I say hello. I tell them their children are cute, even when the children are not in any way cute. I say thank you. I let cars merge.
Tomorrow is another day. I have my creamer waiting for me. I have to stalk people on Facebook and pretend that I am really pumped up about me. One thing I don't seem to loose during a depression is my skill to bullshit. Thank you God. If I'm still bullshitting, I'm still in the game:)