My first memories of fighting depression go back to the age of 13. Now, thirteen is a troublesome time for any kid, let's face it. Acne, Puberty, Peer Pressure, Boy Crushes,I mean, it's all there...fighting for the “Numero-Uno” spot in a new teenagers world. Not to mention Jr. High- and that just seems to magnify everything tenfold-if you're the girl who was bullied in elementary school. My teenage years should've been fun, and for much of it, they were, thanks to my eventual “Self-Medicating techniques”,but no-one knew about the evil that lurked within. I remember the first time I came face to face with the evil demon. I sat huddled up in the corner of where my bed met the wall, crying. To this day, I have no idea why. What I do recall is sitting there, rocking back and forth, thinking to myself that I was going crazy, not even sure that I knew what “crazy” meant. But, I was going there without a doubt..all the senseless, out of the blue crying told me so. But wait! Here comes mom to save the day! She walked in; like a saviour would come to rescue a lost soul. Standing there above me, never bothering to sit on the bed, she looked at me, almost with a questioning disgust in her face, and asked me “WHY” I was crying. At that moment, I felt nothing but honesty..I was putting it out there just hoping for the perfect mother-daughter talk. And my answer to her was simple- “I don't know. I think I'm going crazy.” Now, had I ever been given the chance to be a mom, I would hope that I'd at least try to figure out why my daughter was feeling so much pain at what should have been a happy time in her life. Nope, not my mom. My mother looked at me flatly, made the ultimate diagnosis of “No, you're not”, and walked out the door, closing it behind her. End of that conversation- and I was left, once again alone, to try and figure it out, all by myself. SELF-MEDICATING vs. NO-MEDICATING- Back in the 60's when I was a kid, there were no “anti-depressants”. They had Opioids to bring ya down, and Amphetamines to bring ya back up. And they certainly didn't “prescribe” them to kids. By the time I was 14 I knew I needed to do SOMETHING to hold myself together. The crying jags, the spurts of anger for what seemed like no reason at all, the seemingly constant frustration at not knowing what in the hell was wrong with me and my mother making me feel like it was just a phase I was going through that was not going away-- led me to my new best friend..Marijuana. The first time I got high..I thought I was going to die..right there on the couch that I'd smoked it on..but after the initial shock of it all, and the mood of actually FEELING BETTER...aah, I was “hooked”. I didn't need a prescription, it was so cheap back then it was almost free, and I no longer felt like I was going crazy. I remember actually being able to function around a group of people and not wanting to rip someone's eyeballs out..theirs. Mine, who's evers..it..was..great. By the time I was 17 I had graduated to what had become my “most favorite drug of choice EVER”...Mescaline. I knew what it was like to actually laugh..and mean it! I could have fun!..and mean it!..and I didn't have to think about the evil little demon that lurked inside me for a very long time. Now, for the one person out there that may actually choose to browse this journal.... let me state here and now that I've never had kids. For whatever reason-divine intervention, genetics, common sense, or just plain luck..I never had to deal with the possibility of birth defects due to my self diagnosis and treatment of a chronic mental disorder that has only become worse over the years. To that, I say..THANK GAWD. It would've been just one more thing to be depressed about, and lord knows I have enough of that already in my life. I knew from a very young age that I didn't want kids..I never liked baby sitting, hated changing diapers, didn't care for the crying, and somehow knew that my life was going to be complicated enough without having to drag a child through the mud with me. It was a great decision..I'm sure more for the unborn child than myself, but about the only thing I miss as a result are the Grand-kids.

Trying to be sane...I think it's something we all do a little of, at least once in awhile. For me, it's been a never ending battle since my childhood years. Back when kids were supposed to be happy and carefree, I somehow never really knew what that truly meant. Looking back on it all, I tend to blame it on everyone around me at the time. In grade school, I was constantly bullied by other kids..because I had red hair, because I was taller than everyone else, because I had a last name that was easy to make fun of. Then, there were the parents. Not the loving kind of Beaver Cleaver parents that many kids had, but the kind who really should have never had kids. The ones who verbally abused, even physically abused to a point; the ones who had kids because that's what society told them they should do back in their day. This sea of Depression..not the Acute, flutter-by kind that only appears when something tragic in our life happens and we think our life is over...but the Chronic, always with us, always shadowing, always ready to swallow us up into it's ugly evilness; or that stalks us so badly that we can't find a hole deep enough to bury ourselves within. That, is my Depression—my lifelong Soulmate, my forever partner, the one evil twin I can't shake. When I decided to start this blog, I knew that I had to find the humor in all of this-Somehow. There has to be a silver lining in this black cloud-Somewhere. If I can at least get the words down on paper, and force myself to look at them, instead of keeping it all wrapped up in my head..maybe it will help. I have failed miserably at journalling over the years. . It's hard enough getting my emotions down in black and white..let alone read them for God's sake! Why in the world would I want to hear how sad others are feeling when I've got enough sadness for a gazillion people in my own life?I don't expect that anyone else would want to read my blog on Depression, anymore than I want to read someone else's. Why...that would be—Depressing! For anyone that might decide to take a gander inside this craziness of mine, let me warn you, I'm not a professional writer. I'm relying on my Open Office program to help make this look somewhat organized. My thoughts, as they go, are on pen and paper in an outline format but may wander aimlessly like my life seems to at times. If I appear to be yelling, it will be in caps..but if I'm crying, I hope I'm the only one who knows. Let's begin.