Category Archives: Blogging

by | January 1, 2021 · 12:15 pm

Hope is a Candle in the Darkness of Depression


Photo by PhotographyCourse on Unsplash

 

I’ve written about this before, but it bears repeating. The season between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day is my favorite time of year, but also seems to be a time when I struggle with my depression and anxiety, and sometimes suicidal ideation, the most. That’s not to say they don’t rear their ugly heads throughout the rest of the year, and that they magically disappear the second week of January each new year, but they seem to be the most difficult to deal with at the end / beginning of each year. I’ve noticed this pattern for about the past 6 plus years… about the time I entered my forties… my fifth decade of life…

Maybe there’s a correlation. Even though I’ve been less fearful, more relaxed and forward-thinking in my forties than in my twenties or thirties, still, my body seems determined to remind me that I am growing older, not getting younger. Perhaps growing older also has more negative affects on our mental health than we’d like to think…

While there’s life, there’s hope

Even with all of the emotional angst that hits me this time of year, I try to remind myself daily that while there’s life, there’s hope. My mother said those words to me many, many moons ago, probably referring to something else, but they have stuck with me these many years, and have become a sort of mantra.

Remember that people, no matter how well-intentioned they are, will let you down. It’s part of the frailty of being human. We are all just a bit selfish, and sometimes – more so that we may wish – our selfishness causes us to be unfeeling toward others who mean the most to us. The best thing to do in this case is remember that you are also guilty of this from time to time, and strive each day to do better, both for yourself and for those you love. Be the best friend, parent, spouse, partner, sibling you can be. You can ALWAYS do better. Relationships take WORK. Everything worth having takes work. And have HOPE that others will also strive to do better.

Whenever I consider the event(s) that led to my mental health issues, it leads me to thinking about the event(s) that resulted in the mental health issues of friends and colleagues. And then I feel a bit of shame for my angst, because some of them endured much worse and/or longer-lasting trauma than I. I mentioned this once several years ago to a colleague. Her response is another that resounded with me: It’s not a competition. Each person’s story and mental health struggle is valid.

Candles in the darkness

Photo by Hilde Buyse on Unsplash

The point is, no matter how bad things get inside my head, my brain, I’m still alive, and while I continue to fight the depression and anxiety and suicidal thoughts, I can have HOPE that someday I’ll win the war. Until then, I take my medication like clockwork, try to remember to count my blessings, do something just for me each day, and find at least one thing every day that’s positive.

Some things that have helped me and may help you also:

  • Listen to the music that brings you joy.
  • Read the book that makes you laugh.
  • Dance while no one is watching.
  • Call the friend who always loves and encourages you.
  • Pray.
  • Hug someone who always gives good hugs.
  • Journal.
  • Take a long nap.

These are all candles in the darkness. They keep me going. One little, tiny candle in the midst of my darkness offers hope that there are more candles nearby, just waiting for life. And they remind me that while there’s life, there’s also hope that things will be better tomorrow.

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Filed under Anxiety, Blogging, Depression, Emotion, Friendship, Holidays, How To, Life, Mental Health, Musings, Real Life, Relationships, Survivors, Thankful, writer, Writing

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by | June 8, 2016 · 5:25 pm

When Your First Kiss Causes a Full-Blown Panic Attack


By Ryan Moreno

Photo source: Unsplash.com/Ryan Moreno

Do first kisses usually cause panic attacks?

I don’t mean a heart-racing-weak-in-the-knees anticipation kind of feeling, either. I mean a full-blown, honest-to-God panic attack.

Thought I didn’t realize it at the time, mine did. The muscle memory is still with me. My heart is hammering my chest just from the memory. I remember the physical sensations, the thoughts that ran through my head and the emotional upheaval as clearly as if it’d happened only yesterday:

Sweat beaded my lip and brow, and ran its cool fingers down my spine. I was so flushed, my body was burning up. I hyperventilated and my heart beat so hard I thought it would jump out of my chest (due to a heart condition, when I’m having a panic attack, I can look down and literally SEE my heart pounding). It felt like I was on a roller coast (I LOVE roller coasters, but I didn’t love this one – it felt more like drowning), and the contents of my stomach were threatening imminent reappearance. This was my first kiss panic attack. I was 15.

It took him hours to wear me down. Maybe days. That part is kind of hazy. He was also 15, but either much more experienced or simply more confident than I. He was persistent and wore me down. That I was quite attracted to him might’ve helped to tip the scales in his favor. Even while we were kissing – French, of course 😉 – my heart ran a marathon. That fight or flight syndrome. I didn’t know what to do, how to handle the sensations running through me. I let him take the lead and he devoured me.

Kissing came easier after that. Until a few weeks later when I became uncomfortable with him slidding his hand up my skirt and attempting to fondle my breasts. He called me a prude. I’d never been called that before and had to find a dictionary. When I told my mother he’d called me a prude, she said I should be proud of that. At 15, I was just as uncomfortable with the idea of being a prude as I was with his hands on the covered parts of my body.

I don’t know if he really was looking to “score” or just wanted to fool around a little. After establishing my “prudishness,” he quickly lost interest. And I became a subtle stalker. I didn’t have the confidence to confront him, so I prank-called his house multiple times, wrote a lot of bad poetry, broke a few of my figurines, and cried. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last – I cried over a male who didn’t deserve my tears.

I hated to say no to him…when I was younger I had that “want to please everyone” personality. I hated confrontation. It made me sick to my stomach. But at the same time, I was willful and stubborn. Great tug-o-war combo. I still sometimes struggle with wanting to make everyone else happy. But I’m less afraid of confrontation.

Something inside wouldn’t let me say yes to him…So I was a prude. Until I was 19. A guy I’d known for several years (my brother’s best friend, in fact), who was a couple years younger than me, said the right words, at the right time, and wooed me in just the right way…I let him in where another male hadn’t been since my CSA 15 years before (I talk about that HERE.) Eventually, this younger guy became abusive and the end of our relationship was a disaster and emotionally traumatic for me…but that’s another story for another time…

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Filed under Anxiety, Blogging, Life, Mental Health, Musings, Survivors, Writing

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by | June 3, 2016 · 7:57 pm

Guest Post: Write Whatever the Hell You Want by Lindsay Fischer


Photo source: Unsplash.com/Green Chameleon

Photo source: Unsplash.com/Green Chameleon

Right this second I’m lying on my love seat. It’s 85 degrees beyond my walls, with land-locked, staggering humidity. Frankly, I’ve never had any desire to be in a sauna. I’ve never rushed to one at the gym, never enjoyed the times I’ve been convinced to go in and sit in my own sweat, and I don’t anticipate this ever changing, which is why I’m inside right now, a blanket tossed over my legs while my bulldog, Frank, snores away the afternoon.

I’ve been writing more lately but that’s not saying much. More is a subjective term I’m tossing out to make it appear I’ve been useful. Just last month I barely let my fingers dance, my creativity abbreviated by life’s circumstances. Now, I’m pushing, resisting the urge to say I’m waiting for inspiration or some other garbage excuse for why I’m not doing what actually fills up my soul.

Last night I wrote a blog about what it meant to be real. It was my third attempt at a blog I was asked to write in early May. In truth, the first two sucked. They were both disingenuous attempts to appease a new audience, something I fight like hell not to do with my words, but when a new person wants my words on their page – well – I sometimes forget that my biggest strength as a writer is my voice.

It’s easy to get wrapped up in what we should be doing. Are my metaphors up to snuff? Have I sufficiently combined both long and short sentences to avoid monotony? Are my darlings dead?

So easy, in fact, it’s really difficult to keep your voice intact when you’re trying to write the next great American anything. I mean, honestly, why do we have to believe our writing is worthy of such praise anyway? Can’t we just let it be what it is and reach who it’s supposed to?

When I started writing my first (and only, right now) memoir, I convinced myself I needed to prove I could write a damn-good book to my former colleagues, my former students, my haters. Instead of writing in a stylistically complimentary way, I did what I thought I *should* do, and it took me 6 months to remove my head from my ass.

And I doubt I ever really “proved my prose.”Lindsay - Self Sabotage

That’s when I realized something:

My talent isn’t in using elevated language or literary devices. It’s in speaking to my audience as if they are sitting on this couch with me, fuming at the thought of having their bangs plastered to their foreheads the second they step outside, certain their upper lips will sweat instantly, too. They hear which words are emphasized because I’m serving up stories like a sermon. They trust me because I’m honest, and that, my friends, needs no fluffing.

My truth, my realness, and my unapologetic stance on just being me is what sells me, not only as a writer, but I’m fairly certain it’s what brings amazing people into my life, too.

Instead of sitting still and telling myself I can’t get good enough words out, I’m talking about it, writing this post like it’s exactly what’s meant to come from me today. No other words matter, no other projects take precedence.

We all deserve to find our strengths as writers and play to them. It doesn’t mean you can’t learn and grow through writing more, but if your fear of being inadequate freezes up production then it’s time to go back to your roots and remember why you fell in love with writing in the first place.

For me? It was catharsis: a chance to purge emotion and connect with others who understand.

Self-sabotage is the old friend we haven’t let go of because they’ve been around too long. You might know it doesn’t serve you but you can’t cut ties because you’re bonded. Trust me on this, that shit is toxic and turns you away from the things you love most.

Divorce it.

Dig deep.

Write whatever the hell you want.

_________________________________________________________________

Lindsay Fischer HeadshotAfter surviving domestic violence (and three years of trauma therapy), Lindsay Fischer saw an opportunity to use her voice against abuse, blogging as Sarafina Bianco since 2009. She revealed her identity in 2015 when her memoir, The House on Sunset, was released, and she now speaks on behalf of trauma survivors on national stages.

Website: http://www.survivorswillbheard.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/linsfischer

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/survivorswillbeheard

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