The Beast Inside of Me

Hold me still against my will,
And then you will see,
The knarly nasty angry beast,
That festers inside of me.

The dark surrounds it’s mark,
My empty chest cavity.
Its oozing, slinking, engulfing wrath,
Forcefully embraces me.

I fight the fight I believe is right,
But, it’s just too full of me.
It looms, it calls, it whines it laughs,
All hours of the night if need be.

It wants me here without you dear,
Please don’t let the fear take me,
It scratches, it hisses, it stabs and kicks,
The pain brings me to my knees.

I see the light I was right to fight,
Freedom is waiting for me,
Until next time the beast decides,
To have another free go at me.


When Dealing With Death

People die.

It’s horrible, cruel, sad, frustrating and almost always unfair. I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. When I think about death it’s sort of like there is a blockage in my mind and the rest is fuzzy. Even the word causes me to feel a bit woozy and uncomfortable.

My first experience with death was at the innocent age of 7 years old, I found my 6 year old brother dead in his crib. When he died I was young, but I did grasp the concept that something horrible happened and that he wasn’t coming back home. It didn’t affect me until much later in my life when I began to understand more clearly the gravity of what happened to my family that day. I was young, but I knew I loved my brother and I knew I didn’t want him to leave us.

When I was 19 I laid on the floor of a vets office, holding my childhood dog as the vet euthanized her. She was 12 years old and had cancer. I felt with my hand on her rib cage her last breath on this earth. She was the dog my family and I adopted 3 days after my brother passed to help us cope.

When I was 20 I stepped over my cat Marley several times in the hallway before bending down to pet him. The second my hand touched his fur I knew he was dead

When I was 22 I stood in my grandmother’s hospital room, kissed her head and whispered goodbyes in her ear. I looked at her face and didn’t recognize her anymore, she died 3 hours after I left the hospital.

Just a couple days ago my ferret Smokey lay dying in a blanket in my arms.

And yesterday? A friend from my past died while taking a swim.

These are only a few examples of when I have encountered death. How am I suppose to understand and comprehend this concept of life? That you can love someone (animals are someones too) so deeply and then they can just be taken away from you? How can someone who has their whole life ahead of them be ripped out of that? How fast and easy and random the whole thing seems to be drives me insane. I sit and I think about it, rationalizing, analysing, tearing my hair out and mumbling obscenities, but I still haven’t come to terms with it. I think of the family and the close loved ones of my friend and my heart breaks for them. I feel their shock. I feel that empty sadness too.

People die.

It’s horrible, cruel, sad, frustrating and almost always unfair and I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.

A Tribute to Smokey

One of my ferrets died this morning.

Her name was Smokey and she was a beautiful cream colored ferret. My boyfriend and I adopted her from a couple we found on on the internet. We only had her for 3 months before she passed away today. It was a short time to spend with her, but I am glad she was with us anyway.

She was a character. If you have no experience with ferrets it would be worth it to go on YouTube and check out some videos. They are truly unique creatures for sure. Ferrets enjoy finding “prizes” around the home and stashing them away in the strangest places. Smokey loved my red pencil case. When I was doing my school work on my bed she would run up, grab my pencil case, and make a mad dash across the room. Which was, I will not lie to you, a hilarious behavior to witness. Especially since my pencil case was heavier than she. Luckily I knew all her hiding spots to retrieve my stolen property, but once she discovered that I had taken it back she would look at me as if to say “Hey! That’s mine!” and she would drag it away all over again.

She adored my boyfriend and loved to cuddle with us and her ferret friend Bandit. She would always be curled up beside us on the bed, a little ball of fluff, who was content with anywhere you placed her as long as she was close by us. When I would wake her up in her cage for play time she would lazily roll out of her hammock and outstretch her front paws on to my palm and wait for me to do the rest. She loved treats and would pick one out of the bag to run off and stash it somewhere safe. She and Bandit made me laugh on countless occasions even when I wasn’t feeling happy, looking at their cute little faces always made me break into a grin even if I had tears in my eyes.

Smokey became sick about a month ago. We noticed that she was getting skinny so my boyfriend took her to the vet. The vet told us she was in perfect health aside from the fact that she wasn’t eating. We were given medication to give her and a protein supplement to help her pack on some weight. We have been feeding her by syringe since then, but there must have been something wrong inside. When I picked her up out of her cage last night for play time I knew the process of death had begun. Its one of those things that you just know. I didn’t want to believe it at first so I gave her to my boyfriend and went to make her food. He came out into the kitchen and told me what I couldn’t say out loud. Smokey was dying.

We wrapped her in a blanket and took turns cuddling her until my boyfriend had to go to sleep. I stayed up with her holding her, petting her, and talking to her until about 6 am this morning. I placed her beside our bed in an unused litter pan surrounded with fluffy blankets.

I woke up with a start at 10 am, my boyfriend had already gone to work and I looked over at her bed and she wasn’t in it. My first instinct was to go to her cage, thinking maybe she had improved and she was still alive. Before I got to the cage though, I turned and went to the freezer instead. I knew she was going to be there, but it didn’t seem to take the edge off. I ran back to bed and cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up again my boyfriend had texted me saying that she passed away with him at 8 am before he left for work. I was relieved that she wasn’t alone, but still mad at myself that I had gone to sleep. It hasn’t fully hit home yet that she is gone. Death is a strange thing. I live in Canada and the ground is frozen here. It seems morbid to have her in my freezer until spring, but I want bury her somewhere beautiful and you can bet that that red pencil case is going with her.

It’s amazing how such a small creature can impact your life. She wasn’t with us for long, but I’ll never forget how she made my days just a little easier.


Writing Out Depression

It’s strange to have two people in your head (no I do not mean that in a literal sense I haven’t fallen off like that quite yet) one person who is positive, bright, hopeful, clear and future bound and yet another who is negative, dark, down, murky and bound to the past. That’s usually how I describe depression. It’s like the bright positive one is my true self and the dark and dreary one somehow got shackled to my damned wrist. Talk about having mixed feelings. One day can be bright and hopeful and somehow just one sleep and you wake up like it’s apocalypse now and rolling out of bed might be death sentence.

I saw a commercial about depression once, it said; Depression Hurts in bold letters at the end. I thought that would be obvious to most people, but truly didn’t get the meaning until years later. I would wake up everyday feeling like I’d  been run over by a truck and I was so tired. Not like “Oh, maybe I should go grab an espresso” tired, it was a “Oh, did I just walk into that tree?” tired. Exhausted. For. No. Reason. Frustrating beyond belief so of course I went to my doctor and explained my dilemma and he ran tests, took my blood, asked me 50 million questions and some other doctorly things and he concluded that I was depressed. I laughed. I already knew that. He went on to explain that people who suffer from depression often just feel like bags of shit (obviously in more doctorly words.) I remember thinking really? So it’s not enough that I have to struggle mentally? It has to hit me physically too? What kind of crack pot bullshit is that? I left the doctors office with a cloud looming over my head. I was sort of hoping he would give me a diagnosis that was curable, however, he didn’t.

I probably owe an explanation as to why I believe depression isn’t curable don’t I? It’s been 10 years. Ten years with depression. It’s a decent amount of time. A long time even. I am 23 which of course means depression hit me at 13. Which is ridiculous right because what does a 13 year old have to worry about really? Which is why it was confusing as hell for me, but I’ll get into that later. It feels like I have been struggling forever and yes I have “beaten” depression once or twice, but it keeps coming back. It’s relentless and aggressive and constant. When I was victorious I lived in fear of its return. I lived in fear of depression. Doesn’t that sound absurd?

Some people live half a lifetime before they encounter depression. Then one day it just picks a soul and bears down on that poor creature, but I wonder if its easier for them or perhaps harder? Because they remember the person they used to  be, maybe they fight a little harder to get that person back. When I think about myself I really don’t know who I am without depression. It’s not like at 23 I can revert back to my happy-go-lucky 12 year old self. That thought is sort of frightening don’t you think? Who am I really? Where would I be in life if I didn’t know what depression was?

I am not suicidal. I can’t stress that enough, but sometimes I don’t want to live. A lot of the time. So I sleep. I can sleep heavier and longer than anyone you know I’ll bet. I just finished sleeping for 15 hours. I love to sleep, but I hate it just as much. I have slept part of my life away. Days that I’ll never get back. Moments lost. When I wake up from one of my famous 15-17 hour sleeps I don’t feel rested. My body is usually in pain from laying down for so long, my lower back aches and my neck is stiff. I sob. I scream cry when I know no one is home. I curse myself, my life, my weakness. I scream at the top of my lungs sometimes. I am usually able to turn it around and make the most of the rest of my day, but other times I can’t and I don’t leave my bed.

Its like depression is etched into my very being (yeah that’s suppose to sound dramatic). Learning to rewrite my way of thinking is tough. Of course I’ve been thinking that way since I “came into myself” as a human being. I have known nothing else. At the end of the day when I close my eyes though, I tell myself that I will be better. If not tomorrow then maybe a week from now. I don’t believe in a “cure”, but I will get better before I get worse again. I’ve just gotta ride the coaster.




Why write a blog?

It was a spontaneous idea not planned out in the slightest. I woke up at 5:30 in the evening and decided I’d write a blog about depression. It seemed, at the time, to be a pretty decent idea as I lay in my bed staring at my clock, trying to count the endless hours that I had just slept and all the responsibilities I had inevitably postponed.

But why make it public?

I could of course just pick up a pen and paper and chicken scratch my feelings down then shove it in a drawer to never read again. That doesn’t feel right to me though. I thought about how many people in the world may have just woke up with the same sick twisty feeling in their guts. What about those people? Could we relate to one another?

I don’t talk about my depression to many people. There are a select few who I am comfortable going into the gritty details with, but mostly I just pretend things are alright now, to the people who couldn’t know any better.

I am going to be honest with you though; it’s eating me alive.

I need to talk about it, or type about it, or do something productive about it.

It’s time.

This blog will be about my experience with depression, my past, how I have coped, how I’ve crashed, and how I still keep getting up somehow. It will be raw, it will be sad and it will be hopeful.