Crying on the bus

It’s about 5:30pm on a Wednesday evening in July and I am just about halfway home on the 38 along Geary, one of the main heartlines of San Francisco. I’ve just worked a full, satisfying day, rising at 6:30am and writing from 7am to about 10am. I had enough time to cook myself a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, cheese, and turkey, served on a bed of arugula and accompanied by a steaming cup of black coffee. By 11:15am I was on the bus downtown, where I put in another easy five hours at the bike shop. I had watched the sunlight fall golden on a red Velorbis and thought about how I should have photographed it in that moment, but then a customer had walked in, and the sun fell behind the tall buildings along Market Street. I had to run only a little bit to catch the bus home. I think I may have dropped a laundry quarter, but that’s okay. I was feeling pretty good -- tired, but good. I could let the quarter go. Maybe someone else would find it and use it.

But it’s now about 5:30pm, and I tell myself, “No, not here,” but I can’t stop crying. I’m thinking about how tomorrow I have an intake appointment at a center in the Haight tomorrow and how I hope that my limited income will render the sessions as close to free as possible, otherwise I may not be able to afford them, and I need them … very very badly. I think I’m crying because I’m relieved, because I’m tired of feeling like this, because everything seems so overwhelming and all my usual coping strategies aren’t working, because I have a fungal skin infection that won’t seem to go away (and that I probably got because depression compromises your immune system), because everything hurts so deeply and I don’t know why, because the things that used to make me feel fulfilled have ceased to bring me happiness, because one moment I’m okay and the next I am not, because this is not who I am, because maybe I’ll finally get an answer.

Window 1 by Yours Truly

I get off the bus, only a few blocks from home, but can’t maintain my composure any longer, so I turn the corner, walk a few steps, and sit down on a raised sidewalk planter to rest and to cry. To my relief, it is shrouded by the weeping branches of some sort of small willow tree, so the space feels private, and to further insulate myself, I hold my face in my hands. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to hide. I’m not particularly embarrassed to be crying in public. I guess it’s because the pain -- or whatever you want to call it -- it’s just so piercing and so profound that it calls everything to it. It focuses like light under a magnifying glass and splits my heart into two. What does it feel like when your heart breaks? It feels like being punched in the stomach, like having the breath knocked out of you. It feels like dying, like everything inside of you is wilting at time lapse speed. There are lots of reasons my heart could be breaking right now, but only darkness fills my mind, and then a throbbing, red light, the way I imagine a wound looks under the skin. I hear it my mind, a pulsing pressure in my ears. I cry because I can do nothing else.

Lying on the floor smoking a cigarette in long exposure.

I’m not a weak person. I’m a strong person. I’m a fearless person. I split lanes on my bicycle, weaving in and out of traffic just because I can. I’m not always a smart person, but I’m not a timid person either. To succumb to this … it’s a big thing. It’s bigger than I am -- much much bigger. It’s as big as the ocean and the sky seeping into one another in the middle of the blackest night, and standing on the shore you wonder if you might be standing at the edge of the world. If you step too far, you might fall into oblivion. The weight of it can be spiritually crushing.

But then I’m done. It stops. It subsides, receding like a wave ebbing. I’m not necessarily okay, but I’m functional again. I get up without glancing at who might have seen me -- I don’t care. I have a lot of things I want to accomplish today. I am not all right, but I am okay. I can do this.

A younger self would have been angry. I am frustrated, but I am patient. Before I steadfastly believed I was in control of this sadness, that its presence was an indication of my failure to cope and be grateful. I believed I was sad because I wasn’t trying hard enough, and that finding myself crying inexplicably was just because I was too lazy to do something else. Now I know better, now I am more gentle with myself. More and more research reveals that depression is a result of a malfunctioning brain, that neither yoga nor eating more greens nor volunteering nor spending more time with friends can fix it. In better times, those things will help stave off more extreme mood swings, but right now I am stuck, and I can’t even get to the point where things like that would actually help.

Window 2

So I cry. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I let the tears flow wherever I am, and I let people help me or I let people take a step back or I let people do nothing at all. I am frustrated, but I know it will be better … perhaps not tonight, perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not even in a month … but eventually I’ll be okay, just like I was before.

Accidental Virgin

Last week I went to the SFMOMA to see their Photography in Mexico exhibit. I went with my friend, who is full Mexican and who can speak Spanish.

I'm half Mexican and I can't speak Spanish.

I said, "I'm going to make a self-portrait of myself as a modern Virgen de Guadalupe."

This has a lot to do with the fact that I have a lingering case of ringworm right now, which is contagious and has prevented me from intimacy for about a month and a half. It will be another month before I'm allowed skin-to-skin contact again.

She said, "What, so you're going to dress up like a chola?"

Uh ... no?

The Dreaded D-Word

I sailed into San Francisco from Los Angeles in December on a wave of optimism. I was in love, I had resolved some difficult conflicts, I already had job interviews scheduled for my first week in town, I felt proud of my personal growth, and I felt ready for a new chapter of my life.

Devastating break up aside, moving is difficult. Though I am an outgoing, friendly, and easy-going person, leaving everything you've ever known -- your family, your talented beloved friends, your way of living -- is not for the faint of heart. I've stuck it out this long, gaining incredible insights, and for that I have to give myself credit. I'm still here on a freelancer's income in a city that is notoriously expensive.

But I've been struggling. I feel lost. I find myself crying and can't discern why exactly my heart aches so deeply. Contentment is fleeting and the things that used to make me happy seem shrouded in a fog that I can't quite seem to see through. My emotions are dull. Determined, I've launched a thousand campaigns into my heart, certain certain certain that this time -- this time -- I've finally figured it out, and everything will be better. Things will be better, but it's going to take something more than I can provide for myself. It's going to take time and patience and treating myself gently, as well as seeking outside help.

How it feels. Photo by Yours Truly

My parents always dismissed the D-word as a "white people's disease," that only those with the luxury of time on their hands feel sad. Knowing better, I still hesitate to say the D-word...to own it, to treat it, to let it run through me like any other disease.

I've been meeting lots of people, and in a city where very few actually originate here, I am enamored with the stories of their journeys. I listen carefully for the wisdom I can glean from them. I want to know how they got here, why they got here, and where they are going from here. I wonder if my story will run parallel to theirs, intersect with theirs, meet and then repel theirs. I am eager for friends, trusting and ready to love everyone, and I try to say "Yes" to every opportunity I encounter.

My search for continued therapy up here has been met with many false starts, but I now know how urgently I must renew this goal. I am sure that the wavering momentum has a lot to do with still overcoming my internalized stigma of the D-word. The truth is that at this point, I'm sick of feeling this way. I'm done. It's exhausting and it's holding me back. I've been through it before, this dreaded D-word, and I've survived. That is the difference between who I am today and the person I was before: I've learned that these feelings are not forever, that they are not indicative of who I am as a person and everything I am capable of. I may be small, but I am brave and I am tenacious.

I hope this writing touches some people. What I've found to be one of my contributions to the world is my ability to vocalize my feelings. I've found that in saying out loud what a lot of people don't or can't say, I give others strength and reassurance. So I hope this writing helps someone...and if you need someone to talk to, I'm here for you, and we'll get through this together.

Girl, Forgiven

Like many people, it was during a period of chaos when I arrived at the clarity that would deliver me to this blog. Guided by what I thought people expected of me rather than what I wanted for myself left me lost. I had been in my new home of San Francisco for only six months, but I felt like I'd already lived a hundred lifetimes. I was in a lot of pain -- new pain from a very confusing break up, and old pain from a very long time ago. I was trying to make a lot of things happen because I thought it would make a lot of people pleased with me, but I couldn't tell you what would make me pleased with myself.

I was unraveling -- crying every morning for reasons I could not discern, relapsing into self destructive behavior, and angry with myself for the life I saw as failure. It began to interfere with my work, my personal relationships, and my health. I decided I was done feeling like crap, and began reaching out for help.

I was advised not to make any major life decisions, but I made one anyway: I am going to return to my first love and my greatest talent by actively pursuing writing. It is a relief.

The D-word (Depression!!!) is something I have struggled with all my life. Before I moved to San Francisco from LA, I'd been seeing a therapist and making very good progress. When I moved I thought I would test myself, but a lot of things happened, and this sadness is bigger than I am, so I need help. I am fragile and raw, yet receptive and determined, because whether I like it or not, I totally embody that Chumbawamba song.

I wanted to start a blog not only to practice writing, but to offer others support, encouragement, and a bit of comedic relief the best way I know how: by just being myself. Embracing my wild moods, I thought of the movie Girl, Interrupted, but recognized that I wasn't anywhere near hospitalization. I thought of "Girl, Unraveled," but didn't like the connotation. I thought about some of the greatest advice I've ever received yet rarely follow: "Would you say the things you say to yourself to someone else?" No, you would forgive your friends for crying on your shoulder and confessing their weaknesses, for 2am phone calls and emergency ice cream dates in the park, for trying something new and totally failing yet learning along the way.

And so I am Girl, Forgiven.