Old-Ass Ideas

Oh, that photo? That’s just mars. MARS. We are living in the future, and I’m sick of dealing with old-school shit.

(This is prompted by nothing, by the way. I’m just generally pissy about it.)

Things that are difficult: Talking about problems. Admitting to needing help, facing mortality and saying goodbye.

Things that are easy: Sweeping everything under a rug, denial, laughing it off.

Why is it that being tough has this stupid association with being mute? Seriously. I want to know. Is it so much easier for most people to talk about their problems? That’s the hardest thing for me to do. I loathe talking about my feelings. Admitting to myself that I have any feelings other than ‘happy’  and ‘sleepy’ feels like admitting weakness.  Which is stupid, and for some reason has really started pissing me off.

I spent a long time not talking about my feelings and being – as I was once called by a dear friend – ‘emotionally anal-retentive’. Now I talk about my feelings all the damned time – on this blog, with my boyfriend, with my family, with my therapist, with my friends.

You know what?

The old way was easier. Waaaaayyyyy easier. Having lived out both sides of this particular story, I feel confident in saying that the weakness lies in not talking about it. Talking about feelings sucks. It causes crying. Crying makes my eyes itchy, which also sucks. The whole thing. Made of suck.

It takes some serious fucking strength to get everything out in the open, tear it to shreds, and start to glue it all back together. It’s hard. It hurts. Some wounds are really old, and they take a lot of work to open up, and then they just bleed all over everything. It’d be easier to just duct tape them shut again and ignore them.

I think we need to work on changing our opinions of the word ‘strength’. I have, in the past few years, been alternately terrified and angry and helpless and a lot of other feeeeeeelings, and in denial, I was weak. Still, I said goodbye to my father forever, so I forgive myself some denial because that? Is also made of suck.

So now I take weird little white pills, and I talk about my damned feelings whenever they come up. Those are things that make me strong. They’re the things that are making me a whole human.

To those who disparage people dealing with depression in any way they choose: You have a right to your ridiculous, out of date, old-ass opinion. I have the right to mock you mercilessly for it and suggest that you also look into the currently accepted shape of the planet. (Round. FYI.)

If you’re really unlucky, I will tell you how your hurtful comments make me feel. For hours. Just because I can.


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