"There are glasses to raise in the praise of survivin'..."

I wanted to write a little bit today because, well, the past year has been a fucking rough one. This year I've fought harder than I have in 10 years against my depression. There were a lot of days, some of them in the past couple of months, that I really didn't think that I was going to get to today.

But I did. I hit 28 today. I didn't try to end my life this year. Gods know that I have had my bad moments. But...damn it, I'm a cockroach and I am still here.

I turned 28 today and more than anything in this world...I'm grateful.

I'm grateful that I am still here. I'm grateful for every time that there was something, whether it was an unexpected phone call from a friend or an inquiring "meow" from my cat that brought me back from a dangerous edge. Part of living with this mental illness is dealing with days when you wish you weren't here anymore, days when you wish that the pain would just stop. But it is so good to remember there can be days when you are glad to wake up. Days when the good outnumbers or outweighs the bad...that can still happen.

I'm grateful to be turning 28 today. I'm grateful for the loved ones who hold me up when I swear I don't have the strength to do it anymore. I'm grateful for the family who raised me to be a fighter. I'm grateful for my work, which I love, that drags me out of bed on the days when I want to hide there. I'm grateful to have access to doctors who listen, who are fighting as hard for me as I am to stay.

Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart, to all of you who give me something new to fight for every day. Thank you for the encouragement on the days when I feel weak and lost, thank you for bitching at me about what happened to Roderick, thank you for making me laugh when I swear that I have forgotten how.

It's so easy to forget that there are good days, but today is one of them. I refuse to forget, to let it be lost in the maelstrom of bad feelings. Please, if today is one of the dark days for you...please remember that it can still be good. It won't always be easy, but it can still be good. Please don't give up. Fight for another birthday. Fight for another year when you can blow out the candles, raise a glass, or whatever equates celebration for you and know that you made it. The fight's worth it.

Love to you all, and thank you again.

~E.W.

The Monsters Are Real

Hello friends!

Wow, I can't believe I haven't posted since the beginning of July. Sorry about that. I promise it was for a good reason though. I wrote another book! I started a project on May 1^st and my goal was to finish it by July 31^st and I made it! However, it meant that July was more than a little bit crazy in the final push towards my self-imposed deadline. Then in August Husband and I both got to visit family, which was really nice, but kept me away from the blog. I got sucked right back into the EBR when we returned, however, so that's good. Book II will be done by the end of the year, then hopefully out sometime during the following one. Anyway, enough updates. I actually had a thing I wanted to talk about.

As I mentioned, Husband and I both got to see family last month. It was very special for me to return home, as I haven't in a very long time. Apart from spending great time with my parents and siblings, I also spent some time in my old room.

Yes, there are embarrassing pictures, drawings, crafts, and all manner of things, including the only surviving copy of my first book: Werewolf II. However, while cleaning out a drawer in my desk I discovered something that I literally hadn't thought about in years. What, might you ask?

Why, it was my “Monster Wand”, of course.

It will probably shock exactly none of you to know that as a kid I had a fairly active imagination. The woods were full of dinosaurs only I could see, I was besties with the giant water spider who lived in our laundry room (his name was Igor), and underneath my bed was a portal to some sort of dark world populated by eldritch beasts the likes of whom do not even bear describing lest they tear apart the fragile fabric of one's mind. There was something with glowing eyes that lived in my closet (an idea that wasn't helped by reading Cujo way younger than I probably should have), and a horrible black mass that took on the shape of an innocuous rocking chair in the corner during daylight hours. My stuffed animals and toy dinosaurs were my nighttime defenders, but every night felt like our Helms Deep, our Thermopylae. Surely the monsters would overcome us this time and all would be lost.

Eventually my parents, likely desperate for their overly-imaginative child to stop showing up in the wee small hours of the morning to tell them about which monster she was just sure was going to devour her this time, decided it was time to take action.

We had had the “monsters don't exist” talk, of course. But of course I knew, as all small children do, that the monsters were in fact very real. Grown-ups just put blinders on so that they can pretend there aren't things lurking in the shadows. I would listen when my parents would tell me that there was nothing that could hurt me under the bed. I would look with them, we'd talk about imaginations and how I should probably try to think about nice things before bed instead of things with too many legs and bright, glowing eyes.

Unfortunately for my parents, the rational stuff didn't entirely take. I wanted it to, I really did. I wanted to be a “big girl” and be as brave as my fighter pilot father. But damn it, there was definitely something that lived under the bed that would grab me if I didn't get into it at a dead run after midnight trips to the bathroom!

Then, one day they hit upon something genius. Instead of continuing trying to convince their stubborn offspring that the monsters were just figments of her imagination, they went along with it. They gave me a tool to combat the monsters. They bought me one of those clear plastic wands with the glitter that floats in this viscous liquid inside. It was the “Monster Wand”. They would wave it under my bed, in the closet, wherever scary things were. It dispelled them. It sent them away.

Having the monster wand in my bedside table was a pretty huge thing. Suddenly I had the power to fight the monsters. I wasn't just food waiting to be eaten. I could stand alongside my stuffed animal and dinosaur army and be my Triceratops' equal as we faced the forces of darkness. Most importantly, it acknowledged what all kids know: Monsters are real. That lesson hasn't gotten any less important to me as an adult. Sure, the definition of “Monster” has changed as I've gotten older (contrary to the impression you may have gotten from my book), but they are every bit as real now as they were when I was five.

I think that the Monster Wand was probably the best thing in the world that my parents could have done for me as a kid, and certainly something that has shaped me as an adult. We all have those things that lurk in the darkness, ready to pull us into waiting claws and fangs. Having a Monster Wand as a kid helped shape me into a person who would always rather stand and fight, even if I do sometimes take a few hits and lose some ground. It taught me that bad things, scary things exist...but they can always be fought with the right tools and some courage.

So am I saying that you parents should tell your kids that there is totally a thing under their bed that thinks they would be great with fava beans and a nice Chianti? Well...no, potential amusement factor aside.

I guess that what I'm saying is that if anyone, be it your child, your spouse, your friend, comes and wants to talk to you about their “monsters”...don't dismiss them by telling them that it's not real. Even if it is only real to them, it's still real. Don't try to pretend that the darkness isn't there, because it is. We all have it and no one can face it unarmed and alone all the time. No one should have to.

So friends, break out your Monster Wands, your vorpal swords, your lights of Eärendil, whatever it is that you need. It's ok to be scared, the PTB know that I am often enough. I have been a lot lately. It may no longer be made of plastic and filled with glitter, but I still have my Monster Wand close to my heart. I'm glad to have it, more now than ever. I hope that you all are able to find your own.

"Eulalia!"

Thoughts on Harassment *Trigger Warning*

Hello friends!

I'm sorry that it's been almost a month since I last posted. The past few weeks have been...weird. On the one hand, I have been working furiously on Project #3. I think I'm only just a little bit behind, so that's good. On the other, depression is still depression. It lies and some days I'm not strong enough to call it on its bullshit.

Thankfully, I have had some relief lately. It has been beautiful here and my favorite sporting event is on tv for the next few weeks. The TDF has given me something to look forward to every day this week, which those of you who suffer from depression know is such a life saver. I find the tour inspiring in general—I think those men are incredible--but in the past few days the courage and general badassitude of men like Geraint Thomas has been so uplifting.

...and I should stop myself before this devolves into pure fangirling. I did actually have something besides awesome cyclists that I wanted to talk about today.

Yesterday I read Ken's awesome post over on Popehat. The central concern that he brings up is this: “...Few topics are as consistent in their ability to draw anger and trolling and bizarre visitors as the issue of sexual harassment and responses to it.”

I found his post to be very interesting and thoughtful, but man...I forgot one of the cardinal rules of the internet. That being: If you don't want to end up ragequitting, DON'T READ COMMENTS.

Yes, there were some really great thoughts and points. However, one of the things that came up there, that has come up in response to all of the craziness with SFWA, and even in response to John Scalzi's post today, is the anger that Ken is talking about.

And what's super disturbing to me is that the anger he's talking about, by and large, isn't the anger of the people who are the victims. It is the anger of those defending the harassers or the culture of harassment. It is people citing the rare examples of exaggerated harassment claims, or the times people have lied about rape to discredit or devalue the words of those who do report it. Those things do happen and it would be disingenuous of me to pretend that they haven't. However, they are not the norm. The norm is, in fact, cases of legitimate harassment. The norm is a culture where imposing your desires on someone (especially, sorry to say, if you are a man and the other person is a woman) is perfectly acceptable and indeed lauded in some circles. It says something deeply disturbing when people react to being told: “Don't harass other people” with vitriol and cries of censorship.

Sorry, but it isn't censorship to tell a person that something that they have said was not appropriate. Just because you have thoughts, desires, or urges doesn't mean that the rest of us are required to be subjected to them.

It also isn't that the people who are reporting harassment cannot take a joke or want to censor the ribald humor of those around us. That's not the point. We aren't asking to be treated like speshul snowflakes. We aren't, strictly speaking, asking for anything. We are saying that it is not ok for you to continue to dehumanize us by reducing us to what you want at that moment. It is about pushing back against the obnoxious sense of entitlement that says that if you want someone you have the right to impose that on them.

I know that a lot of people might be inclined to respond saying: “Well I'd be just thrilled if a hot person of the gender I am attracted to came up to me and told me how fine my ass looked in those jeans”. You know what? You might be the first time. Maybe even the first ten times. But what about when it becomes pervasive? What about when you can't go the store, or the library, or to a convention that represents a fandom that you love, without knowing in the back of your mind that you might end up subjected to that kind of behavior...or worse?

Let me put this another way.

Have you ever had an acquaintance or a colleague who thought that you were closer friends than you were? You know that kind of sinking dread when you run into them in line at Starbucks, or at the store, and then...oh God, eye contact. In an instant they are talking to you, asking about you, wanting to hang out, and ignoring that you came to that place to do a thing that wasn't necessarily socializing. You know the passing irritation of: “Dude, I just want to get my coffee and then be on my way”?

Ok, so why is it so hard to imagine that maybe...that's how most other people doing most things out in the wide world feel? I'm not saying this is true of everyone, ok? Lots of people thrive on that attention. But for most of us...we're just doing our thing. I'm not sure why it is so hard to understand that if a person goes to work, the store, the gym, comic-con, a Supernatural convention, or to an event where their favorite author is on a panel...they are there to be there. Not to be there for you. They are there to immerse themselves in a culture they enjoy. And they should be allowed to do that without being harassed.

Am I saying that flirting is wrong? No, of course not. What is wrong is assuming that you are entitled to spew your lust all over another person. It is wrong to assume that it is the other person's job to curb your bad behavior. You are not in daycare. Have some respect. Treat others like you'd want to be treated. How you'd want your sister, your brother, your children, to be treated.

In other words, follow Wheaton's Law:

“Don't be a dick”.

Proud of Whatever I Am

Hello friends!

I'm sorry that it's been so long since I last posted. I'm working on a new project that has been eating my time, which is a good thing. It's been a long time since I've been really engaged with anything.

Anyway, I have been kicking this idea around ever since I watched ERod's (The Blockbuster Buster) awesome video: “Top 10 Hispanic Heroes”. At the end of the video ERod says: “Feel free to write in some of your favorites in the comments section below. And they don't have to be Hispanic. They can be whatever race, nationality, gender, or sexual orientation you might be. Whatever characters make you proud of being whatever you are.”

I thought that this might be a fun thing to post here, and of course y'all are welcome to weigh in with your own answers. I was going to try to rank these, but I'm not sure that I really can. So here we go. E.W.'s top ten characters who make me proud to be...”whatever [I] am” (in no particular order).

Gadget Hackwrench: Giant props to anyone who knows who this is right away. I'll give you a hint: “Sometimes, some crimes, go slipping through the cracks. But these two gumshoes are picking up the slack. There's no case too big, no case to small, when you need help just call: Ch ch ch Chip and Dale, Rescue Rangers!”

No, I did not have to look that up. That song is seared into my brain from my childhood. I was an honorary Rescue Ranger, thank you very much.

I always looked up to Gadget. She was the only girl and she was awesome. Smart, kind, and funny, she was the things that I really wanted to be. I loved that even though she was a girl she was the one who invented things, the one who worked with tools, the one with all the brains. She showed my super-impressionable self that being a girl did not mean that you had to be second to anyone. You could do your own thing, wear a jumpsuit, and own it. Being a tomboy growing up this was particularly vindicating. Even though as an adult I love my skirts and heels, those who know me know that I am at heart a giant tomboy still. Gadget still makes me proud to be an intelligent woman who does her own thing.

Lisa Simpson: Awww, Lisa. I started watching the Simpsons late, in high school (instead of elementary when most of my schoolmates did). I related to Lisa right away. She was a loner, in part because she was a goody-two-shoes know-it-all, and in part because she had trouble relating to kids her own age. It's hard to be that kid (God knows I was that kid), but what I love is that Lisa always ends up choosing to be true to herself. She has plenty of moments of doubt, plenty of moments where she tries to change to fit in, but she always comes back to just being her. I have had plenty of moments where I have tried to change to make people like me more, but it's characters like Lisa who remind me that I would rather just be myself and find people who dig that.

Sookie Stackhouse: I should note that I mean bookverse Sookie, NOT Trueblood Sookie. I debated with myself a LOT about whether to put Sookie on this list, largely because of my mixed feelings about her character's progression after about book 7 in the series. That being said, I really love the character I came to know in the first seven books in The Southern Vampire Mysteries, so I'm going to focus on that. Sookie is a good Southern woman (something I still consider myself to be). She's kind, strong, forgiving, and curious. Even though her powers give her more insight into people than she wants most of the time, she tries hard to both respect people's privacy and be accepting of people's natures. During some of my worst depressive moments I find myself thinking of her pragmatism and how hard she tries to find something good to see in the world. I respect how independent she is and how much she is willing to do to help people she loves. She doesn't let people talk down to her for being a woman, a barmaid, or a telepath, and she knows her own self-worth. She makes me proud to be Southern, different, and curvy.

Keladry of Mindelan: People who know me and know Tamora Pierce's books automatically assume that Veralidaine (“Daine”) Sarrasri is my favorite of the women from the Quartets. While I love her and Alanna, Kel is the character who always spoke to me. Unlike the other two, she has no magical powers whatsoever. She's the “badass normal” of the group. In the face of extraordinary challenges and danger it is Kel's grit, loyalty, and intelligence that get her through. She's decided that being a woman in the narrow definition encouraged by the time and place isn't enough for her and redefines womanhood to suit her. She's strong and courageous and not afraid to stand up for herself. When she's confronted by bullies or her own fears she's able to dig deep inside herself and push through. She has a quiet sense of humor and is able to acknowledge her own flaws and weaknesses. As someone who always gravitated towards things that aren't strictly speaking “girly” she was always an inspiration.

Rosalind ("Rose") Hawkins: Rose is the main character in Mercedes Lackey's “The Fire Rose”. When we first meet Rose it is in the wake of her father's death and she has been left alone and penniless. A strange opportunity is presented to her and even though it means going away from everything familiar and taking a chance...she does it. She is a brilliant woman who seeks to obtain and hold onto control over her life and future. The society that she lives in isn't inclined to allow her those things due to her femininity. Rose needs to do things on her own terms and man, oh man, is she not afraid to let that be known. Even when she meets the force of personality that IS Jason Cameron and finds herself essentially at his mercy she isn't afraid to point out that he needs her for her intellect and skills. She doesn't let society's expectations of her keep her from fighting to reach her potential. She is proactive when faced with a problem. Though she is human and of course susceptible to fear and uncertainty, she always tries to force herself to slow down and approach things rationally. While she doesn't consider herself a great beauty, she still takes pride in her appearance and her femininity. She is proud to be a woman and believes strongly that it shouldn't negatively impact her career and academic goals.

Tyrion Lannister: Oh Tyrion, where do I even start with you? I think a quote is probably the best place: “Never forget who you are, for surely the world won’t. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” THIS. For as long as I can remember, I have been the different one. Different skin, different hair, different body, different attitude, different interests, always different. Tyrion is completely correct in that quote. When you're different the best thing to do is own it. Be proud of exactly who and what you are. This has been a challenge for me my whole life and a lot of Tyrions inner monologue and actions speak to me very strongly. I understand the temptation to lose yourself in alcohol, and how much easier it is to hide behind being snarky. However, for all the crap that he's gone though he still tries to do at least some good in the world. He makes a lot of mistakes and has seen (and done) some truly awful things, but he owns up to them. He takes responsibility...often more than his share of it. He is who he is, the rest of the world be damned.

Dean Winchester: I have acknowledged many times on this blog that I am a GIANT SUPERNATURAL FANGIRL. *Ahem Excuse me. A lot of people assume, because of my personality, that I am a “Dean Girl”. Actually, I'm not (though I can't help fangirling over Jensen). This is probably for the best, since Husband has told me that it's good that I don't crush on Dean because that would mean that I was a giant narcissist. According to him, if I had a thing for Dean I would be crushing on myself. Now, I wouldn't go that far, but I do feel that Dean and I have a lot in common. And I'm proud of that because Dean is awesome. He is super loyal and protects the people he loves with fierceness that is close to single-minded. When he knows he has a job to do he gets it done, regardless of the consequences to him. He's not afraid to say when something sucks, he acknowledges his own fear and weakness, but it doesn't stop him from taking care of business. While it may not be the healthiest thing, he never forgives himself for his mistakes and much like Tyrion, often takes responsibility for things that aren't on him. He is willing to sacrifice himself in the literal sense and will even give up his shot at happiness to protect someone he loves. He is a control freak in the sense that he'd rather be the one to do things to make sure they get done right. Is he perfect? Hell no. He's loud, obnoxious, narcissistic, horny, he drinks too much, he can be a giant dick, and he is capable of some pretty awful things. But even when he thinks he's given up, he never stops trying. He never stops fighting.

Brienne of Tarth: This one might be self-serving or wishful thinking since Brienne is my favorite character in ASOIAF. She's strong and honorable (sometimes way past where she probably should be). When she makes a promise, damn is she willing to fight to keep it. Having been rejected for so much of her life when someone is good to her she rewards that kindness a hundredfold by being the most loyal friend/companion/whateverthefucksheistoJaime ever. Despite her literal armor and badass exterior, she has a warm heart and knows what it means to be wounded. Instead of letting the horrible ways she's been treated turn her into an evil person, she uses them to motivate her to make the world better. She pushes herself to be the best, not just because she has to, but because she wants to.

Sarah MacKenzie (“Mac”): For those of you who don't know, JAG would be another one of my fandoms. Mac is one of the two main characters in the show. She's a Marine, a lawyer, and completely unafraid to take on anyone, anywhere. She's loyal to a fault, and willing to put her career and her life on the line to do what is right. She's passionate, proud of her femininity, and unwilling to accept second best, even from the love of her life. She works hard, but is willing to let her hair down and relax around people she trusts. She has her flaws. She can be sanctimonious, stubborn, and headstrong, but she always ends up trying to improve herself. She struggles with alcoholism and isn't always able to control it, but she always finds a way to bring it back into check. Though it can sometimes take cajoling, she will accept help from the people she trusts. She's proud, sometimes to a fault, but she has a lot to be proud of.

Molly Weasley: C'mon, there had to be a character from HP on here. This is actually one that I have gotten a lot. I mean sure, I cook a lot, I'm bossy, I'm able to command large groups of children, my husband generally tries to avoid making me mad...ok, ok, I get it. I always, always loved Molly. I love that for all that she is definitely the boss of the Weasley household, she has a much softer side. She loves her kids, she adores her husband, and she is willing to do anything, sacrifice anything, to take care of them. Then, as if that wasn't awesome enough, she takes on one of the most (if you'll forgive my D&Dism) “chaotic evil” evil characters in the whole series and kicks her ass. She over-moms people sometimes, but it comes out of love and care for them. She doesn't let anyone talk down to her or her family and takes pride in herself and her home. She's a true matriarch.

Wow, that got SUPER long. I'm ok with that, though. This was a fun list to make, both because it is fun to think back on things that I love, but also because it forced me to take time to think on the good and bad parts of myself. I am definitely a flawed person, but, like most of us, I tend to focus on the negative things more than the positives. This was a good exercise in acknowledging the good in myself as it is reflected in the characters I love.

I think it's also a good exercise for me as a writer. I can see a lot of common threads in these characters, which I know are present in my own writing. I need to be aware of that in order to avoid making dozens of iterations of the same character. While I don't think that that's something I'm guilty of, the possibility certainly exists.

Ok, I really, really need to eat something. Thanks for your patience at the long time between posts lately and for sticking with me through this super-long post. I hope that you enjoyed it and that, if nothing else, it encourages you to think about all of the things that make you a unique character.

With love, as always.

~E.W.

"Everything is Spiders"

I just wanted to take a second to express how happy I am to see that one of my favorite bloggers has resurfaced!

Allie, the BAMF who writes Hyperbole and a Half, went off the grid for awhile while facing her own battle with the insidious monster known as depression. But she returned to the intertubes last night and again this morning and yeah, not going to lie, made me cry.

Hyperbole and a Half has always been one of my favorites, if not my favorite blog, to read. Her humor is fantastic and the gods know that this post isn't the first of hers to make me cry. Her honesty and ability to laugh at herself have always been inspirational to me, and it takes a lot of strength to write a post like this one:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2013/05/depression-part-two.html

Allie (just in case you stumble across this), I know from experience how overwhelming it can be to have people just fling love all over you (even while it's encouraging). Please take it as a sign from all of us that you've been in our thoughts. I'm reasonably certain that I speak for all of us when I say that you don't have to do anything for us to think that you are awesome. I know I'm not the only one who's checked in in the past few months, not because I need you to entertain me but because I care. For what it's worth, I find the candor of: "Maybe everything isn't hopeless bullshit" so much more comforting than any out and out optimism. You are definitely that kernel for me today. Thank you for being you and for being relentlessly awesome. Thank you for making the world a little less bleak and for letting us all know that we aren't alone. I hope you know that you aren't either.

Seriously friends, go and read Allie's blog. It's good for what ails you.

"Maybe everything isn't hopeless bullshit."

Love, as always,
~E.W.

I Love My Willy

In honor of Shakespeare's birthday, I wanted to write a little bit about the impact that Shakespeare has had on my life. I know, I know, a writer being influenced by Shakespeare is a little trite, but perhaps my reasons won't seem such. Bear with me.

Let's start at the beginning, in fair Virginia where we lay our scene...

I was an awful student growing up. I hated school. I hated the repetition and the constant parade of things that I was certain that I wasn't ever going to need to know. I failed English and Math pretty consistently in middle school. My failures in English were deeply baffling to my parents as I'd always been a voracious reader. I had a big vocabulary as a little kid. However, I was definitely of the opinion that a lot of the analysis that went on in English classes was silly. I just couldn't understand where my teachers were pulling all these things from. (I had several rude guesses, of course)

I remember the day that this started to change. I was in my eighth grade English class and we opened up our copies of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I was NOT looking forward to it. I had gone with my mother to see a production of Julius Caesar a few years before and Shakespeare was, to my mind, for boring, pretentious people. I was certain that I was going to hate reading it.

However, by the end our Midsummer unit I was completely hooked. I hadn't expected something that I thought would be so dry and boring to be so relateable. As the girl who was always just “one of the guys” I really felt for Helena. (Except for the height thing) The only kind of romance I knew was the unrequited kind, so watching her pursuit of Demetrius struck a chord for me. I could feel her desperation and yes, the resentment of prettier friends for whom the guys were always falling. I could relate to the willful Hermia deciding that she wasn't going to listen to her parents and that she'd just run away to follow her heart.

In all honesty, Midsummer was maybe not the best play for my already smart-ass self to read because it introduced me to the ever-awesome Robin Goodfellow. I loved Puck. He still is one of my favorite Shakespearean characters. The last thing I'd expected was that I would be cracking up while reading Shakespeare, of all things. It was a good lesson in keeping my mind open. You never know what you're going to like until you try it.

That was only the first of the lessons that Shakespeare taught me. The next one is the one that is largely responsible for where I am now, career-wise. 

 

Studying Shakespeare was the first time I ever really felt good at something. I'd struggled so much in school before reading Midsummer, but after our Shakespeare unit was finished my sense of self-confidence had grown exponentially. While many of my classmates struggled with the language and pulling meaning from the Bard's words, I didn't. I could read it and understand it quickly. I could interpret it easily. Suddenly all the crap that my English teachers said about allegory and metaphor made sense. I found myself looking for double meanings where before I would have tried not to see them. My writing improved as I worked to express the beautiful things that I saw in the text. Suddenly I was getting A's in English and looking forward to class. I didn't feel like such a failure anymore. I was good at something. I stood out in a positive way. I wasn't useless. I started writing more and more as my confidence grew. I actually started to like writing, something that would have been impossible before. Soon, that fondness for writing grew to a passion, a passion that has come to define who I am and what I do.

Once I got to high school and we moved to more complicated plays I looked forward more and more to our Shakespeare units. I gobbled them up. By senior year I chose a Shakespeare class as one of my electives just to have the opportunity to study some more of them. I had no idea what an important choice that would end up being.

Those of you who have read this blog from the beginning know that senior year of high school is when my depression stopped being something I could handle alone. Senior year was when I first started cutting myself and eventually, senior year was when I tried to kill myself.

I have, sitting next to me, the book that was on my desk the night I tried to kill myself. The Complete Pelican Shakespeare. Kevin and I had been studying for the big Shakespeare test that all seniors at our high school took. I was doing Shakespeare trivia with my best friend during what I was certain were going to be my last moments on this earth. And I was ok with that. However, as you all know, Kevin realized what I was up to and stopped me. He asked me to get help and to keep the faith with him I went to one of the teachers I trusted most and told him what I'd done. He gave me forty-eight hours to get help before he'd go and report my suicide attempt. He didn't want to deprive me of the control to do it and to this day I am infinitely grateful to him for that.

Of course, during those forty-eight hours I went back and forth about what I was going to do. I didn't want to tell anyone because I was afraid I'd get kicked out of school and sent home. I definitely had the thought that I had to “finish it” before then. I didn't want to deal with more shrinks and more meds and more of disappointing my family and friends. I was stuck and had no idea what to do.

During that time the English elective that I was taking was reading King Lear. I liked the play well enough (mostly for the Fool), but I was having a lot of trouble engaging with ANYTHING during that time, even my beloved Shakespeare.

We were going through Lear line by line (or close to that) when we reached the section where the blind Gloucester believes that he has thrown himself off a cliff and miraculously survived. He says:

“Henceforth I'll bear affliction until it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough, and die.'”

I'm hoping that my note next to his words was my literary analysis of a play in which lies and lying are very important, though it may well have been the first bitter thing that popped into my head: “His reason for not killing himself is a lie. It's all a comfort illusion.”

However, as my teacher and class moved on I found myself looking back at Gloucester's words again and again.

“Henceforth I'll bear affliction until it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough, and die.'”

Wasn't that what I was struggling with? I had tried to kill myself too and been 'saved' in a way. If an old man whose eyes had been gouged out could have hope, what was my excuse? I had always prided myself on being a strong person. Was I, or wasn't I? Fuck affliction. I was stronger than affliction. I too could “bear affliction until it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough, and die.'”

I changed reading those words. I resolved to go and get help, which I did. The weeks following that were some of the hardest of my life and more than once I found myself in the dark place thinking of ending it all. But Gloucester's words kept coming back to me, as they still do when things get really, really bad.

“Henceforth I'll bear affliction until it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough, and die.'” has become a mantra for me.

After high school Shakespeare remained a big part of my life. It was the concentration in my English major. I...may have taken all of the Shakespeare courses that my school offered and then had to start inventing some to take as independent studies. I got a little bit of a reputation for being “that Shakespeare girl”. I would argue on the most obscure points with friends for fun. I learned to rap Othello. When my grandfather passed away, I recited Sonnet 60 at his funeral. After a bad car accident where I flipped my car on the ice, I still showed up for my Shakespeare class that day. Granted, my advisor (who was one of the teachers) wasn't thrilled with me for coming to class instead of, ya know, going to the hospital. I was so messed up emotionally after that that I needed the comfort that I got from the Bard's words.

The Bard is well known for having changed the very face of our language, but better writers than I have discussed this at length. I wanted to take the time to reflect more on how he has changed me. I wouldn't be what I am or where I am if I hadn't come into contact with the immortal Will.

Will, my old friend, “so long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

Love,

E.W.

A Married Woman's Thoughts on Marriage Equality

Good morning, Dear Reader.

So, I have been thinking. I talk about a lot of very personal things on this blog, yes? We've talked about my shishy bits and about my depression. Hell, I've even talked about politics. Today I have some thoughts I'd like to share that are inspired by what has been going on on Facebook for the past week or so. As I'm sure you all know (especially if you have the Facebook) marriage equality is a big issue at the moment. Everywhere I look I see people sporting equals signs, rainbows, and even my favorite: family, family, family, family, BATMAN.

Well, as a married woman who hopes to one day bring children into this world, I do happen to have some very particular thoughts about marriage equality and how it impacts the cohesion of my family. I was going to try to frame this humorously, but you know what? I can't. It's too damn important.

LGBT people getting the same rights that straight people take for granted has had absolutely no negative impact on my marriage.

Knowing that out there Ellen and Portia can actually refer to each other as “my wife” has not lessened the bond between me and my husband when he calls me the same thing.

When George Takei refers to Brad as “my husband” it doesn't detract from when I call my husband the same thing. He is still my husband. I am still his wife. It is every bit as meaningful. If anything I am just happy that others can share in the feeling of being bound to someone that way.

LGBT people getting married has not made my marriage license fade like words in Tom Riddle's diary. My wedding dress has not withered or burst into flame. My wedding band has not cracked or melted like the One Ring in Mount Doom. When one of the women who is like a sister to me gets married in two weeks, I do not anticipate that dragons with rainbow scales will appear in the Wisconsin skies to prevent a straight union. If that were to happen then perhaps I could understand the hyperbolic rhetoric of the "War on Marriage".

Personally, I do not feel my marriage is under attack at all. My marriage is what it has always been: a relationship built on love and trust and understanding. Is it perfect? Absolutely not. However, its imperfections are due to the flawed people who maintain it. It is not imperfect because in some places LGBT people can get married.

When I think of procreating, I don't worry about the fact that somewhere there might be LGBT people marrying one another. There are much more important things to worry about. I worry about climate change. I worry about the economy. I worry that I will become so crazy during pregnancy that I scare Husband off. I worry that I will be a bad mother. I worry about potential alien invasion.

I don't worry that two people who happen to have the same junk getting married is going to warp my child in some way. I worry about reality television warping my child. I worry about cyber bullying warping my child. I worry that the internet in its infinite perversion will warp my child. I worry that certain news networks will warp my child. These are real threats. Two adults who love each other choosing to make a legal commitment to one another is not a threat.

A good marriage, a good family, isn't based on the sexuality of the people involved. Straight people get divorced all the time. There are lots of awful parents who are straight. It isn't about sexuality, it is about humanity. People are flawed. However, the thing that can mitigate those flaws and make us stronger? Love. Love is what is important.

Let me frame it this way. When you notice other people breathing, does it somehow lessen your ability to do so? Of course not. If you are having a delicious piece of cake and you see someone else having a slice, does it detract from your enjoyment? I sincerely hope not. Marriage is like both air and cake. Air, in that legally it is a right that we should all have access to. Cake because there are lots of varieties and they are all delicious.

So, as a married woman, I think that if the fact that LGBT people would like to make a commitment based on loving, honoring, and caring for their partner is a threat to you, the issue is you, not them.

With love, as always,

E.W. 

Tom Riddle and his diary are the property of J.K. Rowling, Mount Doom and the One Ring of J.R.R. Tolkien. 

Understanding Depression

A blog made me cry yesterday. A legal blog made me cry yesterday. I have been reading this particular blog, Popehat, for a long time and have always found it to be interesting, informative, thought-provoking, and funny. However, for all that I have come to expect undiluted awesome from the good folks at Popehat, I was not prepared for this article. It is titled: “Three Things You May Not Get About the Aaron Swartz Case”. This, for those of you who don't know, refers to one of the architects of the internet, his prosecution, and tragic suicide. I'm not going to go into the case here, but please read up on it. 

The first two-thirds of “Three Things You May Not Get About the Aaron Swartz Case” addresses misconceptions about federal sentencing and the idea that Aaron Swartz was singled out by our government. However, the last third talks about something that those of you who read my blog know I talk about a lot: depression. This is the section I want to focus on.

I want you to know, Dear Reader, that I started crying while reading Ken's description of what it is like to live with depression. To me it is spot-on. I shared it with a friend yesterday and after reading it he expressed a degree of shock that it is really “that bad”. It is hard for anyone who hasn't lived with depression to really grasp how “bad” it can be. I get that. I don't really expect anyone who doesn't live with it to “get” it in the visceral way. That is one of the most isolating and difficult things about living with a mental illness like depression.

However, I know that for me one of the best feelings is the sense that someone, somewhere, “gets” it. It helps me feel less alone and that, that is what I want to share with you all today. I contacted Ken over at Popehat and asked for his permission to re-post the depression section of his article and he kindly said yes. I hope that reading this helps anyone who needs that understanding today as well as those of you who are seeking better idea of what it is like.

What follows are Ken's words, not mine.

“The Third Thing: People Assume They Understand Depression. Most Don't.¹

The third thing people don't get is depression.

People think that the prosecution of Aaron Swartz must have been unusually oppressive and abusive, becausSe only a rare abuse of power could have driven such a brilliant and promising young man to suicide. People saying that may have been depressed at some point in their life — but they haven't experienced the disorder major depression.

I have. I've fought it for fifteen years. People — people of good faith, sensitive people, thoughtful people, smart people — don't tend to fathom major depression if they haven't had it.

Depression is not like sadness. Everyone has been sad. Everyone has been depressed on one occasion or another. But clinical depression is something else entirely.

What is it like?

Forgive me, but I'd like for you to imagine the worst day of your life. Maybe someone you love was killed in an accident. Maybe a loved one got a terrifying diagnosis. Maybe you abruptly lost a job you need to support your family. Maybe you caught your husband or wife cheating on you. Maybe you found out your son or daughter is addicted to drugs. Maybe you experienced some dreadful public humiliation.

Remember how that felt, at the worst part of that day? Now imagine you feel that way most of the time, for months at a time.

Think of the most stressed and worried you have ever been in your life, and then imagine that your stomach feels like that all the time.

Imagine that you are constantly gripped with overwhelming feelings of dread and crushing hopelessness — irrational, not governed by real risks or challenges, but still inexorable.

Imagine that you are often fatigued to the point of weakness and irritability because you can't get to sleep until late at night, or because your mind consistently shakes you awake at four in the morning, racing with worry about the day's activities as your stomach roils and knots.

Imagine that most social interactions become painful, the cause of nameless dread. Imagine that when the phone rings or your computer dings with a new email you get a short, hot, foul shot of adrenaline, sizzling in your fingertips and bitter in your mouth.

Imagine that, however much you understand the causes of these symptoms intellectually, no matter how well you know that you are fully capable of meeting the challenges you face and surviving them, no matter how well you grasp that these feelings are a symptom of a disease, you can't stop feeling this way.

Imagine that you have moments — maybe even minutes — where you forget how you feel, but those moments are almost worse, because when they end and you remember the feelings rush back in like a dark tide that much more painfully.

Imagine that you know you should talk to someone about how you feel — but you can't bring yourself to do so. Have you ever been so nauseated — from illness or from drinking — that you can't bear for someone to touch you or talk to you? Imagine feeling like that — that the human interactions that might ease the pain are too painful to endure, that every word on the subject is a blow.

After a while, this wears you down a bit.

I can't know what was in Aaron Swartz' mind. But I know this: if he suffered from major depression, it may not have been the prospect of federal prison that was intolerable. It might have been the prospect of thinking about the case, about talking about it, about the weight of people's concern for him, about the crawling discomfort of answering their questions, about the brutal fatigue of putting on a game face every day.

If Aaron Swartz had major depression, he might have felt overwhelmed by far less unusual or frightening stimuli. That doesn't exculpate the government. The government is responsible for an unjust prosecution. But the depression may have taken Aaron Swartz' life.

Depression doesn't look like you think it does.

Some people think that Aaron Swartz must have been driven to suicide by extraordinary treatment because he didn't act the way a depressed person at risk of suicide acts. They think, correctly, that Aaron Swartz was an extraordinary man: brilliant, very accomplished at a young age, with a gift for winning people over. That's not what a depressed person looks like, is it? Surely someone in enough pain to take their own life would be more overtly distressed, more visibly unable to cope. Surely someone who finds human interactions so difficult would not be so good at them.

In fact, people with major depression are capable of great things, including great leadership. Consider these:

Abraham Lincoln once wrote, "I am the most miserable man alive. To remain as I am is impossible. I must die or get better." Winston Churchill echoed the same reaction when he told his doctor, "I don't like to stand by the side of a ship and look down into the water. A second's action would end everything. Is much known about worry, Charles?"

This is good, in a way: it means that depression is not an impediment to achieving great things. But it also means this: you might not be able to tell if someone suffers from depression.
People with depression become very adept at maintaining good appearances. Consider what this brave reporter wrote during her paper's series on mental health:

I have been hospitalized twice for “suicidal ideation,” most recently for eight days in 2009 with a diagnosis of “major depressive order and anxiety disorder,” according to my records. I take four medications a day and have my counselor’s name and number in my emergency contacts on my cell phone.

This will be news to most of the people who know me, family members included. That’s because with lots of help from my husband, a lot of exercise (one of my therapies) and medication, I’m able to keep my depression and breakdowns private.

. . . .

Most people with a mental health disorder are able to manage their illness, many so well that our disorders are invisible outside our homes. With the help of counselors, medication, even hospitalizations, we work, raise families, volunteer in our communities, run companies, hold elected office and go to school with little indication of what’s at work inside us.

And even inside their homes . . . even to those closest to them — people with depression can put on a brave face. Aaron Swartz' girlfriend believes that his death was "not caused by depression," in part because he did not show the familiar signs of depression in his last days. I mean her no disrespect — she has my profound sympathy for her grief — but she might not know, even if she knows him better than anyone. She might not fully grasp how he felt. That's not a reflection on her, or on her relationship with Swartz. It's a reflection of depression. Many loved ones will learn to see the subtle signs. For instance, my wife interrogates me when I stop blogging for a while. But being close to someone with depression is not the same as having depression yourself, and doesn't mean you really understand it. My wife is the love of my life and my best friend and a talented and remarkably empathetic clinical psychologist. But she doesn't fully get it, and I pray she never will, because she hasn't experienced it. Not everybody shows overt mood swings. Not everybody retreats from the world. Some people soldier on, their outward face may not reflecting how they feel. Many people with depression don't want to burden loved ones with the depth of their feelings. Many don't want to discuss their feelings because that human interaction is so painful in the depths of depression. And many are ashamed.

Shame is powerful. A ridiculous percentage of the population takes psychotropic medications, but there are still strong social taboos against discussing mental illness, and certainly against admitting to suffering from it. That, too, inhibits people from talking about their feelings. People worry that if they admit to depression, it will be used against them. Indeed, I suspect that this post will be used against me, if not by a litigation opponent than by one of my various stalkers. (Come at me, bro!)

My point is this: it's a mistake to conclude you know about how Aaron Swartz felt because you observe how he acted and what he achieved. It's a mistake to use Aaron Swartz' tragic suicide to measure the nature of the government's prosecution with him. There are many things to condemn in that prosecution, and further inquiry may reveal serious misconduct. But if someone suffers from depression, you can't infer things from their reactions the way you can from someone who doesn't suffer. It's very difficult, if you haven't experienced it, to imagine what it feels like, and even more difficult to imagine how it distorts your reaction to stress. I don't mean to excuse prosecutors. I mean to point out that life is complicated. It's entirely possible that, simultaneously, the government wantonly overreached and that Aaron Swartz' death was driven primarily by a pain that would have tormented him even if he had never been charged.

If people reacted to Aaron Swartz' death by becoming concerned with how the criminal justice system treats everyone, and by being open to discussions of how depression changes people, that would be one more way he left the world better than he found it.

(By the way, I'm just fine. Thanks for asking.)”

1Excerpt from “Three Things You May Not Get About the Aaron Swartz Case” by Ken at Popehat.