Dear White Claw

Dear White Claw email answer-er,

I wanted to take the time to write and not only let you know how tasty your carbonated alcoholic beverage is (you knew this already), but to also inform you that you are the official beverage of the LEADERship Ashtabula County class of 2020.  I'm sure you've heard of us, but just in case, here's a legit website:  https://www.leadershipac.org/

LAC is a class act of a non-profit, and my class of 2020 made it a hair less so on our retreat this past August.  30 local professionals, strangers to each other, came together for a weekend of trust falls and campfires at a boy scout camp, and emerged friends (or at least we knew who to talk to to get someone out of jail). During the retreat, a campfire of camaraderie was lit one evening and the local school district's athletic director emerged with a gleam in his eye, a few cases of White Claw in his cooler and a challenge for the group:  We were going to have to finish all the Claws the organizers bought for the entire weekend in one evening. All the professionals in the class of 2020, from doctors and nurses, to chemists and tourism specialists, were united under one cause (Claws?).  We nodded solemnly to each other in the glow of the fire. 

Needless to say, our seminar the next morning was a little rough.  And then the pandemic hit and our graduation has been put on hold indefinitely. But we are undeterred, for our bonds were forced in the white aluminum of your cans.  So thank you for gift of a magical beverage that will forever brand our class.

Save the whales,

Amanda

Graduate School Nod

Here's to a grad prof, Dr. Carr, who made us all call him Rob, who let me create art instead of research papers for his class.  Here is a rendition of someone from then current events made entirely out of plastic spiders and cockroaches.  Cheers, Rob.

On Depression

One of my high school English teachers said you can't be a writer unless there's something wrong with you. Maybe not quite like that, but basically, if you haven't been through some really weird shit or have some sort of mild mental illness, you won't have the depth to write truly interesting things.  I believe we were reading Shirley Jackson at the time, and my dude just loved the part in "The Lottery" where they give the little boy a stone at the end and encourage him to throw. Upon hearing his assessment, I was quite bummed out.  I had a pretty well-adjusted life with a loving family and no childhood trauma to spark the fires of creativity. UGH. How was I going to be a writer?

Fast forward to a year ago where I was un-uniquely diagnosed with clinical depression, concluding years of denial, and cyclical self-sabotage. On the plus side, I had found the voice of my writing this past decade and feel I've made improvements (or at the very least, I amuse myself).  I've been published a few times and writing today is a creative outlet and source of joy with the added bonus that I now have the accolades of mental illness to accompany my words. A writer with depression might be an overused trope, but here I am, standing in the proverbial river with the likes of my idol Virginia Woolf (don't worry, I'm not the one with rocks in my pocket!). Gallows humor is fun.

And fret not, I'm too much of a rule follower to ever do anything drastic. I would rather suffer for my entire life than inconvenience anyone or break the law of God and man.  I also prefer to self-harm in the socially acceptable ways of overworking and abusing food and alcohol, hence why the big D went generally undetected for a long time.

So why am I writing this?  I don't know.  I've shared, with the world, where I almost shit my pants and somehow felt *that* was a more acceptable confession....which is wild.  I also haven't annoyed anyone with a personal essay in a while, so here we are.

Perhaps someday I'll write the dirty details of the days I'd hide the fact I stayed in bed until noon, or where I'd be silently screaming at myself to do something, ANYTHING, when I was too tired to get off the couch at 6pm, the unrelenting exhaustion when all I did was sleep, where I'd lie in bed after work and set my alarm to get up 15 minutes before my husband would get home. Or conversely, the days, sometimes weeks, without sleep where I'd wander around the house at night startling my animals, or when I'd eat until I got sick or drank until I blacked out because feeling bad was better than feeling nothing. But with depression comes an assload of shame, and shame demands silence.  This is still a work in progress.

One struggle I have is with talking openly about this with my family, who are the "rub some dirt on it" sort. My father, for instance, severely cut his arm one day while erecting a windmill, or something else equally ridiculous and badass, and POURED GASOLINE ON THE OPEN WOUND. Perhaps not the best way to sterilize, but regardless, letting the likes of them know I've been feeling blue and taking a lot of naps lately seems lame, in comparison.

I started an antidepressant last year and I would like to start a petition that this be used to dose the country's water supply. It was such a drastic change within a few weeks, I dropped weight, had the energy to run again, was able to do my abnormally high level of productivity without being stressed, and even started planning a small business. Since this past December, however, I got the D again (and not the fun kind). It took over, slowly, I didn't even notice until I was in bed more than I wasn't. I know that sounds bullshit, like dude, how did you not know? But I feel it was a boiled frog situation. Suddenly, almost three months went by in zombie mode and I can't even tell you where the tipping point was. Anyhoos, the good ol' primary care upped my dosage and things have been falling back into place.  I'm cautiously optimistic, though, because I'm terrified of going back in the hole, to be so disconnected that I slip into misery again and not even know it. 

I guess that's all I have on that for now.
Take your meds.
Save the whales.