More Saddy Sad Stuff

Depression’s biology skews your vision and distorts reality. It sprays a fog that makes the afflicted person feel that nothing is ever good enough, that people hate you or you hate them, and that you will never feel secure in your world, no matter what.  You feel a horrible, self-punishing sense of isolation and loneliness. And yet, you can appear outwardly perfect, seeming to have it all together. You frenetically play-act while you feel your soul is dying. ~ Jean Kim

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Y'all know that I struggle with depression.

We've talked about it before.

Lately, I've been feeling a little, well...

Nothing specific is really wrong, per say.

It's not like I'm moaning, "Oh, I'm depressed about my weight/my finances/my dead kitties/my oddly shaped pinky toe." Sure, sometimes they contribute to my fussiness, but overall, it's just a sense of dread, and it sits there like that proverbial cool bitch from high school, telling me that I'm, like, totally lame.

That dread tells me that everybody is somehow more than me. They look more perfect. They earn more money. They live more fully. If I do something, it's automatically inadequate, while, when they do it, they're nothing short of more gloriously glorious than I could ever imagine.

Depression tells me that the following are facts: People look at me and see lost potential. They think I could be prettier, be thinner, be more responsible with my money, write better, do more in school, be a more thoughtful sister/daughter/wife/cat owner.

In short...

But here's a more important fact:

And that includes depression. One of the biggest lies that bastard tells is that you're all alone. To that, I choose to say, respectfully, "Bullshit." I'm not alone. The statistics tell me that. Apparently, some 2 million out of 2.1 million people experience depression. Okay, it's not that bad. And I totally made that up. But seriously, a lot of people do.

So, if you're one of those people, I want to share with you the quotes that help get me through my days.

The first one is my absolute favorite, and I repeat it to myself on an hourly basis.

Seriously, it is. I can't mark my progress against or according to the progress made by those around me. Which leads me to my second favorite saying.

It just doesn't work. And I think that's because...

We envision that we should be rich, thin, in love, publishing bestsellers, working as the boss, and not ever shedding a bit of sweat while we do it all. But the reason this doesn't work is simple: Our picture is skewed. Which leads to this next truth:

And even worse, some days, when I really, finally, totally think I have it all together, and I know exactly how much I'm worth as a person, somebody looks at me askew, and I'm right back to the depths of despair. I'm still learning the most important lesson of all...

Again, and like usual, I know that nothing I've said (or meme'd) here is novel, unique, or earth-shattering. But it's what's been on my mind, and I wanted to share it, regardless, because I'm a narcissist, and I think that every thought that goes through my head is one that needs spread to the world. And on that note, I will leave you with the best cure for depression I've encountered thus far:

My Life in a Polygamous Cult

My dad disappeared when I was 10.

Ok, so, he didn't vanish forever. This isn't that type of story. 

Instead, he only dropped off the grid for a couple of hours so he could secure a compound for the family clan.

Yup. This is that type of story, so I hope y'all are cool with polygamous cults, or else things are about to get awkward.

For two full months, I served as an adolescent acolyte of Southeast Iowa's most prominent sect. Or at least, I think it was the most prominent. Few public rankings exist for these type of things.

Anyway, as a cult, my family had it all -- dozens of roaming children,a bricked-up compound on the outskirts of a backwoods hamlet, religious fervor, and ritualistic feline slayings

Oh, you are bothered by the dead cat bit? Well, welcome to the party, but we're just going to have to deal, because dead cats really are the make-or-break component in my cult's success.

Anyway, back to my foreboding first sentence: My dad disappeared when I was 10. Upon his return, he held in his hands the deed to a 5-story tall brick school building deceptively named Pleasant Lawn. It came with five acres, a bus barn, a playground, a baseball diamond, a gym, and a boiler room that supposedly housed a janitor's ghost.

Now, normally when I tell people that I grew up in a school, they give me this adorable little nod, as if to say, "Oh, how quaint you think you are. You grew up in a little one-room clapboard school house, and now you think you are Laura Ingells on the prairie.

Um, no, haters. It's not like that at all, so stick your smugness right back up your shorts. This school loomed above the surrounding corn fields, a stark red testament to what brick builders with no real imagination can create when the school district offers the contract to the lowest bidders.

This is the family compound.

No, really. This is true. My dad bought a school. On a whim. At an auction. While my mother treated us kids to a picnic in the park.

Surprising? Not in the least.

When something ticked my father's fancy, he pursued those follies with the same determination as a hungry lion would a plump preschoolers. But with less bloodshed. At least, I think so. To my knowledge, my father has never consumed a toddler.

Anyway, let's skip way ahead and introduce the villain of our story. And yes, that villain is, in fact, exactly what you'd expect him to be -- an Iowa church deacon who served in a prominent position on the local historical society board. He was the Boss Tweed of this small town's version of Tammany Hall.

This man, who we'll call Dean Bean, had served as the only real competitive bidder my father encountered in his auction for the school. Bean's vision encompassed converting part of the school into apartments for his proft, with the remainder of the building serving as a historical museum of sorts, also for his profit. My dad was just there on a whim, so, yeah, you can see the ideological bifurcation there.

One day, as my mother stood in the grocery line, the man behind her started chatting. In Iowa, this comes as no surprise. We're Midwestern, and we're nice, and when you're in a grocery line, you ask the person in front of you how their day's going. That's just what you do, unless you're a rude son of a bitch.

My mother and the man discussed the weather, how the weather affected the crops, how the crops were impacting the farmers, and other, you know, typical small talk. Then the man leaned in and whispered, "Did you hear about the polygamous cult that moved into Pleasant Lawn school?"

Turns out, my mom was top diva of the harem in question. Or, at least, Dean Bean (who you had to know was the grocery line guy) assumed she was. Except, he didn't even know who "she" was. Despite his self-promoted position of town crier, he knew little about our cute little cult out in the corn fields. He was so bad with reconnaissance that when the queen of the whole thing stood in front of him, he hadn't a clue. I'd feel sorry for him, if he weren't such a meddling, petty dick. 

For the first weeks that we occupied the school, Dean Bean told everybody who would listen that my father had four wives and 20-some children. In fairness, on any given day, that many women and children could be on our property. My grandmothers came over often, as did my aunt, and several lady visitors from our church (which, for the record, was one of those houses of worship that believes in speaking in tongues, faith healing, and snake handling. Okay, not the snake handling. That's just ridiculous.) And with seven children on the property, sleepovers could rapidly mutate into any adult's worst nightmare. 

As with any good plot arc, thus enters the necessary flat character -- you know, the one known only for a single characteristic that drastically shifts the direction of the story. In this case, this character is a wire hair fox terrier named Curly.

The one thing Curly was known for was cats.

Cats. Cats. Cats. Cats. Cats.

He adored them. But not in a snuggly way. The dog wanted to suck off their faces and then lick the kitties' souls from their eye sockets. He was a sick bastard, that Curly. A sweetie if you didn't belong to the feline species, but bring a cat into the picture, and it was a blood bath up in there.

Curly wandered the countryside, seeking kittens to kill, and he'd proudly plop his pulpy prey right on our frot doorstep, a trophy intended to prompt praise. The murder sprees became such an issue that my aunt Julie (who owned this monster) finally consulted a vet as to what could be to prevent future slaughter.

“Easy,” the vet said. “The next time he kills a cat, take that cat and tie it around Curly’s neck. Leave it there for a week. By then he’ll never want to see — let alone kill — another cat again.”So my aunt tied a dead kitty around Curly’s neck.

And he loved it.

He used that cat as a freaking pillow and snoozed away contentedly on the bloated belly of his hapless victim. He flung it to and fro, jumping in joy that he had his own dead cat to carry around as a notch in his proverbial kitty-killing belt. That cat was his badge of honor.

Which is why, when Dean Bean came to church the following Sunday, Curly pranced right up to the man and rubbed the cat against the man’s best trousers.

“Cult!” Bean yelped, pointing intermittently at my family and at Curly. “Satan worshipers! CULT!”

And thus our polygamous cult status was forever cemented in the town of Mt. Pleasant, Iowa, which, aside from our family’s debauchery, is best known for it’s field thresher festival.

I don’t know whatever happened to Dean Bean, but I’m assuming that the sacrificial cats Curly offered up on our behalf accomplished our goal of turning him into a warthog. Or, even better, a cat, in which case, he and Curly should be meeting soon.
 

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! There's an announcement in here, yo!

Just a month ago, my husband was all like, "Go get a job, lazy bones," and I was all like:

But then I wanted to buy something, and the SandMan was all like, "Not with my money, Miss Thang," and then I was all like:

Then, I got a job, and I was all like:

Then, I got to my job (as a reporter at a good-sized daily newspaper), and I was all like:

And then, I actually started working my job, and I was all like:

No, seriously, I forgot how HARD work is.

It's like 9 AM hits, and I'm all like:

Mind you, my new job is fantastic. The people are fantastic. The actual work is fantastic. And the pay is... well, if not fantastic, then at least pretty damn good in the world of journalism.

But, working 40 hours is just HARD.

Especially when you've been out of the game for 4 years. Here I am, a journalist, and I'd forgotten AP style and turned in an article with Oxford commas. I was all like:

(Except for the boss part. My boss knew what she was doing.)

In all seriousness, Monday was glorious. It was the best first day I've ever had. But by Thursday, I was in tears on the drive home about how I'd never, ever, ever be a good journalist ever again in my whole entire life. And to top that off, I'd never, ever, ever be able to do it all.

How am I supposed to hold down a job? And go to school? And study for the GRE? And prepare grad school applications? And keep up with my diet because I need to get my body ready for having a baby? 

Oh, like how I just threw that last one in there? I'm not preggers. But I want to be. And the SandMan and I are going to start trying to have a little SandBaby. And yes, we're trying this against the odds of supposed infertility.* It should be a fun ride (and yes, there's a pun in that somewhere).

But back to me.

Nothing reduces you to tears like an editor saying that it's obvious that you've "been out of the game for awhile." And nothing elevates your mood like an editor reading your first story and saying, "Oooo! Good job." And nothing, and I do mean nothing, is more satisfying than being a newly-employed worker watching the clock hit 5 on a Friday.

In case you were wondering, I was all like:

But Monday's right around the corner, and I could be all like:

But I've decided that I got this. I can do my job. And I can do it well. I was born to write. (I think.) And I am awesome at school. And I've got this grad school thing in the bag. And this baby thing... well, we'll see.

In the meantime, I've decided to be all like:

So, I guess I'm done now. So, it's time to be all like:

*Don't worry, y'all. More will follow on this subject.

Everyone's a Critic

“If a person is not talented enough to be a novelist, not smart enough to be a lawyer, and his  hands are too shaky to perform operations, he becomes a journalist. ” ~ Norman Mailer

Today I re-enter the world of newspapers.

For four years, I've been a recovering journalist, and I just slipped off the non-writing wagon. I got a new job, and in a matter of minutes, I will step back into a newsroom, and I will be alive again. Because that's what it is to be a reporter.

Phones ring. Police scanners shriek. Reporters rustle through their notepads, looking for a quote to plug into their story. In one corner, an editor belittles an intern for misspelling a source's name, and in another, a photographer bitches about how his/her picture deserves front page placement rather than page 4 of Section B.

If it's not a deadline whipping reporters into a frenzy, then it's the next interview to land, the next source to find, the next hot tip that will result in the big award that will finally justify the late hours, the lack of social life, and the constantly overdrawn bank account.

Newsrooms crackle with chaos, and I can't wait to be back.

I used to be a hard-news reporter. I've covered stabbings, street brawls, kidnappings, murders-for-hire, and a case where someone forked their family member in the eye on Thanksgiving. Of course, I've done other things, too. I've spoken with veterans of World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I've followed a gaggle of Abraham Lincoln lookalikes. I've ridden the bus with casino-bound retirees (and  survived.) I've exposed environmental scandals, brought to light city corruption, dug through tax increment financing jargon, and went hunting for ghosts with local psychics. (We didn't find any.)

Hell, I even pissed off somebody so much that they created a website dedicated to hating "Bekah Porter Of Bad Journalism."

No, seriously.

See the full article here, because it's funny.

Despite the haters, I loved my life as the hard knock, old-school Lois Lane.

But now I'm going to be a features writer at a community newspaper, and that's just grand. Nothing makes me happier than sitting down with somebody interesting and chatting about their glorious life and learning about what makes them tick.

Besides, this features position is sort of a return to my roots. Because, well, I might have started my journalism career as a childhood Christian columnist.

Think of "Dear Abby..." if Abby spoke in tongues, got slain in the spirit, and had been baptized a minimum of six times.

I worked for a small newspaper -- Kids Incorporated -- with a readership of seven (my parents, my siblings, and me.) The staff was small, too (my parents, my siblings, and me.)

What we lacked in skill, talent, and spelling basics (check out how "Incorporated" is spelled in the paper's banner!), we made up for with chutzpah. Sure, it was printed with crayon, and sure, the reporters rode their bikes around town to get such scathing scoops as "Cat Found Dead in Ditch; Dog Suspected." But we cared about our work, and we wanted to produce the most interesting content possible for our readers.

Which is why I decided that Kids Incorporated needed an advice column.

Using my ingenious brain, I came up with the title: "Dear Abby." Of course, my little blurb had hearts. The real Abby didn't use hearts. She didn't have the balls to use hearts.

Notice how all of my answers basically just say "Pray about it and be nice."

  

While I wrote columns, my brother wrote sports.

How awesome is the last paragraph? "(Jordan) changes his numbers, (and) his team gets fined instead of him. I don't think it's fair. That's all for today."

My older sister did the classifieds.

A beautiful sized barn? Didn't know there was such a thing.

My younger sister wrote... well, I'm not sure what she was going for, but it's pretty freaking awesome.

I love two things about her "article." First, "My office is in my room behind the drawer thing," and second, "Just for kids! No adults may have this newspaper!"

And, finally, there's my absolute favorite page -- the weather and comics, written by yours truly.

"Forcast: Jesus is healing all over the country!!"

I found these papers a couple of days ago, and it only seems fitting that I share them as I go off to live my childhood dream. Young me would be proud, I think. 

Anyway, happy Monday, y'all! Hearts and all that jazz! Hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to post this: