Depression has a pretty face

“You’re too pretty to be sad,” mom said. I was five and my teacher had made fun of me because I’d asked for help zipping up my coat. Teacher cackled at me and announced to the class that I still could not zip my own jacket. Except I really could zip my own coat.. when the zipper wasn’t stuck in a crease of fabric.  It upset me, and on my walk home I quietly cried to myself.

Mom enveloped me in a hug when I walked through the door and she saw my running nose and wet cheeks. She stroked my hair and made those soft cooing noises that only mothers can make. She quoted Audrey Hepburn and reminded me that I was beautiful.

“I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.”- Audrey Hepburn

I was reminded that I was beautiful often. I was reminded of my need to be beautiful more than that.

My dad never really knew how to show compassion. Tears weren’t something he wanted to deal with, and only seeing his children every –other weekend didn’t give him that chance to figure out how to show his love. I knew it was there, though. I’d squirm as he dragged a brush through my tangled curls and lathered myself in his Zest soap when he told me I needed to bathe. The gritty mint smell comforted me because pretty girls took baths and got their curls brushed out every morning. I knew this because he would stand me in front of the mirror and tell me to look at how pretty I was after I’d been made up for the day. My dad had pride in me then.

On one of those days, after I was all done up, I ran off to play. My brother and I made a game out of jumping off the porch and onto the driveway. He was older and bigger, but that just made me want to do what he did even more. I watched as he leapt with ease from the bannister. The climb to the top was harder than I thought. My legs wobbled as I rose to my feet. The ground seemed so far away, but I bent my knees and jumped anyway. In the air. Down to the ground. My feet couldn’t handle the landing and I slid forward skinning my knees. Tears started then. Deep sobs brewed from the pain and snot ran from my nose, lubricating my lips.

“Did you hurt the ground?” Dad joked. “Knock off that crying,” he continued. “All that does is get you covered in snot and makes you ugly.”  He laughed and scooped me off the ground into an embrace.

I didn’t want to be ugly. Pretty girls are happy girls.

At seven I scribbled in my notebook after my Grandma died. She wasn’t something I was ready to lose, and I still struggle accepting that she is gone. I don’t tell people that, though. Instead I write something to get it out, push the rest of it down, and move on. I did cry at her funeral, though. As I looked at the porcelain shell of the woman I adored I let myself feel, and I let everyone see me feel.  After the ceremony ended, and my family gathered in a line to shake hands with other mourners, I slipped away. Downstairs I found myself in a bathroom staring in a mirror at the red splotches that covered my face and neck. It was then that I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I wouldn’t let people see the ugly. I would be happy.

So I learned to bury it.

The harder the feeling, the deeper I dug.  I pushed the feeling down as far as it would go, far enough away for a smile to take its place. Pushing and burying worked. So did writing. Writing turned my feelings into something beautiful that I could actually show people.

But what I didn’t expect was for that pile to grow--the pile of stories and the mound of sadness that lived buried deep inside me.

 

Today those piles still grow.

It seems that lately I find myself at war with feelings in general. Everywhere I turn, something is telling me to feel. And I do feel. So much that I don’t know what to do with it. During a phone call with a dear friend, I spilled the story of my current emotional distress, to which she calmly and eloquently suggested that perhaps I am dealing with some depression and that maybe I should see someone—a notion I’ve causally joked about for some time—and maybe someday I will.

On my mission of self-discovery, and learning how to feel, I’ve realized one important thing: I need to be honest with myself (something I am still working on).

And honestly, I’m not ready to hear that I am sad. I am not ready to let the ugly show. I’m not ready to admit that I am not in control, or that even the prettiest of faces can be sad.

 

The Whore

The whore was five. Her mom stayed in bed and cried while her daddy lived in a different house with a different momma in his bed every night. Some of those momma’s had crooked teeth, others never smiled. Not at the whore, anyway. Some pinched her cheeks and played with her hair. They called her cute and told her things ears that little never should hear. 

The whore was seven when the man in the ice cream truck told her about cherry pie. He told her he liked it when she wore those sweet little skirts with no leggings on underneath. The man asked her if she wanted to trade a little bit of cherry pie for all the ice cream she could eat. Something sweet for something sweet. A secret sealed with sprinkles and chocolate sauce. A secret with a little piece of cherry. 

Twelve. The whore was twelve when she thought she found love. It chased her at recess and pinched her in the hall. Love giggled with the sound of innocence and the prospect of playing doctor. Love tickled her thighs and examined the two little bumps that she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Love played doctor behind the wooden jungle gym with no panties on. The doctor couldn’t fix anything, and the whore was broken by love.

She was fifteen. At fifteen the whore met a boy. It was the lunch table and they were at school. His lips were pink and he asked her if she was too. Friends were few, and the whore liked the attention. His words were sweet like ice cream, and his teeth only a little bit crooked. Broken hearts were meant for fixing, he had said, although she wasn’t sure hers had been broken. He didn’t claim to be a doctor, but he told her for certain that it wouldn’t hurt. The whore said no, but pink lips came with strong hands. Teeth bit at those bumps she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Nothing tickled her thighs. It turns out he lied, it really does hurt. And then he spit between his pink lips. He called her a liar and swore about cherries because hers never popped.  

Eighteen and she was a whore. Broken hearts were meant to be fixed. She was no doctor, but she knew she was sweet, and a something sweet makes everything better. Everyone likes something sweet. There were boys. One, two, and three. Their words like chocolate sauce and sprinkles, although delicious, never really made her smile. They liked her quiet. They played doctor while she played love. Thighs, teeth, and those two little bumps, bigger and with more force. She opened her legs and kept her mouth shut. Puzzle pieces are what broken hearts become. They fit together—the whore and boys one, two, and three. Sometimes when she let them, and sometimes when she didn’t. The bottle would make it better, they said. It was the glue that put them together, they said. They were not doctors, but the bottle and those pills would help them fit together. Broken hearts are pieces of a puzzle, and broken hearts were meant for fixing. She swallowed. 

The whore was twenty-two when a boy came and never left. They always left after they came. He didn’t tell her she was sweet, but he did call her by name. In her sleep he whispered I love you, but sleep was never something she did well. Friends were few and she liked the attention. There was no more two or three, only one. His lips weren’t pink, but neither was she, not any more, the whore. Broken hearts couldn’t be fixed, not when they were missing pieces he had said. He promised to give her part of his. Something sweet for someone sweet. And so he did. But pieces come with a price, like ice cream and sprinkles from a truck. The whore did what she knew best. Kept her mouth shut. She went through the motions and learned to play house. Because crying moms behind closed doors, and daddies who lived in different houses weren’t really how it was meant to be played. So he took her to church and taught her to live because despite all of her questions she could be saved.

The whore was twenty-six. The boy that came and never left played doctor and house with her still. Broken hearts were meant for fixing and she still had that piece of his, but broken hearts are like puzzle pieces and puzzles fit together just right. He got her ice cream, but ice cream and pieces come with a price. An answer came knocking in the middle of the night like chocolate sauce and sprinkles. A secret she would keep, a little piece of cherry. Sentiments whispered that taken ears should never hear. Those words were sweet and everyone likes something sweet. Something sweet makes everything better. 

Today. The whore isn’t a doctor and she doesn’t know love. Broken hearts are meant for fixing, but not with stolen pieces and chocolate sealed secrets. Nothing too sweet is ever delicious. No sometimes sweet turns sour.The bottle and pills, no she wont see a doctor, but she does have a plan.  With her bouquet of names and arsenal of sweetness she carries a crooked smile, looking for pieces and cherries untainted by secrets or words that hold her hostage. 

Playing Grown-up (behind the scenes)

I’m finding that it is harder and harder to wake up. Even harder to get ready for work.  Hardest yet to put a smile on my face and pretend like I belong. Work. I’ve  always known that I would have to work hard for what I want. Nothing good ever comes easy—especially not something you deserve. I work between 50 and 60 hours a week because I have dreams. When I was younger I was told that I should always  dream, and always follow those dreams. What I wasn’t told is that dreams are freaking expensive. My other problem is that for as long as I can remember, I have chosen to dream big. The concept sounds sweet, but the process is dirty, rough, and tiring. Like sex, accept the reward takes longer to get, and part way through you question calling it quits.  Lately, all I want to do is stay in bed, drink chocolate milk, and rotate between working on my book and watching Gossip Girl or something by Joss Whedon.

But I cant.

That is what I always imagined adulthood to be like.

But it’s not.

Instead, I wake up at 6am to an alarm clock. I dress in business appropriate clothes—which also happen to be the most uncomfortable and unflattering. I use my ‘nice voice’ on the phone, and sympathize with customers. When coworkers try to pass off work onto me, or scold me for using too many post it notes, I have to smile and work towards a professional solution. Work needs finished, and then redone again after my manager changes his vision. At around two in the afternoon I find myself day dreaming, and question why  I ever protested nap time  as a child. Then, at five ,when it is time for me to clock out for the day, my boss will finally have time to meet with me—and yes, he will want to meet. So I do.  I do it. I do all of it. All day, every day.  Again, and again, and again.

Because I have dreams. Big dreams.

I will get over it, of course. I will push through and work hard so that one day I can stay in bed and rotate between working on my novel and catching up on Gossip Girl or something by Joss Whedon.

Until then…

You can find me in my living room, in my blankets-and-pillows-fort, typing on my work-issued computer so that I can finish my assignments for job number two and ‘play grown-up’ like I used to—but without all the fun parts.

Xoxo

Working Girl

The real Letter from the author

This is the letter I wrote my lovely teacher who is currently helping me edit my book. My mental state is questionable at this point-- this much I know. I just thought I'd share so that people could see how much a piece of writing becomes part of you. Enjoy!

Dearest Laura,

This packet was probably one of the toughest I have had to date. I have decided that this is by far a good thing. Revising this story this time around revealed to me more than I could have ever expected. First of all, I began working on this story with Swati, then did a little of it with Kelly last semester, and of course now I’m working on it with you. Each time I knew that there was a problem with the pov/narrator, but I kept ignoring it—telling myself that it was an easy fix, that this was Randy’s story and no one would care about Alex. I couldn’t figure out why-- until I really looked at your comments, and dove into the deep end, head first, without my water wings.

I have realized all of the following things after revising for this packet (and yes I will probably sound like I need therapy). First of all, I really took a look at the female characters in this book. Like you pointed out, they were all rather flat, kind of shallow, and not very attractive in the non-physical sense. But why? I knew these characters in my head, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t force myself to develop them on paper. Realization number 1: All of these girls are fragments of myself.  I (unconsciously) based all of these girls off of my own horrid dating experiences, and honed in on the negative qualities that I brought to the relationship. Pushiness, misguidance, mind games, all of it. As a teenage girl I wanted so badly to blame the boys for all of the problems, but deep down I’ve known that many of the faults were my own. I admitted them through these female characters, but was more afraid that once they became real three dimensional people that perhaps I would like them. How could I go off liking these people who were based off of things I hated about myself?

I told myself that this was fiction. More importantly, I told myself that facing these fears was why I decided to write in the first place.   

So I moved on.

After that, I forced myself to look at the major issue—my POV and narrator. Why—besides maybe laziness? Or the prospect of having an almost finished novel—did I want an easy fix to the story? Why was I so upset when I forced myself to the ending and realized it was Alex’s story, not Randy’s after all? Why was I afraid to go through and ‘kill my darlings’ (I was once taught to slaughter them and have done it before with other pieces of writing)? Realization number 2: I have fallen in love with this world and these characters…all over again.. which leads me to: Realization number 3: This isn’t just a funny story about some boys trying to date. This is a story about me, and the boys I left behind. I’ve known all of these boys, or at least boys like them, at one point in my life, and for good reasons and bad, I pushed them aside. Realization number 4: I think perhaps like most girls, my high school dating experiences left me hesitant about what relationships really have to offer. Perhaps I wanted this so badly to be Randy’s story because his is what seemed like real life—or was MY reality. The thought of a boy who actually learns and becomes that boy that deserves the girl seemed sadly out of reach. Realization number 5: This story, in a way, is threaded with hope. Hope that the guy will get the girl. Hope that the girl will accept the guy. And hope that there really is someone of the opposite sex that wants to work hard and figure it out just as badly as you.

Realization number 6: I have hope. Hope that this story can and will finally turn into what I have envisioned it to be all along—funny, but real. When I started the project, I interviewed over thirty high school boys in order to get voice, lingo, and circumstances so that it would be realistic. I wanted it to be funny because I wanted people to take a look and laugh (like I thought I had done) at the ridiculous circumstances that surround high school dating.

 Realization number 7 (but I already knew): I have a lot to work on. I am trying to storyboard or outline or something to that effect. I’ve never really done it before, but since I know the story and have an idea of what needs to happen, I need something to help me organize. I am still a little afraid of what is happening with the story as I revise. I fear that I am losing some of the humor and edge that I had before and really enjoyed (but that could just be my fear of letting go). I’m still working/ exploring/ developing all of the characters and trying to get them clear on the page. Also, after giving both the old version and this one a read, I am trying to build more scenes that don’t take place in dialog, as well as build setting, and figure out the right structure.

 I know this letter was a lot, but I went through so much that I wanted to share. I’ll have to send Meridith and Alicia some thank you gifts because they were awesome at listening to me and talking me through things. Also, a big thanks to you for being ruthless, yet gentle—it is just what I need. I will keep pushing forward, and can’t wait to get your feedback on this. I suppose, for the first time in three semesters of working on this piece, the challenge has finally been accepted. Woot! Perhaps I will celebrate with some ice-cream and an episode of Gossip Girl (I figure it’s like research haha)

Have a lovely, Laura!

Always,

Hayley