Author: Sarah
What it feels like to be so depressed you stop enjoying ice cream
Depression traps me in a cage of thought.
Thoughts about bad choices in my life; thoughts about my dead sister; thoughts about giant squid.
The worst things imaginable.
The cage hates activities and gives me an excuse to avoid doing anything I don’t want to.
Rational me cannot be heard—the cage doesn’t care how I smell.
I destroy everything in my path, a phenomenon I call “Sarah wuz here”.
The cage makes me look like a real dick.
With the cage on, lying is fine.
Lie expertly disguised.
Honesty in the final hour. No one is mad.
Wearing the cage and making plans is a big problem. On Valentine’s Day, I was supposed to go out with my husband.
It was meant to be a date at a new cafe with the love of my life—ice cream.
I hated ice cream.
We embarked on a romantic walk.
I would like this date to be over.
Not even my love (still ice cream) could cheer me up. Unlike my melting ice cream, the cage kept me frozen in place.
As we sat in the cafe, the sun began to set over the city. I sat up, and a ray of light hit me in the face.
I immediately noticed its beauty.
Then something strange happened—I started melting.
The ray of light appeared to trigger some reaction, causing my thoughts to melt out of my head and through the bars of the cage.
It was super weird.
The shock of freedom caused the cage to begin coming apart.
Awareness of my surroundings set in.
It was horrifying.
Finally seeing beyond myself, drastic action was needed.
I began by visiting an old friend.
I threw myself at the mercy of the shower.
Washing away the shame and guilt of depression is uncomfortable.
I continued cleaning “Sarah wuz here” damage.
It’s important to give yourself some credit.
I painstakingly put the pieces of my life back together.
I made a solemn vow.
With the cage removed, I conquered depression forever.
ONE WEEK LATER
Motherfucker took my ice cream, too.
Why Frozen’s “Let it Go” was really written about me and chronic diarrhea
For my wedding, I walked down the aisle to Frozen’s “Let It Go.”
To this, my friend said “What are you, 12?”
No, Olaf. I’m 29. I walked down the aisle to “Let It Go” because it describes my daily life (AND I’m a mother-effing blonde-haired princess).
THE END.
PS. You sang “Let It Go” in your head while you were reading, didn’t you.
I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.
I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love you, a story about a young woman whose husband suddenly dies.
Following the funeral, the wife lies in bed calling his cell phone over and over.
It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.
When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.
I sobbed when she didn’t answer.
I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.
I pulled my family into it.
It was a little funny.
During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.
Something that barged in on my pity party.
Something that introduced me to Jeff.
I hung up on Jeff.
Melissa’s cell phone account had only been closed a few months. My beloved calling routine had been taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.
As pack leader, it was my job to ensure that my younger brother and sister knew how to react.
Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made a call.
I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.
He seemed game.
Jeff and I connected immediately.
But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.
Jeff and I had an amazing summer together.
I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.
Classic Jeff.
I don’t remember much of our conversations.
What I do remember is the excitement shared when Jeff and I connected on the line.
If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.
A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.
My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.
Author’s Note:
I discuss the 3 D’s and Jeff on the podcast Everyone Dies, a nonprofit exploring life-limiting illness, dying, and death. To jump to the interview, begin listening at 30:39 minutes in. In the first half of the podcast, nurse practitioner Marianne Matzo and co-host Charlie Navarrette discuss the role of depression, cognitive tests, and brain imaging used to diagnose dementia or other possible causes. You can find the podcast on Spotify, Apple, or wherever you get your Podcasts. Just search Everyone Dies (Every1Dies). Or listen here!
The Naked Barbie Incident
Growing up, there were two types of dolls—American Girls and Barbies.
The American Girls resembled real girls. They looked my age and had accessories, like eyeglasses and four-poster beds.
They were boring.
This is where Barbie came in.
With Barbie’s heaving breasts, high heels, and made-up face, she was DTF.
Barbie changed the way I played with dolls. I could switch from tea with the American Girls to a Barbie and Ken bang session—all in one afternoon.
Discretion was key.
I could have played Barbies in private to avoid the charade, but I preferred to play in the living room. In our family of six, the living room had all the action. I wasn’t about to miss out for the sake of decorum.
Plus “boundaries” aren’t really my thing.
The coast was NOT clear.
My siblings, who are normal, sometimes opted to play alone in their rooms.
I didn’t understand it.
Melissa was especially good at locking out family—me in particular.
I hated being left out and desperately wanted to know what Melissa was doing in there.
One day, I hatched a brilliant plan.
I artfully dramatized my departure.
My mother took forever to get the hint.
Despite my mother’s meddling, the plan remained on track.
I began to sprint.
At top speed, I launched my 60-pound self against the door.
Shoulder bruised, but high on adrenaline, I scanned my surroundings.
My eyes locked with Melissa’s, a look of horror etched on her face.
In front of her was Ken, lying naked on top of Barbie in the four-poster bed. An American Girl doll lay by the wayside.
As quickly as I arrived, Melissa threw me out, slamming the door behind me.
We spent the reminder of our childhood pretending The Incident never happened.
I never looked at that boring four-poster bed the same.
The Poop Name Game
Every object has two names. A regular name and a Poop Name.
Benefits of this game:
- You don’t need cards.
- You can play by yourself or with friends.
- It’s easy.
- Infinite poopabilities.
How to play:
- Pick an object.
- Insert “poop” into the object’s name.
- Laugh.
OR
Oldest sister found dead; real tragedy occurs when middle sister assumes leadership role
I had a family of six until Melissa kicked the can.
My sister Melissa was short like my mom, blonde like my dad and when she was younger, she liked to make naked Barbies have sex.
My siblings and I were never given the option to dislike one another, which prompted us to grow close. Before Melissa died, our roles in the family were clearly defined by birth order.
Joe still needs his diaper changed.
It took me years of relentless teasing to break my brother. Joe and I played fun games together, like me teasing him and him asking me to stop.
“Cut it out!” he would scream.
Joe would finally walk away.
Once his back turned, I dropped his possessions.
My fingers moved in rapid scissor motion. Cutting it out, I murmured: “cut, cut, cut…”
He would shout:
But I was always doing the scissors.
As a middle child, my role included skirting my responsibilities.
Despite my mother’s best efforts, I was usually acquitted.
My younger sister Emily bought us lunch.
Melissa was the hardest sibling to torment because she was a step ahead of me. Eighteen months is a significant age difference when you’re a kid.
She knew I was a greedy little girl who loved money, so she glued a quarter to the kitchen floor.
In high school, I wore cool t-shirts.
At the same time that I was wearing these shirts, I was desperately trying to hide my issues with Irritable Bowel Syndrome (constant diarrhea).
If I had lived during caveman times, I would have been naturally selected out.
Diarrhea is an embarrassing problem.
And the all-girl mob always follows.
I would have to hold in diarrhea while peeing. Tortuously unsatisfying.
I would do anything to keep it from people.
Daily diarrhea before 9:00 am is one of my superpowers. When I went off to college, I continued to master the art of hiding my diarrhea problems. The professor of an 8:00 am art class had a strict attendance policy: be late more than twice, and get docked a letter grade.
I spoke with my art professor, hoping to garner sympathy for my case.
Naturally, she was cool about it.
Nearing the end of college, I figured I should attempt adult things. So I got a summer internship.
It was the most courageous thing I had ever done.
While I was abroad, I got a Facebook message about Melissa from someone I didn’t know.
I was confused by the cryptic message.
I questioned the cryptic message.
The Facebook stranger was the first to break the news to me.
I doubt the person had any idea how terrible it felt to receive earth-shattering news from a stranger via social media.
A lot of things happened quickly.
Head first, I was cast from my coveted position as middle child.
A new sign formed above my head.
I was given a new hat.
With Melissa gone, my time as pack leader had begun.
