Diary of a Depressed Adult

By Steph Miguel

Sometimes life throws us some sh*t that we are too afraid to share with anyone else. We keep things inside, we let them fester, until we finally reach the brink of catharsis. "Diary of a Depressed Adult" is a compilation of five-years-worth of journal entries written by a Hawaii woman whose only dream is to find a permanent home for herself and her three children. Her support system has always been small, and there came a point where she felt she had no one left except herself. Instead of looking outward, she chose to look within, and thus began her five-year-ongoing journey working with her depression, anxiety, and other mental issues by keeping her experiences logged in a collection of journals.

 

Meet Steph, a mid-30s single mother, whose life has always, always been a struggle. She has been through more than this diary can account for, but she wouldn't go back and change a damned thing if she could. She lives for people. She lives to help. And if the short story of Steph's long journey can make a difference in just one person's life, that's all the difference it needs to make in hers. She feels good by simply doing good, and sharing the stories of her adversities and celebrations will hopefully help you feel just as good as she does, knowing that no matter WHAT the f*ck happens, we will be ok and come out on top. It really is all in our head. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Miguel
• Release date: Jun 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201563080

Steph Miguel

Sup you fakas (Hello, friends!)! I'm Steph, born and raised Hawaii native, never not once left the state. I was a writer all my life and always wanted to share my work; however I never could really find the self-confidence. After a seriously detrimental period in my life, I decided it's time to stop cryin' and start tryin'! I dove into my words and used my own experiences to make myself into the fabulous darling I am today. My goal in life is to use my experiences to help others become their most fabulous, darling-est selves too. In the meantime, I enjoy cooking, baking, cleaning, interior decorating, and everything else a struggling, strong, Portuguese aunty like me does with her free time. We keep busy and we feed everyone. I just want to do it in my own house, surrounded my family and loved ones. That's MY dream. A home. 

Book preview

Diary of a Depressed Adult

By Stephanie Miguel

For my mother

Hey Reader,

If I were to use this letter as my introduction, I would leave it blank. I feel like you’ll learn quite a bit about me just from reading the last 5 years of my life. However, I will go on to say that I have never left the state of Hawaiʻi. The ony interactions I’ve had with those not from here are through tourists and transplants. Every social experience I’ve had was within the context of Hawaiʻi. Imagine how small-minded one can become! Instead I chose to experience places and people in other ways. I’ve always been an avid reader and I enjoy a good documentary. I would love to travel one day; I’m going when the time is right. I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that we create who we are. We don’t need visible, concrete things or experiences, we don’t need to travel the world, meet hundreds of new people, skydive in the Himalayas, or take the Alaskan cruise. We become who we are right where we’re at, in our minds and in our spirits.

I compiled this diary and kept my journals and its entries for all these years because I feel like I was meant to tell you that you don’t need anything else in this world to become the best you. It sounds kinda self-help-y, and I’ll leave it up to you to interpret it how you will. This process was definitely self-help-y for me, that’s for sure. If you take away anything at all from my experiences, it’s a win for the both of us.

Ultimately this diary is my baby and literally my final cry for a home. Ok, maybe not FINAL, but it is definitely a desperate attempt to make my life better ASAP. It was my way of looking at my life with a curious eye and apply/fix past methods/coping strategies within my current self, present life, to make things better. Along the way, I’ve learned so much more about me that I’ve been avoiding even since childhood! I choose to share a little of my life with you in hopes that my experiences can help you get through some of yours, however you need them to.

A hui hou

(Until we meet again)

Steph

05/31/2017

Dear Depression,

You’ve been in my life for so many years now that there is nothing and too much to say to you. You’ve caused me grief, but you’ve provided comfort in especially stressful situations. You’ve been waiting patiently at my side every time I feel good, like a faithful, loyal friend. When the good feelings diminish and there’s inevitable darkness up ahead, there you are, waiting in the shadows, arms outstretched with welcoming sadness and despair. There are times I hate you and times I feel like you’re the only one I love. Why don’t you just leave? Why can’t I let you?

My faithful friend, you are and have been the cause and effect for everything in my life that I think is horrible. But it’s not horrible! You’re just always there to remind me whenever I’m venturing out of our comfort zone of misery! Then you whisper sweet words of self-degradation and criticism in my ear and I hate everyone again. You’ve ruined relationships, you made me miss out on so many opportunities that would’ve interested me before we met. At the same time, your keen and watchful eye has helped me distinguish bad situations and people who would be bad for me anyway. How can you be so destructive and yet so helpful at the same time? Maybe you were friends with those people too.

As you know, my mother has been urging me to go back to church. Every Sunday, with your persistent urging and convincing, I always decide not to go. Why? What for, anyway? Who is God, anyway? you ask me. After all these years, after all of your eagerness, your mental hard-wiring, your brainwashing; I don’t even know who God IS! Damn you, Depression. You have me sinning with every thought, and the scariest part is that I’ve reached a point where I don’t even consider the consequences. Can you imagine trying to live a life believing in a higher power when I’m making you the higher power?! And what kind of god are you to enable your children and even want your children to feel horrible all. the. time?! Then I realize it’s me. I am God, and God is me, and God has given me the free will to choose you. You ain’t even that great of a friend! So why am I so dependent on you? Why is it so hard for me to find comfort in positive things? Why do you make me reject love? Why do you make me so cloudy with negativity that I begin to doubt myself? Why do I let you make me? Aren’t good, true friends supposed to make their besties better? Like, I’m honored that you chose me, but you are helping me destroy everything good in my life. Everything. Without even caring, at that.

Do you even realize the extent of the pain you’ve caused? No, because you’ve caused it. Because to you, pleasure IS pain, and therefore you sit high on your throne, washing your hands. The absolute hardest part about being best friends with you is that other people don’t understand why. The only people who do are those who are either friends with you too or ya’ll recently broke up and they mad at you. And these people are so hard to come by. We are all in this secret society, created by you, run by you, and my distress signal has been breaking down and crying. Then they really know. Otherwise, can you imagine how hard it is to be fine? Do you know how many times I’ve had to lie, every, single day, when people ask me how I’m doing? No, fool. I’m not fine. I feel like walking off this draining-ass job and hopping into my car and driving off the cliffs of Kalalau valley. But of course, I can’t say that, you see. So I just say that I’m fine. Which is a sin, which makes me a liar, which makes me think I’m going straight to hell but whatever. I belong there, if it even exists.

Some days you talk to me so much that I can’t hear anything else and I end up literally losing control in my mind. I go mad. Do you know what that’s like? It’s like a mental blackout. Everything is black. Your home, kids, family, friends, words; everything and everyone is black. You can’t see, you can’t hear. You just DO or DON’T. You lose touch with your entire being, your entire sense of self, your whole. You want more black, you look for it, you crave it. And then you have friends like yourself, Depression, to provide it. So thoughtful! The long-term negative thought patterns and gracious overflow of your black promises have led me to want them, look for them. I even wear black. I love black. And in your case I mean that both figuratively and physically. Black makes me look slim and you make me feel shitty. Ah, the irony.

Thanks to you, I had to start taking antidepressants to try and curb my suicidal thoughts! Do you know how many months it’s been, how many different medications I’ve tried, how many mental breakdowns I’ve had? Finally, a dose that helps me feel stable. If there even IS such a thing. I know when I forget to take them because I literally want to die. I think of calling someone to watch my kids so I can run away and get wasted and then crash into something while driving. I need to make sure no one gets hurt though, because I’m not a selfish person like that.

For some reason, no one is ever available during a breakdown. So I pace the floors clean the house cry crumble to the ground weeping yell at my kids feed them microwaved food yell at my kids go to my floor mattress cry scream in my pillow counting the minutes til bedtime then go outside and chain-smoke cigarettes until it’s too late to go to bed early then I hate myself for smoking because it’s wasting my time and money but it’s all I have that makes me feel better and you’re always ready to light up! Then everything is gone. Everything good is gone. I’m numb. I’m not thinking. I function. I go to bed in black. When I wake the next morning, I make sure to take the pill, because I’m absolutely terrified of what might happen if I miss another dose. Do you have any idea how mentally trying that is? Like, your life is literally dependent upon a tiny blue pill. It’s ridiculous, but real AF.

I don’t think outsiders of this secret sad society we’re in truly understand what it’s like being friends with you. They don’t get that we can’t just smile and be happy or count our blessings or give it up to the Lord. You know why? It’s because we don’t even know what we’re giving up–we don’t think that the Lord really cares, anyway. We have already perfected that fake smile Jesus loves you! That’s when people stop asking. They stop helping. They stop sympathizing. They stop listening. This is the point at which we decide which bumpy road to try first or go straight off the cliff. We feel lonely but want to be alone. We want to be happy but don’t even know what it feels like. We want to pray and ask God for His love and guidance but we won’t know it if it slapped us in the face. We don’t remember how to recognize blessings and positivity. This is the crossroads. This is when we need a friend the most. It’s so funny how you’re not there telling me which road to take. You’re not there saying, This way is worse, let’s go! You’re just not there. You don’t call back or answer my texts. I’m left in emptiness and confusion. I’m left with the black. So I choose it, because it’s all I know. I go days, weeks, going with the status quo, without hearing from you. Then something especially shitty happens and I get a Hey girl, I was catching up with some old friends. Let’s go be miserable and you can give me some horrible updates! Ya cheatin’ bitch.

So I’m at that crossroads I told you about. Again. I’m aware of you. I can feel you watching me from the distance to see what I’m gonna do next. I know you’re waiting for that I need you call. I know you’re waiting for the next mental breakdown because at this point, we’re due for one. What you don’t know is that I’m slowly realizing that you’re not that great of a friend. You’re draining me. You’re killing me. You’ve killed me. You’ve blackened my soul, you built a wall around my heart. Just for fun, you said. Well you know what? It’s not fun. It’s been the absolute worst time of my entire life. You’re too needy but you’re nowhere near deserving. And you’re probably the most high-maintenance friend I’ve ever had. You ruined me with it. You took advantage of me. You made me hurt myself and my loved ones. You made me forget love. I forgot love. So I'm writing you this letter to tell you that it’s time we went our separate ways. I need to find a better friend, and that friend is me. You’re not even a real person! But you’ve played a big enough role in my life to be directly addressed, and I thought you deserved a detailed explanation.

Before we part, I would like to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Thank you for your honesty, your dishonesty, your loyalty and sudden abandonment. Thank you for every minute of your miserable time and for every one of your dark, wise words and discouraging advice. Most of all, thank you for taking me on this journey to the rock bottom of my soul. If you didn’t bring me down, I wouldn’t have been able to see the pieces of stone I need to build the steps to the top.

Best Wishes,

Steph

Postscript/Post-Chronology:

I couldn’t find any material written between this entry and the next, but I do remember that it was during this time that I got fucked up on the antidepressants. When I felt like I reached a balanced state from the Zoloft, I mentioned to my doctor that I wanted to quit smoking cigarettes. She suggested Wellbutrin, said that it was a fairly mild antidepressant and we could supplement it with the Zoloft. I was on Wellbutrin for almost a month, and I’m surprised I survived even that. It was the absolute worst I had ever been, mentally. I was suicidal, I couldn’t focus on anything, I couldn’t relax, I managed to convince myself that the combination of antidepressants and hormones from the birth control and my libations were the culprits. The effects of the Wellbutrin lasted about two weeks after I stopped taking it, I even stopped drinking and smoking weed. During those two weeks, I don’t remember anything else except for the one evening I tried to cut out my own Nexplanon implant out by watching a tutorial on YouTube. Yes, a tutorial on YouTube, on how to cut out the birth control implant that’s in your arm. I managed to get all the way to the implant, but it wouldn’t budge with over two years’ worth of scar tissue buildup. I was forced to go the ER. I ate a bowl of cereal first and then drove myself there to have the real doctors get the thing out. Although I was out of my mind, I was sane enough to be able to explain my predicament with reasoning, and thus escaped a psych evaluation. I was already in treatment, after all; I was just incredibly impatient and blinded by the expectation of instant results.

After my implant got taken out (uh, medically) and the last traces of Wellbutrin got out of my system, I DID feel significantly better. It could have been more of a ʻpower of the mind’-type thing, but whatever happened was for the better. Or at least, that’s what my brain said.

09/04/2018

For starters, I’m actually writing in this journal, with the intentions to literally and figuratively change my life. I just finished a pivoting book, and with a new sense of self-awareness, I reached for a pen and this journal to write in. My friends and others tell me all the time, You should just WRITE! But I can’t, I tell them, because I have nothing to write about. I need prompts and shit. After finishing a 2-week-long read of Charles Duhigg’s The Power of Habit, I have been bombarded with a myriad of things to ‘just write’ about. Unfortunately the majority of it has to do with my many ‘bad’ habits, and since journaling is a popular go-to replacement for such, I might as well dig deep into my whole core and figure out how to make it better at the same time. What a better journal to use than this one, titled I’m Doing My Best on the front and motivational quotes on every other page. Mahalo to my friend who gifted me this life-changing instrument.

I played around with so many journaling ideas. How does one write in her journal, as an adult? Like, do we address the journal the same way we did as thirteen-year-olds with lock-and-key diaries? Or do we address, you, me, as a reader? Do we speak of our lives in the third-person, as in story-telling form? Or do we just write these uber-secret things we want to tell certain people, ideas, objects, like love-hate letters of our deepest feelings? I asked these questions to a few of my literate friends, and they all told me the same thing—Just WRITE, already! So...whatever. Fine. I’ll write to no one in particular and to myself at the same time. To me and for me, just as journaling is supposed to be, duh.

I decided I’ll write letters to myself. I feel like when you write to yourself, you can say anything you want! Even at your worst, you can be your best friend ever and pick at everything that bothers you. Sometimes going back and rereading all these things you tell yourself can really shake up your life. You learn stuff, that heavy stuff you’d normally choose to avoid, because at one point you felt enough of something  that compelled you to go to a fearful place. It’s like feeling guilty about a bad habit and your ‘sub-self’ can either beat you or lift you up. It really IS all in how you talk to yourself. And here I am, talking to that hypothetical ‘you’ that is supposed to be ‘me.’ Ha! Ok here we go.

09/04/2018

Dear Me,

Hey girl! While you’re still thinking about that book you just read, time to identify those keystone habits you have that run your life and daily routine. Shouldn’t take too long, granted you already know exactly what needs to be changed.

Small wins, remember? Actions so simple and orderly that could potentially change your whole lifestyle. Since your keystone habits are mostly negatives, small wins are inevitable. Literally and figuratively speaking, inevitable. So why the stall? What is it that you’re so afraid of? I think that you are so defeated that you dwell in pity and guilt instead of pride and achievements. How come though? Because shit, you’re awesome and you know other people think so too, but why can’t you feel it? Why the suppression and isolation? Are you going to let the familiars RUN you and RUIN you until there is nothing left of you? You are NOT ‘just’ a mom, ‘just’ a roommate, ‘just’ the house-cleaner, laundry-doer, soccer mom, ‘just’ a barista, ‘just’ a friend, ‘just’ ANYTHING. You are you, and all those other things are just components of what makes you, you. How you choose to perform, how you choose to wash the dishes, do the laundry, make drinks, offer friendly support-that is ALL up to you. How you choose to look at your life is up to you. The changes you choose to make are up to you, no matter where you’re at in life. Whether or not you choose to keep a journal is up to you. And hopefully keeping track of the things you want to change via journaling will help you persist.

Whether through word or imagery, visualization is KEY in this process. What are your end goals? Will the process be over when the goal is met? How motivated are you? What kind of benefits will these changes reap?

Ultimately, Steph, what IS your goal? It doesn’t have to