A Podcast to Cure Your Seasonal Depression

It’s officially that dreaded time of year when we’re not only drained but potentially also experiencing SADness (Seasonal Affective Disorder). While the leaves turning from a lush green to a burning red can bring a level of satisfaction – who doesn’t love walking on those extra crunchy leaves? – this time of year can be equally difficult. Between cold weather, waning daylight and the impending holidays, we need something to help lighten the load. 

Candidly, I’ve always tried to like podcasts, but it wasn’t until I found this one that it truly clicked.

Meet Toni and Ryan. 

I first found the loud laughing Australian duo thanks to the handy Instagram algorithm and immediately fell in love with their back and forth style. Their quick wit and raunchy humor helps to add a warm glow to these chilly autumn days. 

Ever hear about the first date with a morgue attendant who forgot to take the body out of the back before picking you up? What about an endless supply of horrendous, cringe-worthy pick-up lines? If you ever just want to sit back and listen to your newest friends tell stories, this is the podcast for you. 
Not to mention, they started a challenge where they would eat one chicken nugget for every patreon subscriber in the month of October, thinking foolishly that they’d get maybe 50. 721 subscribers later, they were able to make a sizable donation to charity.

Do you have a fave podcast that instantly boosts your mood? Share with us in the comments below!

Bailey NanceLeave a comment

The Great Disappearing Act

TW // suicidal ideation, suicide, death, pills

What happens when someone disappears without a trace; what happens when they decide to reappear?

How are you expected to react; how are you supposed to feel? Are you allowed to even be upset? I asked these same questions of myself every day for two weeks. I also spent a lot of time emotionally tearing myself apart.

I had an amazing partner who took care of me during a very busy time and lacked personal space; he cooked and cleaned for me, and sucked it up when my dog burrowed between us in bed. He even almost had me consider having a child. Flash forward to when I tried to break up with my partner the first time, all of my friends knew it was coming. But when I decided to try the relationship again, I didn’t tell all of my friends in fear that they would shame me or ask me why the hell did I do that again. And of course, it was pretty good for a little bit, but I was starting to catch on that something was off [with him].

A few months ago, my partner had went to the Dominican Republic to follow protocol for his work visa. I hadn’t heard from him for two days and I grew extremely concerned. It wasn’t until the following Tuesday or Wednesday that he finally admitted he was assaulted by a group of men and had his money/passport stolen (but still had his phone).

Why did it take him so long to tell me?

I had to fight tooth and nail to find out before he told me what had happened. It was exhausting, but I got the answers I needed & told him to please never hide safety things like this from me; he’s too important for that.

This wasn’t the first time someone had disappeared on me; not even two months earlier, I was dating someone and they also seemed to have disappeared into thin air. So albeit I’m a strong, independent woman, I still have triggers such as that one that will drive me into a dark place.

Although I didn’t want to believe that it would happen again, it would; a few more times in fact.

The Fourth of July is always a joyous weekend right? Everyone getting shitfaced with their pseudo patriotism and all – everyone including my partner. He and his co-workers partied the entire 3-day weekend, and I hadn’t heard one peep from him at all. Was I mad? Yes, but only because I hadn’t heard from him – I truly wanted him to enjoy his holiday weekend.

It was all sorry’s and “I promise it won’t happen again, I just wasn’t paying attention, then I lost my phone.” And again, I took the bait and went with it. Then it came back up another weekend, I hadn’t heard from him for almost another 3 days. I was mentally unable to handle much more, so I sent, “I cannot do this anymore, I don’t feel loved and I don’t feel cared about.” It was a long weekend of fighting, drinking, and coming back together over tears and FaceTime. However, I should’ve REALLY paid attention to the signs & listened to my instincts at that point. But, the hopeless lover and romantic that I am, I couldn’t give up.

Once again, things seemed to steady and he returned to his home country to fulfill the work visa requirements once again. He was living 6 hours into the future, and it wasn’t the first time we dealt with this. It made things difficult in terms of communication, but damn it, we tried. We texted and FaceTimed when we were awake at the same time, and I’d watch him cook dinner during my lunch time. It felt like he was back in my kitchen while I was working away. There’s something comforting about hearing the sound of a knife hitting a cutting board and onions frying in the pan.

Everything was okay there for the first week and a half; then it became much more inconsistent.

It started with a day where he didn’t text at all, which is fine, you’re doing the things because you just got home. And he would sleep such long days, his sleep was all messed up (maybe jet lag, but he was supposed to be good by now), and I really should’ve known then what was going on. Then he began to read my messages but wouldn’t respond; at first it was just two days, then three… then four. Then it went a whole week and the next, still nothing of mine had been read. It would’ve been exactly two weeks I hadn’t heard from him. However, as things go, he miraculously turned up.

So back to the questions – how am I supposed to feel? Am I allowed to even be upset?

It was a casual moment, I had been texting friends – specifically, texting with one who had been talking about a cute girl she’s talking to, with another discussing how my apartment is trash, and sending a third friend a meme about ADHD. Then I felt my phone buzz and I looked to the top of the screen, there his name was beside the green icon. As he was sending more messages, I felt my throat crawling down my chest and into my stomach.

To put it bluntly, within his two week hiatus, I had to come to terms with the fact that he has either: died, went off on a binge, or decided that I wasn’t worth contacting anymore. But to my surprise, it was only one of them, more like almost one of them…

As a girlfriend, you hope to be the person that your partner goes to when they’re feeling downtrodden or depressed. But sometimes, that same person that you love and trust may not feel safe enough to express that.

I knew he had been extremely tired the past few months, but despite the hard physical labor, him sleeping in so much when he got back to his home country, that wasn’t normal. Him barely texting me was odd; and not to mention he had confessed to me he had been feeling really sad one night, but he said this when I was barely awake. Yet, when I asked about it the next day, he only read my message and never responded.

Today, I found out that cause of his two week disappearance: he tried to take his own life. He took too many stress relief pills and overdosed, but someone luckily found him.

And although I know this is not my fault, knowing that night could’ve been our last conversation we ever had was absolutely soul-crushing to learn. I almost lost someone and would have never even known that he was gone. Losing someone who I told a few times that I, myself, had been feeling dark like that, would have ended me. So I have to ask as well, do I have the right to be angry? To be honest, I don’t even know how I am supposed to feel. I don’t get to be angry that he disappeared, I don’t get to be angry that I sat for two weeks questioning who I was and what I did. I don’t get to be upset that I was given less than an hour to digest two weeks of pain and confusion.

Now, I want to come back around and briefly talk about men’s mental health, specifically suicide awareness.

The 2019 statistics below come from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention website and were collected by the CDC:

  • 47,511 Americans died by suicide
  • There were an estimated 1.38M suicide attempts
  • Men died by suicide 3.63x as often as women

For the friends and family members who are concerned for their loved ones, reach out with something more than “I am here for you, I will listen to you.” Try something more like, “What can I do for you?… What can I provide for you?… I’m dropping off some snacks/food/movies/games that I remembered that you love at your door. I respect your space, but I am here to invite you out to wxyz thing if you would like to join me…”

And lastly, I want to say this: if you are in pain, if you’re feeling alone, if you feel like you have no other options – please remember, you are not alone, you are loved and worthy of love, you are wanted, you are seen, and you matter.

Suicide Hotlines:

Teddi LynnLeave a comment

To get f*cked or to get f*cked over– is that the new question?

We live in a time where you pick your partners by a swipe of the finger. We judge based on looks and most interesting bio. We live in a world where “Netflix and chill” is now considered a date, instead of someone coming to pick you up to do some fun activities and then drop you off at your front door with a kiss (where the hell did the butterflies go)! We live in a world where our real life meet-cutes are, “I met them on Tinder, haha” or “I was so drunk that I just literally fell into them” or “I was twerking at the club and they said I looked hot” (how romantic).

We live in a world where marriage has turned into just a legal form, instead of two souls becoming one. Where loyalty is a word from the past, because cheating is as easy as going online or to the gym or to a bar to find your fuck. Because that’s what it is isn’t it? No one makes love anymore; no one sticks around long enough to know if this could be the one. They stick around for only right now…and people wonder why we get so “crazy” as they put it, or they are pissed because you have trust issues (oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to ignore the world around me and how fucked it is?).

I live in a world where you are either cheating on someone or you’re getting cheated on. It doesn’t seem to matter how long a relationship has lasted– if someone catches your fancy and you get the urge, people act! No control. No one seems to think, “I’ve been with this person for 8+ years. I have 2 beautiful children with them and I have built so much with them. I can’t throw all of that away!”

I once saw a married man ask a girl, “do you want to go out to my car and fuck?” She replied, “if it was a Mercedes, sure, but it’s a Ford Fusion and your car seats are in the back so, no.” (my jaw hit the floor ladies and gents because this was an actual conversation).

I’ve seen two married people fucking around with one another, not giving a fuck if their spouses found out. On social media, he was the perfect husband: praising his wife and how much he loved her. But then he’d message this other woman saying how he wants to fuck her, asking if she can come over on Saturday because that’s when his wife will be out of town (this makes me truly sick when I see things like this).

I’m genuinely dumbfounded by it all.

I miss the concept of true love with a person, accepting them for good and bad, building a life (with them a start, middle, and end), with no fucking around, with no one cheating or having wandering eyes or leaving just because it got a little hard. But this hardly exists anymore and it is so rare to find someone with the same mindset…

So I guess, “To get fucked or to get fucked over?” really is the question.

-The Ramblings of a Madwoman

Peachy AnonLeave a comment

The Ramblings of a Madwoman: Panic

Panic.

This world isn’t against you, but it sure feels like it sometimes doesn’t it? It’s like, as soon as one thing goes wrong, everything else starts to fall apart. Little by little, your world feels like it’s crumbling around you.

I wear stress like it is a coat, except I wear it even when I don’t need to. It’s infused into me.  Let’s be real, stress is a bitch. It is mentally and physically draining to have everything piled on top of you. If you’re lucky, stress brings along its super fun friend, panic attacks.

Panic attacks are when your body and your mind have HAD ENOUGH. For me, panic attacks feel like:

the world

is

crashing

down,

like the floor beneath my feet has

disappeared

and I’m free-falling

and I can’t catch myself.

There is nothing to focus on

except all that is wrong,

and my heart feels like it’s coming out of my chest;

my lungs feel like they don’t get enough oxygen

and at any moment,

the little air I am getting is going to stop;

I’ve lost control.

I have hidden in many closets, bathroom stalls (gross), showers…anywhere that I think I can get a minute,

where I can let go,

without someone watching me break down and apart.

My favorite part of my panic attacks is when people tell me, “YOU JUST NEED TO BREATHE” (if you guys could see my face, you’d notice that my eyes just rolled into the back of my head).

Absolute gold, this advice! Why didn’t I think about breathing?

Other than breathing (DUH), the things that seem to help me are:

  1. Being in a area away from prying eyes

2. Trying to think of anything else I can focus on, even if it’s dumb (unicorns??)

3. Writing

4. Listening to music

5. Screaming like a crazy banshee out in a field (don’t judge until you try)

6. Axe-throwing (a Rage Room will be something I try at some point)

You could also try the crazy idea of talking to someone about what has triggered you.

Maybe these ideas won’t work for you, but sometimes just knowing others are going through something similar helps in a way. If I could at least let you know that you are not alone in your mental health struggles, then I did what I set out to do.

Peachy AnonLeave a comment

The Universe Screams Perception

Perception. Life is all about perception.

You know that weird thing that happens where the universe starts to send you the same message over and over again, but it takes the third, fourth, or millionth time for the message to actually come through? The message finally hits home hard enough, reverberating in your mind, and you finally say to yourself and the universe, “Okay, okay – I get it…”

Lately the universe has been screaming out one word to me: Perception.

Where it started:

Late at night, as I’m trying to go to sleep, my brain loves to torture me with embarrassing things I’ve done throughout my life, dangle the tasteless words I’ve spouted at others, and really just hammer in that I’m a terrible, heartless person. After I hear a dizzying bout of my own words, I then take a deep dive into a vicious wave pool of the hurtful things friends and family have said to me (or about me) throughout my life, “Nobody really knows who you are,” “You don’t have much of a personality,” “You’re a two-faced bitch,” “You’re soulless,” all of which effectively drive the point home.

Yet, as I flail about the torrent of self-loathing, I take a minute to refocus – to reel it back in. None of that matters, what matters is where I am now. Not the big picture macro-now, I mean the micro-now. I focus on the task at hand: relaxing and getting some rest. I remind myself that the past is done, those people probably don’t remember these moments anyway. In this precise moment the past doesn’t matter, only the micro-now matters.

Where it went:

“Nobody really knows who you are.” This is the late night phrase that has been sticking to me like static-y cellophane throughout even the daylight hours. I’ve just had a hard time shaking it lately. This was something casually said to me in high school by an incredibly close friend. They said it offhand, and I remember being completely jarred by it.

I always felt a tad out of place in high school, all of those kids had grown up together, I randomly showed up freshman year and most people assumed I was older because they didn’t know me. But a little over halfway into my high school career, I had become involved enough to genuinely feel like I was leaving some kind of footprint with my classmates, and like I was becoming a part of this general air of familiarity carried between these hundreds of kids.

Then my friend made that statement and it completely altered the perception I had of myself. My gut reaction to their statement was that they were wrong. But my audible response to them was, “Well, I still don’t really know most people anyway, so that’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. That one offhand, careless statement made by a friend… I gave those words so much power that they still have a hold over how I see myself in the eyes of others. Consistently throughout my life, well since sophomore or junior year of high school, I have always assumed people don’t know me. All because a trusted friend, an ally in life, told me so.

Where it’s going:

What has been most difficult lately is trying to understand why that memory decided to resurface so fiercely and persistently. Why has it been the ringing in my ears? Is the universe trying to communicate something to me?

Then today, the universe screamed its violent message at me, using my cousin as a catalyst. My cousin posted a video and somewhere in there she said, “Everyone in the world has a different perception, even if they’re seeing the exact same thing.” What’s comical is that this message from the universe landed like an edible – aka an hour later.

An hour after watching my cousin’s video, I sat up in a stark realization: I let the perception of another impact my own perception of myself. Which is incredibly unfortunate, I can’t help but wonder how many opportunities I’ve missed due to this lack of clarity in myself? So within the time I’ve been writing this article, I’ve been tumbling down rabbit hole after rabbit hole of realizations. Most importantly, I’ve come to understand that I stopped believing that friend’s statement long ago, their words have not been my truth for quite sometime now.

Since moving to New York and starting my career nearly four years ago, I’ve slowly been coming into my own power and understanding the impact that my voice can have. I have come to understand that I am incredibly capable of commanding a room, that I have an infallible confidence if I so call upon it, and that I have the power to decide whether I am noticed or whether I hide. I am in charge of the perception I project – whether it’s yours or mine.

. . .

Emily SmithLeave a comment

The Ramblings of a Madwoman: You Are Not Alone

Living when all I want to do is die.

This topic is a little gloomy, I must admit, but living in a time where everyone is depressed or has anxiety, I know most can relate.

I do not have a bad life, actually the opposite. I have a family who loves me and supports me, friends who are there for me always, and a boyfriend who will tell me I am beautiful every single day, and even plans our future. Maybe it is a chemical imbalance (no shame in the medication game), or things in my life have just been piling on me or my emotions are just too damn strong. Who knows why I deal with the things that I do? I just know that I do and I know others do too.

I just want you all to know that I see you and that it’s not all in your head and that I don’t think you are just seeking attention (as the ass-hats out there will tell you).

I live with severe depression and I’m not ashamed of it. If you ask me, I will tell you the truth: I do not want to be on this earth anymore. I think about death the same amount a pubescent boy thinks about boobs or sex, but unlike the horny boy who could find a quiet room to find his release, I shall never find mine. How is one suicidal but not at the same time? Well, it is something I ask myself everyday.

I joke with everyone about my depression because if I didn’t, it would be too damn sad. Most believe it is just a laugh because I am my own personal comedian, but to me it’s real; it is something I live with every single day. Thinking, “if I took this medication with this one, maybe it would work” or “if I let go of the wheel of my car at this speed right into oncoming traffic, will it be enough?” I’ve even thought of sitting out in the garage with my car on, only doped up on tons of drugs so that maybe I wouldn’t change my mind at the last minute.

Don’t worry boys and girls, I am finding a new therapist as we speak.

Also, even though I fantasize so often about my own death, I would never be able to do these things. I have loved ones who I would leave in so much confusion, in so much grief. I’m not so (trigger word alert) “damaged” or “broken” that I don’t think about those I would be leaving behind.

I live my life day by day; some days are better and some days are dark (i.e. doom, doom, doom). Those days are hard but I find it an accomplishment that I make it to my bed at the end of the day. Breathing on these days seems like a chore. Listening to others speak is a hardship. Sometimes the dark days can last a few days…or weeks, even a month, and the longer the darkness lasts, the harder fighting gets for me. As I write this, I am going on a week and everything is weighing on me: work, relationships with friends, family, the one I love, health issues. All of it feels like a pair of weighted balls (giggles like a 12 year old) attached to each of my limbs and I’m in the ocean trying to hold myself up and the longer I hold myself up the heavier the weights get–ohhh and there are sharks in the water (’cause it sounds badass).

But I also know that my depression doesn’t just affect me, it affects everyone around me. People count on me to be there and when I’m not, they are left confused as to why they think they have done something wrong (you haven’t; this one is all me). I know they worry, and it doesn’t help that I’m an open book:

“How are you today”

“Oh you know just wondering if I can pay a personal assassin to take my ass out.”

I will not lie. I will not hold it in, because if I ever get so bad that I don’t think I can fight anymore I need someone to look at me and say, “Girl you are scaring me and we need to get you some help” (don’t I know it, imaginary human in my head).

I never want anyone to think they are alone, and if you are dealing with the same things out there that I do, I SEE YOU. Look for help, be it a professional or a friend or family member. Just open up. In this day and age, it’s not weird or different to be dealing with the things we are dealing with. It might scare those around you that you feel these things but this is life or death we are talking about and people need to see the awkward uncomfortable parts to it. Don’t scare those around you without seeking help. They cannot help someone who doesn’t ask for it. Be open, be honest and be alive. Because even though my dark days are currently upon me, I know this can’t be it for me…or for you.

If you or someone you know is in immediate danger due to depression, contact 911. If you or someone you know is in need of support, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255); En Español 1-888-628-9454 or text “HELLO” to 741741 the Crisis Text Line.

Peachy AnonLeave a comment

Weakening the Weakness

I read the articles about FKA twigs’ lawsuit against her former boyfriend, Shia LaBeouf, read her recounting of the ways he abused her and I want to feel something. I want to cry, or get angry, or remember. Instead, I find myself numb. I see myself in her story and my eyes glaze over – I know the story so intimately, even though the details are not the same – and I am forced to skim the pages. I cannot bring myself to read every word. Why would I need to? I lived this.

Not with Shia LaBeouf, obviously, but with my own version: an attractive, charismatic, successful man hellbent on breaking women. A tortured soul – god knows how long I’ve spent, dissecting what neurosis might be to blame for His actions: psychopathy, sociopathy, good-old-fashioned narcissism, a dash of all of that? – who caged me in control and terror for years.

For a long time, I thought that He had chosen me because I was an easy target – someone who lacked confidence and could be controlled. This was a point of contention between me and Cindy, the therapist with whom I was doing Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT) – a specific type of therapy for people suffering from PTSD. One of my stuck points (a central tool of CPT) was the belief that “I am weak” – that there was something wrong with me that He had sniffed out. He had seen flaws in me, had known I was someone who could be easily preyed on. Layered on top of the oh-so-common “I am not good enough” that seemed to permeate every cell of my being, this weakness made me a lame duck. I was someone with so little confidence or belief in myself that it would take no effort to destroy me. I blamed myself for what He did. 

“What makes you believe that?” Cindy would ask, looking like she sincerely believed that I was good enough. That I was strong. That it actually puzzled her why this was a sticking point for me.

My brain knew the answer: this was what every talking head on Dateline told me, what I’d read in all those books I’d devoured to try to diagnose Him: predators looked for easy targets. Vulnerable women who could be preyed upon with minimal effort. To Cindy, I just shrugged my shoulders, spoke in sweeping generalizations. “I don’t know,” I avoided her eyes. “I just do. That’s what you always hear.” 

I did twelve sessions of this specialized therapy. Clinically, my PTSD resolved, my scores improving dramatically (there is no real “test” for PTSD, Cindy explained. She had me fill out a questionnaire to determine which symptoms I might be experiencing, what was triggering me. My initial score was 53. A score above 33 was considered to be experiencing PTSD. By my last session, my score was under 10). I felt better. However, inside I still carried around this belief: that the abuse I suffered was somehow my fault, because I had not been good enough, hadn’t been enough. That I was weak and I brought it upon myself.

I also grappled with wondering if what had happened to me was even really abuse. He never hit me. So, it shouldn’t count right? I stuffed the coercion – financial and sexual – down and pretended they didn’t exist. Pretended I wasn’t being tracked on my phone, told who to talk to or not talk to, like I had choices.

Did I even have PTSD? Certainly, according to Cindy and her diagnostic tools, yes, I very clearly did. But, as I told her – and my regular therapist – and my best friend, who was a therapist, and had been the one to tell me she thought I needed to do some CPT in the first place: I wasn’t a war veteran. I hadn’t been in combat. I felt like a poser claiming I had PTSD. 

But, I guess you might ask the friend I texted during a panic attack – feeling like I was going crazy and not able to catch my breath. Or the friend who had to break the news to me that He was in a relationship – who told me it was “scary” the kind of control He had over me, how I stayed in the bathroom for hours while He screamed at me – like it was somehow my fault He’d cheated on His girlfriend, lied to both of us – while she sat in my kitchen, listening to it all. Ask the friend who watched me shake while I opened an invitation to a wedding being held near His mountain cabin: declaring I wouldn’t be able to go. Ask my aunt who told me as I walked in the door – “Wow, you’re skinny, a little too skinny!” –because I weighed in under 100lbs for the first time since middle school. Ask them. They might not tell you I had PTSD but they’d tell you something was wrong.

So I did the CPT, and I felt better. Moved forward, mostly.

And then FKA twigs shared what happened to her. A famous, beautiful woman sharing about her experience with psychological and emotional abuse. She didn’t seem weak or vulnerable. In fact, she seemed pretty bad ass. I wondered what the talking heads on Dateline would say about her.

A few weeks after the story broke, I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts, Natch Beaut. The host, Jackie Johnson, started discussing the allegations against Shia LaBeouf – someone she’d joked about having a crush on for years. Jackie shared that she is a survivor of abuse, and she shared her support for other survivors and thanked women like FKA twigs for coming forward to share their stories. I’d been walking my dog, but kept listening when I got home. Now, listening in my kitchen, with my earphones still in, I hunched over my kitchen sink as I heard Jackie say this: “[abusers] get more satisfaction out of dimming the shine of someone extra bright.” As her own voice started to tremble, I broke down crying, sobbing. I had to hold onto the counter to steady myself. I fell to the floor in tears. Even now, as I write this, I have to take off my glasses and squint through the flood of emotion. 

I won’t lie and say hearing that little nugget of wisdom magically made that stuck point of “I am weak” unstuck. It didn’t. I still have moments, some longer than others, when I wonder how I could have let this happen, why I didn’t leave, how I fell for all the bullshit. I see myself as I imagine others must: weak, pathetic, so desperate for love and attention that I will put up with being manipulated and lied, cheated on, used, degraded. I feel humiliated by my choices. I let myself drown in victimhood, shirk the label of “survivor” – I want to both dismiss what has happened to me (“He never hit me! I mustn’t make this a ‘thing’”) and also wallow in it (“this was not right. I deserve to be acknowledged for my pain.”), knowing I can’t have it both ways, knowing holding it will only hurt me more. 

I am glad that men like Shia LaBeouf – those in the spotlight, with power and influence – are being called out, named and I hope they will in some way be held accountable for their actions. I know that there are far too many more – especially those not in the spotlight, with power and influence over their partners – who will never be called out, or named or held accountable. I wish I were brave enough to type the name of the man I am writing about here. But I’m not. Among the veiled threats I learned to decode – the bits of information he fed to me over our time together – was how litigious he is, and I know, even if I did write his name, the consequences he would inflict upon me are greater than any he is likely to suffer. And I’m done dealing with his wrath.

I spoke to my therapist today, told her most of this. How I’d felt weak, even when Cindy told me I wasn’t. Told her I was still holding on, even when I knew I shouldn’t. I talked about FKA twigs and Shia and the Podcast. She nodded. I should start to think about being weak with a bit more flexibility, she said. She explained that I did have a vulnerability – I wanted love and affection not because I was weak – but because I was human. That He – consciously or unconsciously – exploited that, and wanted to dull someone’s shine because He saw it as superior. 

We looked at each other, through the computer screen, and I sighed. I’ve been wallowing in my victimhood for five years, waiting for something. Maybe it was this: understanding I could be vulnerable and also not at fault, all at once. 

Lisa S.Leave a comment

Somewhere in Rainbows

My parents met in Bowling Green at Western Kentucky University in the mid 90’s. My mom was in a sorority, my dad a fraternity and they hit it off at a Greek mixer. I came into existence in 1995, they subsequently dropped out of university and moved to Louisville to raise little ol’ me. Two and a half years after I was born, my sister came into the picture, and a year or so after that my parents got divorced. My dad stayed in Kentucky, but my mom needed to move to Indiana to be closer to my aunt and nana.

Every other weekend, every summer, and alternating holidays would be spent at my dad’s in Kentucky (this schedule not strictly followed as I got older) and all schooling would take place in Indiana. The driving distance between my parents was a lengthy three hours; which is short enough to be doable, but long enough to be slightly painful. The divorce wasn’t easy on anyone. It was never a smooth, simple thing. It was uncomfortable and it always felt like someone was deeply hurting more than the other, no one ever on the same wavelengths, and everyone seemingly took turns over-vocalizing the pain in what was usually not the most constructive way. Essentially, none of us made it through unscathed.

When it was time for me to start kindergarten, my mom soon found the Catholic elementary school, St. Ambrose, in Anderson, that seemed like the best fit. Quickly upon starting school, I was also signed up for this afterschool program called Rainbows which took place every Tuesday. A few other kids and myself would all get a ride over to the slightly larger Catholic school in town, we’d dash out of the car for bomb milk and cookies, then talk about our feelings for an hour or so in small groups.

Pretty quickly, all of us kids realized the common denominator between us was that we all lacked a nuclear household.

Rainbows created this community of kids and a safe space that essentially validated our feelings. All of them, every single emotion we felt… we were told it was normal.

If I’m being honest, I don’t remember nearly any of the particulars in those little lessons we had within the small group talks. I was in Rainbows for years, yet I genuinely don’t remember what we talked about each week. I just vaguely remember the constant undertone of reassurance that nothing was our fault, which I understand is a common thing for kids with divorced parents to feel. Though I did (and do) feel responsible for my parents marriage, never in my life have I ever felt to blame for my parents divorce.

The primary memories that stick out from Rainbows are the relationships that it created. There were so many adults that felt (and still feel) like an extension of family, and the best friends I had in that lifetime have transcended into adulthood. All of the friendships, even the ones that didn’t quite withstand the test of time, were/are priceless and heavily impacted my life. They’re the people who just got it. It’s always felt like yes, we’re all in our own boats, but we’re still in the same ocean weathering similar storms.

Rainbows encouraged a deep level of empathy.

We were this group of mismatched kids, varying in age, personality types, and all with different stories: some kids lost a parent, some lived with grandparents, some parents were divorced but still lived close to each other (these were the ones I was most jealous of), some kids didn’t know one of their parents at all – the list goes on. Yet throughout the lessons, we were made to feel that yes, our situation sucks and our story may seem harder than the person’s next to us, but that doesn’t invalidate that person’s pain.

All pain is valid, we are not here on this Earth to decide who gets to feel and what it is they feel.

. . .

In deciding to write this article, I googled Rainbows for the first time ever. Finding out that Rainbows was founded by a woman was not surprising, but it did bring a smile to my face (#girlpower). Rainbows, actually fully named Rainbows for All Children, was founded in the mid 70’s by Suzy Yehl Marta, a divorced mother of three boys. She was devastated when her marriage ended and found solace in a support group. It didn’t take long for her to realize that her sons could also greatly benefit from such a group, but her search for this came up empty. Thus, Rainbows for All Children was born.

“Working with other concerned parents, Suzy began organizing weekend retreats for the children in single parent homes. In three years, more than 800 youth benefited from the retreats. Suzy knew more needed to be done. She started working on a curriculum, the foundation of Rainbows for All Children, for children who experienced loss. The curriculum was designed to provide grieving elementary school children with an understanding of their new family unit, to help build a sense of self-esteem and to give them the tools to properly cope with their loss.”

Rainbows for All Children

. . .

Ultimately, it seems Suzy understood that relying on a child’s resiliency isn’t always the best or only answer. Just because kids have the ability to quickly bounce back on their own, doesn’t mean they should be left to their own devices to do so. I mean, think about it: why do adults go to therapy? Typically to finally unpack all of that compartmentalized childhood trauma. So when you think your kid is “getting over it” and “bouncing back” – it’s possible that they’re really just saving that pain for later.

Rainbows is very much still operating today – head to their website to learn more!

Emily SmithLeave a comment

Workplace Abuse: Calling Out My First Boss

I’ve always been a hardworking individual. Most of my self-esteem comes from knowing that I’ve done a “good job” at work, or that I’ve somehow helped to make someone else’s life easier by going above and beyond with my workplace duties. Unfortunately, my self-esteem is also adversely affected by things I do at work.

I’ve noticed a pattern in my own thinking while searching for ways to improve my self-esteem. When I find myself spiraling into negative self-talk, it’s almost ALWAYS set off by not feeling good enough at my job. I have numerous pieces of evidence to prove that I’m a great teacher: thank you notes and drawings from students, noticeable academic growth in my classes, obvious feelings of mutual trust and love between myself and the kids I teach. However, I’m never able to see those beautiful and positive things as they are. Instead, I find dozens of reasons every week why I think I’m doing terribly and will most definitely be fired.

Why do I think this way? I’ve found a connection from my past that seems to explain it: My first boss ever was incredibly abusive.

*–*–*–*–*–*

I’m from a small town in southern Indiana, of around 17,000 people. That seems like a large number, but in reality, everyone knows everyone. In middle school, I went to the very small Catholic school in town, Rivet. This school was so small, that they allowed off-campus lunch for kids who were legally able to drive. Most kids, though, chose to walk to some of the cafes on Main Street for lunch. One of those nearby lunch-spots was a little cafe and caterer, owned by one of the Rivet families.

When I was fourteen, one morning at Rivet I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker saying that this cafe was looking to hire a dishwasher. Being the hard-worker that I am, I was incredibly excited by this opportunity. I’m not even 16 yet and I can get a job! I was ready to pounce. However, also being the socially anxious human that I am, I was too scared to go out for the job on my own. I asked my best friend at the time to apply for it with me, and she did. Luckily, my friend’s brother’s girlfriend was a waitress there at the time, so we got the job. I was SO excited to start. A couple of weeks later, on a Saturday at 10:30AM, my heart pounded out of my chest as I walked into the cafe with my friend in our green polos. My new boss, my first boss ever (who I’ll call “Patty”), introduced herself with a clearly fake smile and overly-chipper demeanor. I didn’t realize what I’d gotten myself into.

What it Was Like

My first day on the job was spent washing dishes from 10:30 to 4:00, being scolded for spraying the dishes with too much water or asking too many times for help putting away dishes that were stored in high places. My friend got to be trained that day as “waitress helper.” I eventually got to be trained as “waitress helper” too, but I didn’t get to work as one very much until my friend eventually quit. I knew I was hired on as a dishwasher, so I had no issue washing dishes…but my friend was hired for the same position as me and didn’t have to! Luckily, it didn’t take my friend very long to quit, so I was out of the kitchen and into the front of house. Everything seemed to be looking up, but unfortunately, it all went downhill from there.

#1: I was never appreciated.

The title of “waitress helper” was the name my boss came up with, because the role was honestly so many jobs in one that nothing else fit. After a few years of being a “waitress helper,” I came up with my own job title: “Patty’s bitch.” The waitress helpers were hosts, greeters, food-runners, baristas, decorators, table-bussers, phone-answerers, delivery drivers, organizers, errand-runners and anything else that Patty may have needed us to do. I legitimately picked up and dropped off her kids somewhere once and even wrapped her Christmas presents a few times.

I like to be busy, so having a million things on my plate actually keeps me motivated to work. What I don’t like so much is doing a million things for someone and getting zero appreciation for it. Here’s one small example: As a waitress helper, as soon as you can drive and get your own car, you are made the delivery driver. The cafe delivered lunch to hospitals and doctors’ offices as well as to some apartments. However, deliveries were always HUGE. A typical delivery to the hospital would be at least one large box full of meals in paper bags, sometimes a couple plastic quart containers of soup, and a few full drink carriers in another box. My petite self would have to carry these giant boxes through the hospital (with literally no one offering to help me, by the way) and set up all the food in a lounge. Then I’d rush back to the restaurant to grab another delivery, and the cycle would continue. Another messed up part about deliveries, was that I often had to deliver to old men in this gross apartment complex. These apartments smelled like cat pee and stale cigarettes and all of the lighting was similar to that of a horror film. I’d grab my giant box of soup and sandwiches, then I’d have to walk directly into a man’s apartment, find his kitchen table, place all the food there (with the old man watching me from his recliner) and leave. After a full day of deliveries, which I was not allowed to take tips for, I got my “delivery payment” of a whopping $5. They gave me five dollars for gas compensation. Doing deliveries made me feel SO unappreciated, uncomfortable and frankly, unsafe. I had no choice but to do it, though. If I didn’t ask “how high” every time Patty told me to jump, she’d make it very clear to me that I was replaceable, which leads me to my next point.

#2: I was constantly reminded that I was insignificant.

This was a part-time job at a local cafe. It was also my first job. I had zero expectations and nothing to compare my treatment to. I didn’t realize that I was facing daily abuse from my boss until I went to college and picked up a waitressing gig at Applebee’s. On my first week of waiting tables at Applebee’s, I made a mistake when I input someone’s order and forgot to mark that a man wanted his salad to come out before his meal. When I brought out his steak and salad at the same time, the man threw the salad across the table, and with lettuce and Ranch dressing flying everywhere, he shouted “F*** YOU! I don’t want this f***ing salad anymore! It’s too late!” I picked everything up and ran to my manager crying, apologizing profusely for messing up and assuming I’d be fired on the spot. To my surprise, my boss went over to the table with a to-go box and told the man to get out and not come back. She said his meal today was free, but she would not tolerate his treatment toward one of her waitresses. I’m still blown away by the fact that my boss stood up for me. She trusted me and cared about me, and I’d only been working for her for a little over a week! This experience opened my eyes to how unacceptable my treatment was by Patty at the local cafe in my hometown.

The reason I started this section with an anecdote from my time working at Applebee’s was so I could really juxtapose the way those 2 bosses treated me. Keep that Applebee’s story in mind as you read the following very true stories of what I endured with Patty as my boss.

Exhibit A) Remember, I started working for Patty at age 14. One summer when I was 16, she told me I needed to clean and re-organize all of the catering stuff they had stored on shelves in the basement. I was actually PUMPED for this task, because I love to re-organize and de-clutter spaces. It also meant I could hide away in the basement with my headphones in everyday for a week and I didn’t have to listen to anyone telling me what to do all day. When that week was over, I felt rejuvenated! The basement looked incredible; Patty even said so herself!

The next week, Patty hired on a new waitress helper and even hinted that I might get to be a waitress soon (which absolutely did not happen, but I think she purposely gave me that hope every once in awhile just so I’d work even harder). Since I’d been a waitress helper there longer than anyone else, Patty wanted me to train the newbie. She welcomed the new girl with that same artificially bubbly smile and had me walk around the restaurant with them to show her where everything was. We brought the new-hire to the basement to show her the freezer, laundry and catering supplies and Patty gave a fake smile and said, “Zoë just re-organized this basement! Doesn’t it look great? Zoë is our superstar, she’s been here awhile and knows how to do it all!” Her praise made me feel so special and loved, but only for a short moment. Before I could even thank her for the kind words, she turned to me inquisitively, with her fake smile starting to fade and said, “tell me, superstar, what are the soups of the day?” My stomach dropped into my shoes. I was whisked away with Patty and the new hire as soon as I got into the building. I didn’t have time to even look at the soups yet. Luckily the first three were always the same. I replied, “Um…cheese broccoli, tomato basil, potato…I’m not sure about the others. I haven’t gotten to look yet.” Patty turned her head to the new hire with a fresh fake smile and said, “Forget everything good I said about Zoë.” Then, while still facing the new hire, she said to me, “Get upstairs and learn the soups, Zoë.”

These are the exact words she used. The experience is so etched into my memory, because I was terrified of losing my job and I had never felt so small. I’m sure that Patty has no memory of this conversation. The immediate flip from telling me that I’m amazing to saying there’s nothing good about me was consistent throughout my time at this cafe; that story is just one example of it happening at a moment’s notice. Usually it would be more like one or two days of praise followed by several days of making me question why she hadn’t fired me yet. What’s messed up is that eventually, I truly believed that I deserved to be fired. Those were Patty’s mind games.

Exhibit B) After that moment in the basement, I recognized more and more that Patty was a cruel person to work for. However, I was still afraid of losing that job. Mama didn’t raise no quitter, but mama didn’t say I had to love every minute of everything I start. So later that same summer, I was at my best friend’s house for a sleepover on a Friday night. I always had to work on Saturdays from 11-4. My friend’s big sister brought up the idea of going to Patoka Lake on Saturday. All of my friends could go except for me. I wanted to go so badly. I didn’t want to miss out on lake adventures for 5 hours of torture that would leave me with only 33 more dollars on my paycheck. I was 16. I deserved to be 16 for one Saturday, so at 10:00AM I called in sick. I spoke to the front manager and all seemed to be okay. I was good to go to Patoka Lake! Then about 15 minutes later, I got a call from Patty.

Patty verbally attacked me for calling in sick. She said I probably felt well enough to work. I told her I didn’t and even added in that I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled. She retorted “Which doctor? Because most doctors’ offices aren’t open on Saturdays.” I stuttered around but stuck to my lie. She called me a liar and said if I ever called in sick again that I’d be fired. So I never called in sick again, and I worked there for 4 and a half more years.

I was lying…but honestly, who cares? Looking back on this moment as an adult, I realize that she had no right to accuse me of lying in the first place. She had no right to even ask questions. If I say that I’m too sick to come to work, ONE TIME in 2 years of waiting on you hand and foot, you should just say, “We really need you, but I understand and I hope you feel better.” But then again, Patty would never tell an employee that she needs them. She likes to bully her employees so think they’re worthless so they try harder to impress her.

I have countless other examples of mistreatment, but in order to stop this article from becoming a novel, I won’t list more. I think that a clear picture of “Patty” has been painted.

*–*–*–*–*–*

How this Abuse Affected Me

I consider Patty to have been my abuser. I trusted this adult, as a 14-year-old child, to respect me, care about me and help me grow. Instead, she used my desire to please others and manipulated my already low self-esteem to make me think she was doing me a favor by giving me the job. She constantly built me up just to quickly break me down until I no longer felt worthy to be an employee. Her abuse affected me in more ways than one.

#1: Physical Effects

In high school, one of my best friends needed a job, so I put in a good word and Patty hired her on as a waitress helper. My friend, being older than I was when she was hired, saw through Patty’s fake-nice façade almost immediately. On one of her first days of work, Patty sat down for a “free” lunch with us at the cafe. The whole time we ate, our boss spoke almost explicitly about herself. She’d say, “My life is hard, ladies, because no matter how busy I am, EVERYONE wants to talk to Patty.” She then somehow got on a tangent about how if we ever were caught smoking pot that we’d be fired and that she believed that smoking pot one time would give your future children birth defects. I was used to hearing her nonsense, but I could feel my friend’s eyes rolling into the back of her head.

My friend worked there for about a year. Before she quit she told me that every morning before work, she got a horrible stomach ache from anxiety. I never thought about it that way, but I had a stomach ache every morning that I had to work too. It was like clockwork. I didn’t think about it until my friend told me about that, but this job I had was causing me so much anxiety that it started to show up as physical symptoms. To further validate this, after I quit working for Patty, I never had another pre-work stomach ache until I worked at a terrible elementary school. By then, I knew my body was telling me to quit working there, so I got out. That’s why I teach middle school now.

#2: Subconscious Effects

I worked at Patty’s family cafe for a total of 6 years. It’s now been 7 years since I’ve worn that green polo and I’m completely serious when I say that I still have regular nightmares about working there. They usually have to do with me being scheduled to work and not knowing about it and them threatening to fire me if I don’t get to the restaurant NOW. Most of these dreams take place in present-day, by the way. They tell me I’ll be fired if I don’t get to work even though I live in NYC, and dream me is still in panic mode, racing back to my hometown and trying to find my polo so I won’t get fired (even though I have a whole career in NYC that is undoubtedly more important). How can Patty still be torturing me in my subconscious today?

#3: Effects on my Self-Esteem

As aforementioned in the introduction of this article, the 6-year cycle of workplace abuse I endured has made a real impact on my psyche. After walking on eggshells from age 14 to 20, I’ve internalized the idea that I’m insignificant at work, that I’m 100% replaceable and that for each of my accomplishments, there are 5 more mistakes I’m doomed to make.

*–*–*–*–*–*

Today, I have a career that I can be proud of. I’m able to see my accomplishments, but I’m still struggling to not let my “failures” overshadow them. I’ve even explained the issues I have with workplace confidence to the principal at the middle school I teach for, and fortunately she is the most caring and understanding leader that I’ve ever followed who hears me, sees me and wants to help me grow.

It’s through remembering my positive experiences of other places I’ve worked that I can realize my worth. My current principal believes in me. My boss at CAMPUS English Language School supported me. My boss at Infinity English College trusted me. My bosses at the other part-time waitressing jobs (Applebee’s and Red Lobster) cared about me as a person.

Last summer, I went to lunch at that cafe. Patty saw me, but pretended she didn’t. I decided to stop her to say hello and she acted like she didn’t know who I was. Patty always loved to make me feel insignificant.

In reality, Patty is insignificant in my life. I only hope that something changes at that restaurant, if it hasn’t already. She will probably never change though. At least I know that I’m growing and changing everyday, and I will no longer let my first boss have power over me.

Zoë CardinalLeave a comment

Addicted to Everything: The Science Behind Addiction

Have you ever heard of an “addictive personality”? I used to think that this phrase described me to a T. Once I start something, anything, my brain zeroes in on it and I’m completely obsessed.

For example, when I start a project, I must finish it in one sitting. If I don’t finish it right away, my brain will not shut up about it until I do. My friends in college used to think I was insane, because instead of working on long essays in small chunks over a few weeks, I would sit in the library for 7 hours and do it all at once: the research, the notes, the drafting, the editing and the submission.

Then, at age 24 I was diagnosed with ADD. “Ooooh okay, THAT’S my problem!” Yes, this was something I needed to get under control, but even after being medicated and subsequently more able to put down a project and pick it back up later, I was still noticing a cycle of complete obsession over everything.

At age 25, I came to terms with a very destructive mental obsession over alcohol. I realized that I was doing that thing I always do, where I love something so much that I’m unable to stop. Only this time, it was wreaking havoc on every part of my life, not just my mental health. So I got sober. Everything started to feel better. “Okay, so ADD and alcoholism are my problems. Now that those are fixed, I should be fixed!”

Nope.

Actually, now that I’m no longer mentally obsessed with being drunk all the time, I have this space in my brain that needs to be filled with something else. After I got sober, I noticed that my “addictive personality” has moved to the forefront of my being and turned up to 11. It’s not an “addictive personality” that I’m dealing with. I’m just an addict.

But why am I an addict?

The downside of being a sober alcoholic and working on myself is the fact that I now can see everything I dislike about myself that I used to be able to completely ignore. After a 3-month crossword puzzle binge (seriously, it was a binge; I completed at least 6 puzzles a day) I got frustrated with my tendency to obsess over simple things. I wanted to know why I am the way I am, so I decided to do some research.

Unfortunately, there is no clear-cut answer for why I’m like this. There are actually several different factors that make a person more susceptible to being an addict. A sobriety program that I belong to taught me that we, addicts, are born this way. I like to believe this to be true, so I specifically looked for some scientific data to back that up. Here’s what I found:

-Genetics–

Epigenetics play a big part in what makes someone an addict.

According to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, “children of addicts are 45% to 79% more likely” (NIAAA) to struggle with addiction compared to those with non-addicted parents. Research by the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA) explains that although this correlation may be due to environmental factors, such as exposure to adults abusing drugs and/or alcohol, epigenetics play a big role as well. Epigentics basically means DNA being changed because of environmental needs, or by the choices people make in life. For the sake of my argument, I’m focusing only on the latter reason for DNA to change. Researchers explain how epigenetics contribute to the making of an addict with this example: “…when a person, [for example,] uses cocaine, it can mark the DNA, increasing the production of proteins common in addiction” (NIDA). This marked DNA is then passed on to that person’s offspring, and voila, a new addict is born.

So, one reason I’m addicted to everything is because my father is also addicted to everything.

Cool…but what is it about addicts that makes us the way we are in the first place?

-Wiring-

CT Scans show less dopamine receptors in the brains of addicts versus those who are not addicted.

The brain is an incredible organ. Apparently, as an addict, it’s scientifically proven that my brain is wired differently than others’. I was born with a gene that makes me prone to addiction, but that doesn’t mean I was doomed to be an alcoholic. What activated it was when I put alcohol into my body for the first time.

When a person who is prone to addiction puts a drug into their body, the part of the brain that I’ll call the “pleasure center” goes haywire. The pleasure center of our brains is where dopamine is released, or in other words, one of the “happy hormones.” When we do positive things, our brain releases dopamine. This reaction exists to reward us for doing good things, like passing a final exam or helping your neighbors fix their sink. However, drugs make an addict’s “pleasure center” confused, because it releases way more dopamine than it normally would, giving us the biggest high ever…until it doesn’t. This is why addicts need more and more and more of everything, because nothing ever releases that BIG dopamine jolt like drugs do. Eventually, drugs become the main source of your “happy hormone” as your tolerance builds. The National Institute of Health explains, “these brain adaptations often lead to…becoming less and less able to derive pleasure from other things they once enjoyed, like food, sex, or social activities” (NIH). This explains why even if addicts are sober, they find themselves doing other things in excess.

Okay, this all makes sense! But why did I have to be one of the addicts that chose to start using in the first place?

-Mental Health-

People with mental health disorders are more likely to use drugs or alcohol to self-medicate.

Remember, the studies I referenced above did not say that children of addicts were 100% more likely to abuse drugs or alcohol; it stated that we are up to 79% more likely to do so. I just happened to be one of the “lucky” ones.

In my program, I’ve heard people describe someone they knew as “an alcoholic who never took the first drink.” We know that addicts are genetically predisposed to addiction. We also know that when an addict tries a drug, it kickstarts that addictive motor in their brains. But why feel the need to try drugs in the first place? This is where mental health plays its part.

Sometimes, people who battle mental health disorders such as depression, anxiety and bipolar disorder, “attempt to self-medicate with drugs and/or alcohol in an effort to numb the symptoms associated with their condition” (Lifeworks Rehab Surrey). So basically, if you’re born with that addiction switch in your brain, but you don’t suffer from mental health disorders, you won’t feel the need to ever flip that switch in the first place. However, you might still find yourself with an “addictive personality” because everything you do that releases your “happy hormone” pushes that switch just a little bit more toward the on-position each time you do it.

_______________________________________________________

I am capable of becoming addicted, obsessed, with anything and everything. My first year of sobriety was spent being absolutely addicted to Kraft Deluxe mac n cheese. I ate it almost everyday. This is not an exaggeration. My food jags extended to a few other things too. I went about 6 months or more eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Crunch Berries everyday. Then it was cookies and cream Pop-tarts. Then it was Oreos. Now it’s sparkling water and Diet Coke.

My phases of addiction do not only extend to food and drink, however. I’m also easily addicted to activities. Remember my crossword puzzle binge? Once I find joy in an activity, I constantly think about it and cannot stop doing it. “It’s normal to want to do things you enjoy all the time!” Yes, but there comes a point where it’s no longer a hobby and has become an obsession. There is a problem with anything you get addicted to, even if they are seen as harmless leisure activities. Leisure activities aren’t just for relaxation to an addict; they are an escape from what we see as our harsh reality. They are what send us into that desired dopamine high.

I’m still trying to figure out how to find balance in my life as an addict. It helps, though, knowing why I am the way that I am. I hope that any readers who struggle with addiction or who know other addicts can find some clarity in the fact that science proves we are not crazy. We are not careless. We are not ungrateful. We are not lazy.

We are addicts.

Works Cited:

  1. National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA) | National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA). (2021). Retrieved 12 February 2021, from https://www.niaaa.nih.gov/
  2. NIDA. 2019, August 5. Genetics and Epigenetics of Addiction DrugFacts. Retrieved from https://www.drugabuse.gov/publications/drugfacts/genetics-epigenetics-addiction on 2021, February 12
  3. NIH. 2018, June 6. Understanding Drug Use and Addiction DrugFacts. Retrieved from https://www.drugabuse.gov/publications/drugfacts/understanding-drug-use-addiction on 2021, February 12
  4. Why Are Some People More Prone to Addiction? | Lifeworks Rehab Surrey. (2021). Retrieved 12 February 2021, from https://www.lifeworkscommunity.com/blog/why-are-some-people-more-prone-to-addiction

Zoë CardinalLeave a comment

A Resident of the Island of Misfit Toys

All of my life, I’ve struggled to find my place. I’ve searched for it in people, music, literature and television series. And no matter how many times I have tried to change myself to fit the mold, I have never been one of the crowd. I am unsure if I ever will be, no matter how hard I try.

Growing up, I never knew I was “different” from my classmates, yet I was bullied relentlessly for every aspect of myself. I used to sit in my mother’s bed at night and cry about how people were mean to me and she didn’t have the answers for why they were. In middle school I tried to change who I was so I could make friends. I demanded that my mother buy my clothes from Aeropostale and Abercrombie. I thought that if I dressed like everyone else, I would no longer be mocked for my movie character t-shirts and flare JCPenney jeans. I got highlights in my hair, cut modest side bangs, and wore my makeup the same way that all of the other girls did. I thought that eliminating the target on my back of wearing different clothes would solve all of my problems. I kissed the butts of the cliques in power; I copied them; I was nice to everyone, and allowed myself to be a push over…but the bullying still continued.

By the time high school came around, I made new friends who accepted me for who I was. This is when I found my island of misfits toys. We were the girls and guys that didn’t have a place in the high school clique world. My group consisted of goth kids, emo kids, and LGBTQ+ kids. I started dressing like an emo girl and finally felt like I could express my inner-self on the outside. When the bullies came around, we were aggressive, mean, and hid behind a façade of “toughness.” If we were mean to them first, then they couldn’t possibly hurt our feelings.  I thought that lashing out at others made me tough on the inside as well as the outside, but in reality, I was covering up my wounds by pretending that I was anything but broken.

After I graduated high school, my misfit friends and I grew up. We were no longer over-the-top with our punk outward appearance. The wounds from high school healed. The pettiness of the clique-game and what you wore faded away. I dyed my hair blonde; I started wearing makeup that wasn’t thick, black eyeliner. I gained confidence and became secure in myself. But… I still don’t fit in.

Art by Haviland Cardinal

College life as an adult woman is weird to say the least. It is a mature version of high school, and although I no longer lash out at those who are different from me, I still find myself at a loss with fitting in. Organizations on campus are comprised of cliques. It has the guise of the real world: the better you work, the nicer you are, the more you get ahead. The reality of this assumption is flawed though. As a naturally extroverted person who treats everyone as a friend, it’s a hard reality to wrap my head around. My assumption of every person I meet is that they are kindhearted, motivated, and open to a friendship with me, because I’m open to a friendship with everyone I encounter. I view the world through my eyes only. With this naivety and skewed perspective, it is hard to understand how others view me and if I truly do have as many friends as I think I do.

I’m fortunate because I found my island of misfit toys early on. They’re my people– the ones who have my back during any type of trial I face. They love my enthusiastic approach toward life and my thought process that spews out in pages of length every time I talk, but the question still begs: Are the friends I have at university really and truly a part of my misfit island? Or will these friends be passing ships in the night, acquaintances with whom I keep in touch by sharing likes on Facebook and an occasional holiday card?  Do these connections make up a greater part of my life in the future, or am I still a misfit toy who will never win the popularity contest that is life?

The funny thing about the “real world” is that I still don’t understand it despite living here for 10+ years. I wonder if high school popularity contests are the glue that holds advancement in the real world together. It can’t possibly be true that the outcasts remain “losers” forever. My high school guidance counselor always told me that the real world was different, that I would find my niche and be able to climb the ladder to success. Yet so many advisors and professors tell me that it’s all about connections and networking. To get ahead, one must be able to win the popularity contest. If you aren’t popular, can you successfully navigate the dog-eat-dog world of networking and advancement?

I do not have the answers to these questions, because no matter how hard I try to be one of the crowd, I’ll always feel different. I’ll always feel that I have to try too hard to be accepted and loved for who I am. It’s entirely possible that everyone feels this way, and my experience is no different than the queen of the plastics. Maybe the condition of being human is feeling like an outcast, because we are all unique in so many ways. Individuality is the king in which we all try to battle. As a social creature this theory rings true. The only way to satisfy our desire of being in a clan means to morph into the conventional trend, because being accepted is the purest form of love.

I like to think that we all are trying to find our own island of misfit toys and that the search for uniformity is, at its core, a desperate reach to create a single island where everyone is alike and loved for being the same. But this desperate attempt goes against our very nature. At the tips of our fingers is our true identity: that of an individual. These are imprints that signify our character, which is one that is different from all the rest. There cannot be one island of toys where everyone is the same make, color, and function. Instead, there is beauty in the diverse ocean of Misfit World, one where our ships can travel to other islands but never feel truly at home except for when we find the toys that remind us of ourselves. Will I ever fit in with the large pool of what is deemed as popular? I think the answer is plainly obvious: no I will not… but neither will anybody else.

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