mizChartreuse || redefiningSuccess

“…sits on the edge of her possible glory and basks in the adulation of her potential.”

I found this piece of artwork at A Beautiful Revolution. Andre Jordan’s website started as a collection of doodles about mental health and the like, which eventually turned into a book deal. The first book was a collaboration of the artwork:

And the second book deal was a memoir.

Writes Jordan:

“in 2005 I was depressed. Suicidal. I went to a therapist. I began writing a beautiful revolution.  In 2006 an agent approached me…and my doodles became the book…

I used to think you needed to see it, to believe it.

But now I realize that to see it, you must first believe it.

Everything is possible. Everything is possible.”

Yesterday I wrote about my bff Angelique, the pursuit of happiness, and how I love my life. I do. I have no (legitimate) complaints (other than wanting a bigger closet, but I digress). But I am not always happy, and I’m okay with that. Besides, I’m a Gemini, and we change our minds like Chicago changes weather.

So fuck it. Yesterday’s topic was happiness, today’s is about the opposite.

I can be “Possibility Girl” sometimes. Whatever, dude. Actually, I love myself and think I’m pretty fucking awesome–but for real, it disgusts me to think about my occasional mind games.

But let’s back the truth trolley up a bit here.

I am the eternal optimist. I don’t get mad or upset easily; I’m no drama queen (although my boyfriend probably has a different opinion–but hey, he chose to date me).  ;) I talk about potential and synchronicity and living life to the fullest and making things happen and embracing your emotions all the time–and I believe it! It’s true! I’m a generally happy, positive person.

But, in true Gemini duality form, sometimes the other twin surfaces, and I am not happy. But astrological tendencies aside, being on the lower end of the happiness scale is normal from time to time. Right? Can anyone really expect everyone to be happy ALL THE TIME?

This past winter, I said “fuck it” again. I was frustrated with myself, due to me putting undue pressure on myself at all times, which was only met with anxiety, which was met with more pressure, and so on.

We all have our positive and negative traits. I know my strengths, but my weaknesses were starting to win. To boot, Chicago winters make things worse. It’s kind of hard for me to be joyful when I’m in six layers of clothing, digging out my car from a parking space (that I KNOW some hood rat is going to take) for two+ hours with a useless plastic shovel in sub-zero temperatures.

I felt it was a concentration issue. I’ll be the first to admit my dependency on silly social media and the Internet, which are great in moderation, but can be incredible time wasters/productivity killers. Why can’t I just concentrate on writing this piece? I’d beat myself up relentlessly on not working on my book, or editing a web page, or clearing up whatever I had on my plate without seeing who was Tweeting what when and what crap some Facebook friend had to say about her relationship or dog. Urgh.

A friend gave me a little Adderall tablet one afternoon, and I was amazed at how much work I accomplished in one afternoon. Placebo effect, pharmaceutical magic, whatever–I saw results! On paper! –er, well, on the laptop screen.

My same friend also told me about a chain of Chicagoland health facilities that worked with patients based on a sliding scale of their income. Hallelujah! I had found a way after stuggling for so long. Due to my lack of health insurance, there really was no other viable healthcare option for me (of which I was aware). I called and made an appointment, filled out the paperwork in the waiting room, paid my office visit fee, and waited for the doctor.

“Who diagnosed you with ADD?” the doctor asked, looking over the papers that indicated I was hoping to correct a concentration problem.

“Nobody,” I told her. “I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, but I think that’s my issue.”

“Hmm,” she asked me a few questions about my waking and sleeping habits. I got scared. Shit, do I have to convince her I have ADD? I wondered. I just want more Adderall!

“Fill out this questionnaire,” she said as she handed me a form.

Depression Test, it read across the top in a disjointed, photocopied-many-times type of way. Nice. Uh, can’t I just get an Rx for Adderol and call it a day?

I circled the numbers, 1-5, which corresponded with “never” through “always.” The degrees of “rarely,” “sometimes” and “often” were in the middle (if I remember correctly). I scored up my shit, turned the page over, and was a little disturbed to see that my scores were fairly high. Turning the page back to the front, I re-evaluated my answers. Well, maybe it’s not  OFTEN that I feel that way. I’ll change it to SOMETIMES.

After toying with the stupid survey for a couple minutes, my scratched-up, scribbled-out, changed-mind results still indicated moderate to high forms of a number of disorders; post-partum depression obviously not being one of them. Cyclothymia and seasonal affective disorder held the highest scores [it's kind of intense to see any sort of test result say EXTREMELY HIGH], followed by moderate bipolar/depressive disorder scores.

Cute, I thought. Looks like my mother was right about me ‘turning out’ like my dad!

To be continued…