On Being Self Aware


I noticed that the last blog post I wrote garnered a decent amount of attention. It had a lot of views and shares, which, as a young writer, I like…but, I mostly noticed that a lot of people thought what I wrote was sad. And it was, I agree. I didn’t 100% intend for it to be that way- but something that I pride myself on is that I can speak to people in a relatable way, so if it evoked feelings of sadness in others that’s okay.

What I don’t really often write about is that I do struggle with depression. It’s been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. A few people in my family have lived with it as well. It’s made me really sad (obviously), really angry, really confused, and I’ve often found myself facing challenges that I don’t too often see my peers dealing with.

I don’t want to make excuses for myself or my behavior, but I do, a lot. I mean that last post was basically just me bitching about how busy I am and barely taking accountability for anything. I think one of the biggest issues I’ve faced with depression was trying to pretend like I didn’t have it. In one way, this is good, the same way it’s good to not act like you have a stubbed toe because you’ll end up just banging it on more shit. But it’s mostly bad; I think any human being knows that bottling up problems and never discussing them fuels bigger problems, and ultimately greater versions of sadness and anger.

One big problem I created by ignoring my depression and writing blogs about literally everything else, is that I find it very difficult to figure out why I’m upset. Or angry. Or hurt. Or just anything other than happy. I want to automatically say that I’m too busy, or I’m too tired, or I’m too poor, or my husband doesn’t pay attention to me enough, or my cat is annoying. While some of those things are true, it doesn’t change the fact that I am me.

It’s been over a month since I’ve done yoga, gone on a walk, read a book, or written anything besides that last “sad” blog. It’s easy to say you want to be a better person. It’s super easy to want things. I was (am) not making active, present changes to be a good employee, wife, daughter, or person.

I don’t really like being preachy, and I definitely am not an expert on…anything. But I just want to say that as much as I love being funny and sassy and sarcastic, I would much rather be helpful, and truthful. I spent most of the day today crying and feeling like I let a lot of people down. But I came home and sat on my un-made bed and my little cat Mia ran in and sat next to me. She curled up right on my lap and purred and purred and purred. I didn’t even feed her today. I think Mia knows I only care about myself. But maybe she knows I’m trying not to. I want whoever reads this to know that you are worthy of love, and comfort, and happiness and belonging, even if that seems impossible sometimes.

And if you don’t have a fluffy kitty, or a way-too understanding husband to remind you of that, I will. I would be happy to do that for you.






I’m sitting in my bedroom in my apartment. A bedroom I pay over $700 a month of my own money for. From a job I could only have because of my four years of college education, costing upwards of $57,000, which I pay off every month. From my paycheck. My room is a terrible mess, the floor is covered with dirty clothes, shoes, the shelves cluttered with trash, wine glasses, etc. I’m on my third IPA and I have to be at work at 8 am. As soon as I’m off at 4:30, I will change my clothes on the freeway and attempt to put make up on at each red light to get to my bar job at 5. I’ll probably get cut around 1:30 am and then do it all again tomorrow.

When I was a full time student (18 units each semester) at San Francisco State, I worked 4 days at a whiskey bar. I’d be at class from 8-4 ish and work at the bar from 6-12 am. The bar was closed on Mondays and I only had one class that day so I’d consider that my day off. I walked out of that school with 3.7 GPA and bank account that was never over-drafted. Don’t get me wrong, I’d lay in the fetal position more than I’d care to admit, crying, freaked out, my  body and mind so exhausted and run thin I never thought I’d make it through. I remember telling my 20 year old self that it will never be this hard again.

Now that I’m 25 and a wife and preparing for graduate school with a full time day job and a bar gig on the side I realize, of course, that I was wrong. My husband likes to tell me that once we’ve settled into a home we love it will get easier. Once the holidays are over it will get easier, as soon as….once…when…eventually…etc. What I’ve realized, is that it never gets easier. It just gets different kinds of hard.

It is very easy for me to look at my life and see nothing but a list of failures. The numerous ways I’ve managed to let others and myself down. The hundreds and thousands of milliseconds I somehow played wrong, the opportunities I didn’t take, the future me that I just didn’t know well enough yet, that has brought me to this place of discontent.

I can’t even count that amount of adults who are baffled that I’ve managed to find a career in my field of study already. That my student debt is under $80,000. That I’ve only maxed out a few credit cards. To many, in 2015, these are accomplishments. But in the bright light of the first of November, I found myself pulling my hair at the roots holding back tears thinking: there is no way that this is my life. 

I am extremely aware of that fact that there are people with problems like health concerns, and poverty, and you know, real things. But this blog is not for that kind of content, and I’m not going to apologize for my circumstantial troubles.

I am a first born child. An over achiever of the worst variety. A workaholic. A Gemini. A competitive female who lives to prove people wrong. I’ve all but created a persona of the most fearless, confident, 5 foot tall resting bitch faced queen who has nothing to show for it but a piece of paper in a $5 frame from Michael’s. So here I am. In bed, half drunk, in debt, crying about the life I thought I’d have.

I’ve spoken to many people that are right where I am. Who are even more that what I am. Mothers, wives, ex-military, divorcees, who are still trying to figure it out. Who keep telling me it will be okay. Or at least some version of okay. I am not special, I am not unique. I am not the first 25 year old girl to bust her ass in college, get married, work a bunch of shitty hospitality jobs and cry a few nights a week in the employee bathroom. I’m not proud of where I’m at, per se, but I’m alright with it.

When my mom found out she was pregnant with me at 25 (my current age) my 29 year old dad got a paper route. Just to make sure we were alright. I don’t want to have debt. I don’t want to work till 1 am. I don’t want to be crabby, and tired, and malnourished, and drinking every night. I don’t want to be a bad wife, a bad daughter, a bad person. I just want to not worry. Much like the shock that plagued me when I found out you poop while you give birth, I did not know what would be in store for me as an adult. I thought the challenges were behind me. I truly thought it would get easier.

Guess what, Mom and Dad? I made it. I’m a grown up.