Author: Ginger McGee

I’ve been entertaining my shadow-self since I was 14. 38 years. The majority of my life. Seems like I would be used to it by now. But I’m not, and I hope I never will be.

As a matter of fact, the more complicated life gets (and we are on a roll lately), the more challenging it is for me to navigate my darker side.

No matter how many depressive episodes I’ve beaten, no matter how many self-help books I’ve read, no matter how much the how-to’s make sense it’s a different experience every time.

Recently, I reflected on my past in search of the thing(s) that triggered the beginning of my dark days,

Rather than being any one thing, it’s been more of a series of things paired with a chemical imbalance that kicks things up a notch.

The trauma that I think jump started this whole shadow business in the first place goes all the way back to 10-year-old me.

Trauma One: I had just gotten out of the hospital. A very rare tumor called a teratoma had formed in my mouth along the upper, front gum line preventing my adult tooth from coming in. (If you don’t know what a teratoma is, and you want to know what a teratoma is I’ll leave it up to you to click the link – there’s no reason to traumatize those who won’t be able to unsee it). Up until it was removed my parents had no idea if it was cancerous or not. It was benign.

Trauma Two: The same night I got out of the hospital, my dad went in. At the young age of 35 he had a massive heart attack. The doctors weren’t sure if he would survive, but he did. His cardiologist at the time said that he had “stolen my thunder”. I never got that thunder back. Over the next 10 years my dad was in and out of the hospital many, many times. I can remember sitting in school on several occasions just waiting to get called into the office for some very bad news. I was constantly worried about not being there if something happened.

Trauma Three: After his heart attack, my dad struggled to provide for us. It was devastating for him. As a coping mechanism, he began to drink. His sadness was palpable. I have to state this because I don’t want anyone thinking I lived in an abusive home with an alcoholic parent. It was never like that. My dad was just dealing with a pretty heavy reality at the time.

Over the years, as a result of financial hardship, there were times when our electricity would get cut off. Never for long though because my parents would always find a way to make extra money when needed. Even if it meant selling their wedding rings. I have no idea how they managed to send both my brother and I to private schools. It just goes to show you the determination my parents had. My brother and I always had what we needed, and more often than not, we had the things we wanted.

Trauma Four: Freshman year of high school after a good friend of mine remarked that It looked like I had put on weight over the summer, I decided to stop eating. After I lost the first 10 pounds the girls at my all-girl school began to take notice commenting on how great I looked. That comment started a war inside my mind. So, I kept going . I lost 30 pounds in less than 3 weeks, and gained my first label – anorexic. I went from 125 pounds at 5’4” to 95 pounds. 38 years later and I still struggle with body image issues.

Trauma Five: On October 16, 1985, the eve of my birthday, my father collapsed in the kitchen. As a YMCA CPR-certified counselor, I attempted to resuscitate him, but couldn’t remember how to do it. At the hospital we were told that my dad had died. I looked at the clock, it was midnight. It was my 19th birthday and my dad’s death day a week before his 46th birthday.

Trauma Six: Shortly after my dad died, I was diagnosed with a rare heart condition, Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome – in simple terms, I had an extra part on my heart that was causing severe bouts of tachycardia. Around the same time my first boyfriend (we had been dating about 5 months) broke up with me. Days later I tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose of the heart medicine I was prescribed. Fortunately, I got scared and immediately regretted it. Thank God for my brother and syrup of ipecac.

It comes in fits and starts now, the shadow me. Lately it’s been mostly starts. The world being on fire and my being an empath is a recipe for a breakdown. And I did. Breakdown. And I am breaking down daily. I am unstable.

You might think that after 38 years of dealing with depression, I’d be a bit more in control. That’s the story I’ve been telling myself – that I should be better. That I should be in control because, after all, I am on two anti-depressants. But depression doesn’t always follow the rules.

It’s a horrible feeling – the sense that in some way I am broken, that my brain is just wrong. Me, the mom who wrote He’s Not Broken. How can I teach my son that, yet tell myself a different story? Where’s the logic in that?

Hint: It’s nowhere to be found because it’s neither fair, nor true.

I’ve been on meds for Generalized Anxiety Disorder (I don’t like to choose what things to worry about…I just like to worry about them all), and Major Depressive Disorder since I was 30. That’s 22 years of medication. Medications that have had to be tweaked over the years many times.

I fought the meds. Didn’t want to be one of those people. But the truth is, I am one of those people.

One of those people who hasn’t given up.
One of those people who needs a little help.
One of those people who refuses to admit defeat again.
One of those people who deserves to see the colors like everyone else.

What I hope to achieve with this post is not sympathy. I’m looking for understanding. But not for me, for others. Before today, many of you didn’t know about my past struggles. Before today if you might have been quick to think “what’s her problem? She has everything and yet she’s still not happy.”

Yes, I “have it all” – a beautiful home, a loving family, and everything I need, along with many things I don’t need. But depression is not satisfied with things…ever.
Depression is a swift thief that robs you of the ability to feel joy. Even when “you have it all”.

All of this is to say when you encounter a person who is rude, or distant,or whose emotions seem unjustified in some way remember this:

You have no idea what trauma(s) they might be carrying around. You don’t know them. You don’t know their past. Or their present. So there’s only one way to respond to them. And that is with kindness. It’s as simple as that.

Be kind.
When someone is rude, respond with kindness.
When someone is angry, respond with kindness.

More often than not their actions are not about you. You get to choose how you react to them. So choose kindness in every interaction you have today. This world really needs that right now.

Peace and love,Ginger

Many of you know that I have battled with depression and anxiety for the majority of my time on this planet. And many of you know that I have always been open about my struggles in hopes that my story might help someone. So here I go again.

Like it or not, it’s back. That rabbit hole that is the dynamic duo, anxiety and depression. If it rained every time I had a dark cloud looming over me, I’d have drowned years ago. But I haven’t, and that’s largely, if not solely, because of medication.

I know that some people pursue a more natural path, and I’m all for that, believe me. I don’t enjoy taking medication. But I also don’t enjoy entertaining thoughts of taking my own life. Which, don’t worry, I haven’t thought of in decades. However, I can’t honestly say that sans medication I wouldn’t go down that desperate path. And, understatement of the century, it’s an awful place to be.

Not many people know that when I was 19, I tried to let go. My father had recently died (on my 19th birthday), and I had just gone through a break-up with my first “real” boyfriend. Yes, I was a late bloomer. On top of that I had just been diagnosed with Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome (essentially I had an extra part on my heart – makes sense considering my feelings have always been too big for me).

My diagnosis, at the time, required me to be put on some sort of heart medication. Oh, I forgot to mention that my dad died from heart problems. Talk about added stress. So one day, when I was home alone in the depressing, run-down home (no central air, just a window units in my bedroom with cardboard taped around it) that my mom and I had to move to after my dad died, I decided that I couldn’t stand the pain any longer.

I poured a generous handful of the heart medicine into my palm and washed them down with water. I sat down to wait for the peace to come. As I sat there my brain kicked into survival mode. What are you doing? Are you going to leave your mom alone? You have so much left to do. Think about all the pain you will cause.

And I started crying. Ugly crying. I grabbed the phone book (yes, I’m that old!) and ran my finger down the emergency numbers located in the front. Poison Control. And the call played out exactly as you might imagine.

Poison Control, how can I help you?

What would happen if someone took too much XX?

clickclackclickclack

You need to get to the ER immediately.

Oh, it’s not for me. Just for a friend. Click

I immediately called my brother to tell him what I did. In no time at all he was at the house. Fortunately, he and his wife shared a home with another young couple, one of whom was a nurse. We got there and Mike the Nurse gave me syrup of Ipecac, and it quickly emptied my stomach.

They watched me closely, but I was fine because I had acted so quickly. Because I was young and resilient I bounced back.

The older I got, the harder it was to “bounce back”. That’s when I finally had to give in and take the advice of the doctor who prescribed my first anti-depressant, Wellbutrin. It finally came to pass that my perfect “cocktail” was Wellbutrin with a side of Effexor. And with those the color returned to my world, at least temporarily.

Stay tuned for Part Two of Here I Go Again where I discuss my worst depressive episode to date and how I survived.

We all have goals we hope to accomplish, both personal and professional. No one is exempt from this desire. For some it may be as simple as wanting to do well in school, or wanting to be a good parent. Others might have loftier goals – goals that require circumstances to align in the perfect way. Unfortunately, in most cases, the planets will not align accordingly, and Source will not give you a golden ticket. No, it’s a lot , and equal simpler, and equally more complicated than that.

The bottom line that differentiates the whiners from the winners has nothing to do with luck. It has to do with attitude, as in how badly do you want it, and how uncomfortable are you willing to feel. Yes, we all have things we hope for, but as Ms. Dickinson so eloquently pointed out, “hope is the thing with feathers“. And I’m here to tell you that bird will fly right out the window if you let it.

Hope is beautiful. Hope gives us something to hold onto, something to believe in. But hope alone isn’t going to get the job done. You can hope to accomplish something one day, but that day will be a long time coming until you decide that you want to accomplish that same thing. The success is in the wanting, not the hoping.

Hope will get your dreams in the door. But that door will slam shut and lock on the inside unless you rip it off its hinges with a bit of muscle and pluck. But what if I get a splinter? Well, yeah, you might. In fact, truth be told, you’ll most likely get more than one; in which case, you pull those splinters out and get back to work. Because remember way back when you decided that this was something that you wanted? Are you really going to give up that easily?

What if I fail? Again, that is a very good possibility – failure. But failing, much like falling, only requires that you pick yourself back up again. No, it doesn’t feel good, but sitting in a room looking at a locked door with your dream on the other side doesn’t feel good either. Scrapes heal, but regret is insidious, and is a slow leak of unhappiness that will infiltrate and sabotage future wants. Playing it safe might ensure that you don’t fail short-term, but it will definitely ensure that you fail big-time in the long run.

Naysayers will tell you that just because you want something doesn’t mean you will get it. Wanting doesn’t guarantee success. And I agree. But what the naysayers, giver-uppers, and lifetime hopers choose to ignore is something that Mr. Jagger in all of his big-lipped, rock and roll glory told us a long time ago – you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.

Chew on that bit of pop-culture wisdom. I’ve talked about hopes and wants and then along comes this little thing called need. Like sticky-fingered children who need that extra hit of high-fructose corn syrup, we often allow our wants to get confused with our needs and vice-versa. Despite our absolute belief that we do, in fact, need to have the latest greatest, bestest and hippest whatever that just came rolling off the assembly line, we won’t always get it. And you know what? We manage to survive – even live and prosper. And why is that? Because whatever that thing was it was a want, not a need.

Semantics, you say? Nope, nope, nope, all my nopes. We are so full of shit as a consumeristic society. So caught up in the I need, I need, I need chant of conspicuous consumption that we have forgotten how to tell the difference between wants and needs – between wishing and hoping and thinking and praying; planning and dreaming each night – well you get the idea.

But sometimes in a moment of clarity, a moment of, what might seem to be nothing more than serendipity, the Universe smacks us on our third eye and shows us what we need, what we really, really need. That doesn’t mean we’ll get it because the Universe doesn’t work alone. You have to do your part. You have to want the need to get the need.

The Spice Girls, it seems were channeling the voice of The Universe when they sang, “tell me what you want, what you really, really want”. I’m a firm believer that if you put it out there, it being the thing you want, and you do your part, the part that involves the not-just-hoping, then the Universe will have your back.

So what do you want, and are you willing to do your part to get it?

I just did my first poetry reading last night at Eddie’s Attic in Atlanta alongside the amazing Sabrina Benaim and Clementine vonRadics. How awesome is that?!

Just wanted to thank everyone who stopped me to say hi. I never expected my poems to touch so many people.

Stay tuned to this page. I plan on being more active here.

Thanks again. Last night was easily one of the best nights of my life.