Nothing of substance today, so here’s a picture of my awesome Vincent Price shirt:
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I am going to say this upfront: I am a black woman and I have depression. I am in therapy and I am on medication, but I have depression. It’s not something that I’m ashamed about. I freely talk about it; my depression, my postpartum, my mental health are all a part of me and I see no reason to hide it. I understand why some people do. You never know who around you has it or who around you is having a tough time, which is why people should speak with care when talking about mental health.
I do not work with people who speak with care.
Co-worker 1 (who is black) this morning mentioned something about Wayne Brady opening up about his depression. I said I thought it was very brave of him to admit something like that publicly. Co-worker 2 (who is a white dude) loudly stated that he wasn’t brave for that at all. I tried to explain that of course it was brave, that there is a stigma in the black community about mental health issues, especially depression.
Co-worker 2 White Opinioned his way over everything I was saying.
I explained to Co-worker 1 (Co-worker 2 who, after asking Co-worker 3 if there was such a stigma in the black community–Co-worker 3 is Filipino, ignored my explanations and continued about his day. Which he should have done in the first fucking place) that I had depression and I admired what Wayne Brady did. She agreed with me in the end and I felt I wasn’t losing my mind. But now at home, typing this up and thinking about it again, this is how I feel:
Some days I think Wednesday has the right idea.
I really need to plan these posts out ahead of time. Otherwise I come home from work, take care of the family, and then I don’t really want to do anything else other than lay on the couch and play The Sims 3. This also includes feeding myself. I love food, I love to eat, I even love to cook…as long as it’s for other people. Feeding myself when I’m alone is a chore I’d rather not do. I’m not sure when this change shifted in me because I used to not be like that.
It doesn’t help that I’m single-moming it right now while my husband works in another state. It’s taking all of my energy to care for our son and work and at the end of the day, my energy levels are so low. I’m taking care of myself as best I can, but I’ll be honest that I’m not doing that great of a job.
I need a wife of my own to help me take care of myself. Or a mom, since mine lives in another state.
I am trying to blog every day in the month of November, so odds are that not every post is going to be deep and substantive. This is one of those posts.
One of the grocery stores near me has been doubling down on the Asian foodstuffs. I’m not complaining at all; I’m glad the selection is expanding beyond Pocky and Botan Rice candy (though I love both and they take me back to my childhood).
Cruising through the frozen food section this evening, I saw they had steamed red bean buns. I about near did a dance right there in the aisle. One of the many, many, many things I miss about Japan is red bean everything. Red bean ice cream is my favorite, but steamed buns come pretty close. I just had 2. There are 6 total in the pack. I’m trying not to eat the other 4 tonight. It’s very hard. I may go heat up a 3rd.
Between that and another store close by me selling onigiri, I’m almost in Japanese food heaven. If I could find a place in town that sold peach Chu-hi, I’d probably think I died and gone to heaven.
Blowing from the west
Fallen leaves gather
In the east.
Today is All Souls’ Day, a day foe prayer and remembrance of loved ones who have died. I’m not Catholic or religious in the traditional sense, but on this day I can’t help but think of my friend Neil.
Neil died March 15/16 of this year. He lived in Japan, hence the double date as I’m not sure which date is correct. We met 13 years ago while studying at the Nagoya University of Foreign Studies. Neil was one of the older students in our dorm and he took on an avuncular role towards many of us twenty-somethings. I say avuncular rather than fatherly because Neil would’ve been the fun but highly inappropriate uncle at Thanksgiving dinner that your mother would warn you about.
My first night in Nagoya, fresh off the plane (and full of aviary adventures I’ll probably relate in another post), was spent in a tiny Karaoke bar not far from the dorm–an event all organized by Neil. There we were, students from all over–Americans, Brits, Aussies, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese–drunkenly singing “Ghostbusters” by Ray Parker, Jr. Neil was that kind of guy. He brought people together.
He also saved my life.
Although I loved Japan, I was having a difficult time. I think this is when my depression first started to manifest itself. I was drinking more often than was normal for me, or even for someone my age probably (the legal drinking age in Japan is 20). I remember one night sitting down in our outside eating area, my microwave dinner in one hand and a small bottle of Jim Beam in the other. I think it may have been a Tuesday. Neil was also out there, smoking a cigarette. He looked at me, saw what I had and asked me if I was sure that’s what I wanted to do. At the time I said “of course,” but I ended up taking a good long look at how I was turning out because of that question. He was the only one to notice something wasn’t right with me and that simple question was enough for me to turn inward.
I never got the chance to tell him in person how much he meant to me. He ended up going back to Japan after graduating and I stayed in the States to graduate and start my life. We reconnected when Facebook hit the Internet, but even then I never did tell him how much that moment between us changed my life. I guess I always thought there’d be more time. I wanted to take my husband to Japan, have him meet Neil, and tell Neil exactly how I felt. Now that will never happen.
Neil, my friend, I love you and miss you every day. The world has a little less sparkle in it now that you’re gone. I know you’re telling randy jokes to angels, but I wish you were here telling them to me.
To say that I was happier with October’s Horror Block than I was with September’s is probably the understatement of the year. I gave the “Eddie” mask to a coworker who is a big Iron Maiden fan; she was over the moon about it. I’m still washing the shirts to get the latex smell out of them.
So let’s dive into October’s box, shall we?
Looks pretty good. Let’s dig a little deeper.
November’s issue of Fangoria with an interview with Wes Craven, a Build Your Own Zombie kit, and a box of Cereal Killers Sticker Cards. I’m excited to read the magazine; I don’t think I’ve ever read Fangoria before (cue the gasps). I’m not sure if I’m going to break out the zombie kit. It’s just two tubs of not-quite-Play-Doh and unless I take it to work, I have nowhere in the house to display my masterpiece where a 2 year old won’t grab it.
These kind of remind me of the Garbage Pail Kids stickers that were popular when I was a kid. Of course back then my mom wouldn’t let me have any Garbage Pail Kids stickers, so I had to live vicariously through my friends.
Opening the two sticker packs inside confirmed my thoughts.
The cards have neat stuff on the back along with a checklist to make sure you collect them all. I’d be likely to seek more of these out because they are pretty clever.
Pretty sweet Friday the 13th shirt. My very first!
I was really excited to see a movie in this month’s box until I saw it was in Blu-ray format. I don’t have a blu-ray player, nor do I plan on getting one for one movie. This kind of annoys me a bit. While it’s awesome to get a surprise box every month, it’s not awesome to get something I can’t use that I paid for. The mask was one thing–I could have kept it if I wanted, even if I didn’t know who Eddie was. I wish there had been an option when I signed up to choose either DVD or Blu-ray for my movie choice. But I’m giving this one away to @GraveyardSister who I know will enjoy it.
I beg to differ, ReAction Figures.