notageek

Not me cup o’ tea. Wyvern owes me.

Poll: why are my parents not in their hotel room?

Like I said, Wyvern’s parents are Mormon, and his brother is a year older than me, which means he’s just back from the middle of nowhere where he tried to convince people that his religion is better than theirs. Otherwise, he seems like a pretty nice guy.

Oh right, the church review. I didn’t like it. I’m not much for church anyway, but it rubbed me more wrong than most. Since Wyvern went until he was 18 he wished to avoid any ward members that might have recognized him, so we sat way in back on folding chairs. Noisy children. Many people who look like my Midwestern grandparents. Nothing surprising there. No crucifix or anything up in front.

Much administrivia. “Callings” and formal releasings and stuff. No actual sermon like the Methodist services I’ve been to, just a bunch of people talking: the bishop, some random young guy, Wyvern’s mom and brother.

So why did I feel sick? Why was the blood so loud in my ears? Why did we run out afterwards and throw up when we got home?

It could have been the young guy, who quoted Paul’s bit about man the head of woman, Christ the head of man in a piece about teaching in the home. It could have been that Wyvern’s brother stumbled and said we all–every male who holds the priesthood. It could have been the bishop who said he would pray for the strayed lambs to be guided back to the flock.

It could have just been the general churchiness of it all. Church has never been my thing.

And my parents are not at the number they gave me. Damnit. We drive all the way back from Wyvern’s parents’ house and my family is in town but not where I can find them.

*shakes it like ‘nique*. You think it might be?
Much rambling about depression inside.

Poll: do your SO’s parents keep giving you annoying literature?

A very good thing to do, when people are giving you destructive advice, is to ignore them, sometimes to tell them to fuck off and mind their own business.

So here I am last September, packed and about to leave for school in CA, and my boyfriend’s mum bestows a brand-new hardcover copy of There’s a Spiritual Solution to Everything upon me. No matter how much I read this damn book, I am irritated by the title, which reminds me of another irritating title–Depression is a Choice. She has obviously given me this book because I’ve been struggling with depression, and the idea that I just need to be more “spiritual” to be able to function normally again pisses me off no end. This woman is a counselour, an MA of psychology and my boyfriend’s mother, though, so I keep trying.

One day I have an acute depressive episodes, call Parid, who calms me down and hands me to his mom, who tells me I haven’t given my antidepressants a chance and I should try it out for an entire year. This woman has obviously never been on SSRIs.

I stop my Prozac. I walk out on the doc who tells me depression “is my curse”. I break up with Parid, move back to CA anyway. And when I am cleaning out my dorm room I pick SStE, stare at it, and chuck it in the recycling.

I am not depressed because I haven’t tried enough, or because I am too far from god, or heaven forbid, because I eat onions too often. This is something I can affect but not control, and if you think you prayed yourself better then you were depressed in a very different way than I am. I am getting better. It is not because I listened to anyone else. It is because I finally got fed up and listened to myself again.