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Danika Dinsmore

Author / Educator / Activist

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aw... poop

Depression is the New Black

January 16, 2015 by Danika 15 Comments

Happy New Year.

It’s half-way through January, and I still don’t feel like I’ve landed in 2015.

I was late to the party. I don’t know what the rest of the world was up to over the holidays and transition into the new year, but I was deep undercover. I mean literally under my covers, not eating, shuffling around like a zombie, and then alternating between uncontrollable anger and despair. My condition might have been a side-effect of inflammation combined with “perimenopausal rage.” It might have been S.A.D. and a disconnection from Spirit… or any combination of the above. At the time, it didn’t matter. I was in the relentless grip of the “Grenade Monster” (launching its violent attack upon me and my world).

Almost every person I have ever known has suffered from some form of depression. There’s the ebb and flow of life, difficult spiritual growth spurts that I believe are a healthy part of being alive and human. I’ve heard others speak of a one-time extended “dark night of the soul.” For some, it’s a challenging recurring pattern over their entire lives, causing much suffering for them and their loved ones. Generally, the Grenade Monster shows up for me every few years or so, gifting me with some form of epiphany afterwards.

This book would never have been written if it weren’t for the following: Sleeplessness, Self-Doubt, Depression, and Anxiety. So, thank you demons. You guys are the greatest!

~from inside of Andrew Smith’s 100 SIDEWAYS MILES

Those familiar with deep depression know that there’s no way to think oneself out of it. Even when you recognize your thoughts as completely illogical. The Grenade Monster is a bully and a liar and feeds on our deepest triggers, twisting other people’s words and intensions.

I’m generally known as an optimistic person. I’ve been called the “Sunshine” on many occasions. I have attended so many personal development workshops, read dozens of self-help books, and have quite the stash of tools. And yet, in the grip of the Grenade Monster, I couldn’t use any of them. I didn’t even want to use any of them. The Monster launched “shut the f*** up” Grenades at anyone offering advice. Compassion for self and others completely shut down. I decided at one point I was going to buy a used car and move to Nelson, BC where no one knew me and no one could find me.

My husband (a leadership skills development specialist) was a great person to have around. During one of my crying jags he told me, “I’m just going to let you feel what you’re feeling, and you can tell me if you need any kind of support.” He didn’t get caught up in my drama; he didn’t try to fix me. I could cry and rant and rave, or hide away from the world, without judgement or chastisement. So, I cocooned myself inside my depression, refusing to leave. I didn’t want to let go of it, because (as silly as it seems now) I was afraid if I did, I wouldn’t have anything left.

Yet . . . even though it was painful, even though my thoughts were dark and twisted, even though in the throes of it I couldn’t remember what Sunshine felt like, and it felt impossible to find it again – somewhere deep inside I knew it was all temporary. I knew I’d eventually get out the other side to a better space. When I started to see some light, I told one of my friends, “I better have one huge friggin’ epiphany after this one. I’ve earned it.”

How did I manage it? To stay in the world, I forced myself to pick one small thing to do every day. One day I sent a query (that was a big day), one day I put some pads on a door that was slamming into a wall, one day I did laundry. It was as much as I expected myself to do. The important thing was that I allowed myself to feel what I needed to feel without adding guilt or shame on top of it. What would be the point of that?

My first two trips outside were not pretty. I was a balloon blown up so tight that anything even grazing me could make me burst. The first time out a woman closed a door in my face and I burst into tears.

Depression Balloon

On my third trip out into the world, I concentrated on my breathing to try to get away from the Maze of voices in my head. I started paying attention to my body, how my arms and legs were moving as I breathed. Eventually, I began to share with my friends where I had been and began to listen to others – seeing their suggestions as loving gifts that I could at least consider. Or seeing my friends as simply parts of me reminding me how to take care of myself.

I AM GRATEFUL FOR JELLO

Several years ago I had a friend with whom I shared a private “gratitude” blog. Every night we’d try to post 5 things we were grateful for. We were both in pretty bad financial straights at the time, and we used it to stay positive. My friend was in far worse shape than I. She had this knack for getting into bizarre situations. At one point she didn’t have money for rent, so she decided to risk the small amount she had at the casinos. She won several thousand dollars, only to have it stolen from her within hours. She had to move to a cheaper place, but the movers demanded more than they quoted, and when she couldn’t pay, they kidnapped all her belongings.

In her new place she had nothing in her cupboards but a package of dried spaghetti and a box of jello. She ate the spaghetti the first night. The next night in our online gratitude journal all she wrote was: I AM GRATEFUL FOR JELLO. It made us both laugh and cry.

My friend Rev. Angelica also keeps a regular gratitude journal. One time she told me that no matter how depressed she gets, she can always write in her gratitude journal: I am grateful for my cat.

Half-way through my depression, I was curled up under my blankets, despondent, and Frederico Suave snuggled up against my legs. I remembered what Angelica had said, and I began to chant: I am grateful for my cat. I am grateful for my cat. I am grateful for my cat. Over time this became, I am grateful for all cats. And then, I am grateful for animals in general, they’re awesome. And since my husband had been especially awesome, I started being grateful for him too (he jokes now that he falls two below cats, but I think Freddy would probably agree).

Odd Cat
This is what cattitude looks like.

 


YOUR ASSIGNMENT

There is a surprising amount of power in gratitude. Really feeling it from the heart and expressing it on a daily basis is a surprisingly simple thing you can do if in a dark cloud. If you’re in the middle of a truly debilitating depression, you might not be able to get there at all. It took me several days to even get to my “cat gratitudes.” But, if you’re open to it, give it a try. Whether in the grip of the Monster or not.

 

Want to read more?

Many other folks on the interwebs have blogged about depression:

Libba Bray’s fantastic post about an 8-month struggle with The Monster

Wait, But Why (This post is about procrastination – but they are so connected for me)

Hyperbole and a Half – brilliant, humorous, profound

The Bloggess

Moms Who Drink and Swear on how Depression is different for everybody

 

 

*Tell me of any others you found helpful and I’ll add them to the list!

Filed Under: Archived Blog, aw... poop, writing life Tagged With: depression, monster, perimenopausal rage

RIP Poetry Angel: for Marty Kruse

March 30, 2012 by openchannel 11 Comments

I’ve been avoiding my blog because I don’t know what to say. The usual stuff has been superseded by a friend’s death. My throat hurts when I try to speak. I’ve been floating around my day in a sad happy sad.

Life is so amazing right now. I’m living my dream. And yet, underneath it all is a current of sadness for friends and family lost. Each new one reminds me of the others until I go all the way down the line to a boy from my high school who died of cancer. JD was the first friend of mine to die. We had barely graduated.

My Seattle poetry posse has lost a second member. Both to cancer. The first was poet and videographer Gabrielle Bouliane. A few days ago, we lost dear poetry angel, Marty Kruse. He was the kind of guy who would literally give you the shirt off his back. Or the shoes from his feet. He did all the books and merch for our poetry events, and selflessly helped out the community in any way he could. He was an organizer, a rabblerouser, and a big softie at heart.

He and Gabrielle were friends and the three of us were friends and we all ran around in the same circle of friends. It seems like the Seattle Poetry Scene circa 1993-2003 should have a name – the SOMETHING decade – because it feels like a piece of history. For those of you who were there, you know what I’m talking about. Maybe it starts earlier than that, but around 2003 many of us evacuated the area or started other lives.

But we’ve always remained connected. They were formative years. Creative and dramatic. We wrote and performed poetry with and for and through and against each other. A dysfunctional family that loved each member for the part he or she played in it all. We’d seen each other at our best, and seen each other at our worst. We loved each other because of, not in spite of.

When we lose someone, it reverberates through all of us and we are once again connected to and through that scene.

That’s how I’ve always felt, at least. And then I saw this lovely note from Marty himself. He must have written it years ago. This was posted by his friend Marie on a FB page of “Marty Stories.” It’s his entry in her junior high graduation book.

Life is just too short for anyone in our circle of friends. In the event that, God forbid, that any of us depart, we shall not perform the same way. Our circle is unbreakable.

I guess he’s always been the kind of guy to connect a circle of friends.

Marty, man, cheers to you. You done real good.

(and if you ever need a motivational kick in the ass, watch Gabrielle Bouliane’s last live reading. yeah.)

Filed Under: Archived Blog, aw... poop, truth and beauty Tagged With: marty kruse, seattle poetry

Mid-Week Mourning Poem (for Victor Gato)

July 6, 2011 by openchannel 3 Comments

If you are new here, hi, hello. I generally leave a weekend writing exercise at the end of the week and post a new piece of writing at the beginning of the week, but today I’m bringing you a mid-week exercise and a poem.

I haven’t blogged in a while because my cat was very sick and it became clear several days ago that he wasn’t going to make it. It was that delicate time when one has to decide in the cat’s best interests rather than one’s own. It was time to let him go.

I find the periods of my life when I am in mourning to be inspiring creatively. In particular for poetry and song. Emotional pain might not feel “good” – but it’s powerful stuff. I’ve learned to just be in it.

This week the workout is to write a “3-Stage Mourning Poem.” By “stage” I basically mean stanza. With each stanza, you need to “switch direction” but keep them related.

If you aren’t mourning a person or a pet right now, mourn anything. A plant, a favourite pair of shoes, your youth, your favourite restaurant, your ignorance, your idealism . . . whatever, just pick something to mourn.

Most importantly: bring in TANGIBLES. Familiar things we can see, hear, touch, etc. We so often feel pain when we see objects or hear songs that remind us of our loved ones. Show us those objects, weave them into the poem. If you start to get abstract, bring it back down.

And BTW, It doesn’t have to be a serious poem. (or piece of prose for you prose peeps out there)

In Mourning Cats

I know many cats in heaven.
All grandparents, a dad, cousin-in-law, acquaintance,
and at least three friends.
I may know two mice, if mice go to heaven
but my thought is mice
get an automatic rebound
back to the material world maybe
in the form of squirrels

They say cats have nine lives and I believe it.
Once you get to be a cat in heaven
you get to choose your next life.
That’s why cats always act like they own the place
because they do and when they commune with the mother ship
we are the butt of their jokes
how we suffer
how we break our hearts
how they just walk off in the middle of the night
without so much as au revoir

merci

We get close to the void
and write poems about getting close to the void.
Death makes us narrative.
We need to tell it straight
so family members can slip into the words
weave through remnants of troubled dreams
the stories weighing us
like magnetic ghosts

Victor Gato (1995 – 2011)

Filed Under: Archived Blog, aw... poop, poetry, random poop, weekend workout, writing exercises Tagged With: mourning poems, poetry, writing exercise

for Gabrielle Bouliane (1966-2010)

January 30, 2010 by openchannel 11 Comments

Gabrielle’s last live reading.

[youtube=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rRwaPkfwo4&w=640&h=390]

The poem below is the best I can do right now… and it doesn’t feel like enough. How, ever, can words communicate what is ripped from the heart. I feel like I should watch this video every day, so that I remember how to live.

for Gabrielle Bouliane
(1967 – 2010)

you disappear on a full wolf moon but not really
in the age of a technology you shaped from, created you
send messages across miles and friends echo
that feisty stance, fiery angel,
oh, poet, gift-giver, love-master, my hours
in your presence are locked, sealed and
delivered  – – my dream-memory
days and nights spent on projects for literary minds
together building a factory to keep those hearts alive
smoke breaks outside the office in rusty Seattle
mother hens to spoiled wordsters all worth
while, our while, through earthquakes and madness
and divorces and spilled salt
we know life turns, tears, surprises for the
girls next door, tomboys and hippies and
drive, you had it, rode long highways, following
a bliss only shadowed by your gracious love

I can’t say good-bye, not here, not now
not with those wide-eyes in mine —

I’ll see you backstage, poet, that’s a promise
and meanwhile, this light you lit, I’ll shine.

Filed Under: Archived Blog, aw... poop, every day angels, music / poetry videos, poetry, spokenword, truth and beauty Tagged With: cancer, gabrielle bouliane, poetry, spokenword

Artless PSA by BC Filmmaker

December 2, 2009 by openchannel Leave a Comment

It’s happening across north america, the tendency to let arts funding go (in schools, in our cities) when in an economic crunch because it isn’t deemed vital to society. Here in BC the government has been steadily making ridiculous cuts to arts funding and will continue to do so over the next few years.

This is so short-sighted on so many levels. Not even taking into consideration how art enriches our lives, the arts and cultural sectors and B.C.’s creative industries generate $5.2 billion each year and employ 78,000 people. I’m one of them. And so are most of my friends.

What kind of mixed-message is BC sending when in its bid for the 2010 Olympics, our government boasted about our province’s vibrant arts and culture scene?

A friend of mine, director Kryshan Randel, created this beautiful piece to demonstrate, visually, what an artless life would be like:

[youtube=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DSlctLvQG4&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Filed Under: Archived Blog, aw... poop, industry poop, pop / culture, truth and beauty Tagged With: art funding cuts, indie filmmaking, Kryshan Randell

Blake Snyder – R.I.P.

August 5, 2009 by openchannel Leave a Comment

If you haven’t heard yet, screenwriting guru Blake Snyder died of a heart attack yesterday. He was best known for his Save the Cat books and workshops.

The news is so strange to me, so unexpected. First of all, he was still pretty young. I have many friends around his age. But also, he has been so present in conversations lately. I just saw him at the PitchFest in L.A. and we were talking about brining him up to Vancouver for PitchMarket. He was one of the most popular screenwriting teachers out there.

save the cat
save the cat

I had some personal differences with some of the things in he said in his book, but he had some excellent pre-writing and writing exercises. He also inspired thousands of writers and not many out there can say that. He was also a genuinely nice man.

Someone on his website commented that they would dive with renewed passion into their own scripts in his honour. I will do the same. Here’s to you, Blake!

Best wishes to his family and friends. Losing a loved one is never easy.

Filed Under: Archived Blog, aw... poop, film biz Tagged With: blake snyder, screenwriting

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