Throes

The hormones are back.

My menstrual cycle went completely on leave while I was on Depo-Provera, as is the phenomenon with many women. I did not miss it one bit. One recent study shows that it has become common practice for women to skip their period on purpose with Seasonale, Depo, or monophasic birth control pills. In fact, between 2007 and 2013, tampon sales have gone down by hundreds of millions of dollars. 89% of those surveyed report to be happy about not having the monthly visitor anymore. I am shocked. Really? It took research to determine that?

What they didn't tell me (cuz they didn't know, apparently) is that no one should stay on Depo for more than several years. Beyond 3 to 4 years, they simply do not know the long-term (adverse) effects (beyond the calcium absorption problem leading to brittle bones in old age, that is).

Long story short, I went off in March, after having been period-free for seven years. Seven!

Not to mention that I had not had a "natural" cycle since age 18, when I went on the pill. Bracing myself, I didn't know the whole enchilada to expect. For months I had recurring nightmares about a surprise onslaught of a bloodfest in public, with crimson-soaked garments and that unmistakeable warm and moist sensation in one's loin (not in a good way).

When it did arrive, it took me a week to get reacquainted with my anatomy and to relearn planning bathroom sessions during the work day.

And the sadness. Oh, the sadness.

Depression has never left me. But this is different. In depth and in profundity. I feel like a teenager again. In a way, I feel more alive, more myself. If one can even define that.

A fisherman friend once told me he welcomed the cold, frigid cold. It made him feel alive. I would realize later that pain does that, too.

Last Friday, I ran into my boss at #WorkNo1. CEO at a start-up, she is brilliant and driven. I admire her beyond words. Even though she is nearly two decades my junior, often I am reduced to a stammering fool when I'm around her.

She was outside the building, on her phone, as she often was (poor reception indoors). She waved hello, and I responded with my signature enthusiastic big wave (and big grin).

Once off the phone, Moiselle* asked, "Are you cheerful because it's Friday?"

"I'm always cheerful," I said.

"That's true," said Moiselle.

But it isn't true. Still waters run deep.

As far as the world is concerned, I'm this happy, positive person. At least at work anyway. At both jobs, I've been told time and again.

And I am this person - at the core. That you can't fake.

That said, trust me, no one is this happy. Not all the time.

Which is not to say I am not happy about life. One can be happy and sad at the same time. Those are not mutually exclusive. The bubbly and the weepy - both real and intense.

I reckon back to a sci-fi story I've read about an alien attempting to understand human emotions, among which happiness is concluded to be the most complicated and near impossible to decipher. Or the cliché tale in which you could be granted anything, except "happiness". Then the genie is stumped.

There is something assuring about being able to explain a state of mind with the chemicals in our brain, our bloodstreams. For the longest time, I thought maybe if my mother would've been more sensitive to my emotional needs, I would've turned out better, less needy. Less messed up.

Even in our relationship as adults, my mother refuses to acknowledge sadness, let alone address it in any way. If I was waiting for her to validate that part of me I'd be wasting my time. Everything must be hunky-dory. ALL the time.

Oh, so I got that from her.

Does not mean I am pretending to be happy, though. One learns to shift focus.

The severity of depression can still take me by storm. The unbelievable bleakness. Having been in the deep end, though, can be a gift. It enhances the human experience. You don't have to remember drowning. Just stay afloat.

I've always been sad. I've always felt too much. My mother couldn't have changed that. Nobody could've.

Something freeing about that notion.



*Not her real name

Miley

I don't care what they say. I still love Miley.

What's not to love? She's vivacious, vibrant and beautiful. And that voice! Oh, that voice.

She's young and living it up and feeling her way in the world. I admire that she is unapologetic about that.

Remember only God can judge us
Forget the haters
Cuz somebody loves ya

That's more positive a message than I have heard from many others her age, in her genre, in years. 

Yeah, yeah, I get the "role model" controversy. I even agree with Sinead O'Connor in that merit in talent chips away when one's over-pimped. But tell that to all the other female artists out there who feel the need to sell sex: Nicole Scherzinger, Nicki Minaj, Gaga. Britney started it with the serpent. No, she didn't. Go back. Mariah. Madonna. You can keep going, really. Blame it on society and the warped values we share and the pressure we put on women. I can go on.

Yes, I cringe when I see little girls wear makeup and dance around in their house in a provocative manner because these are the images they are imitating. But consider the imitated at this point. Whom did they watch growing up? We don't get to cherry-pick.

I think at the end of the day I like Miley's fearlessness. The kind that is accompanied by youth and youth alone. Even then, not all of us will have experienced it when we look back on life. Take that, haters.