Tag: self-help | A Banana Peeled

I want to write a self-help book, and I want it to focus on me dying. Twice. Then coming back to life! Or maybe do a series of self-help videos. I just don’t know how funny it would be after one or two shorts. Because, basically, my advice for any situation is to die.

Really. It’s the best thing that happened to me. And I did it twice.

I have suffered from severe depression, anxiety, and body dysmorphia all my life. They all started when I was seven. Coincidentally or not, that was when I realized I was going to die. I became obsessed with death, but in a push/pull kind of way. I did not want to die and yet, I wanted it more than anything. The idea that one day I would just be gone forever repulsed, excited, and terrified me. That’s something I thought about for the following three decades of my life.

As for the trio of mental health issues, well. They crushed me when I was a kid and during my teen years. A defining moment was when my mother put me on a diet when I was seven. When I was seven. I had to repeat that beacuse it’s only in hindsight that I realized just how fukced up that was. I see pics of me when I was that age, and while I was chunky and solid, I was not fat.

Even if I were, I was still a little kid. I was in my growing phase. Telling me I was fat and that I needed to restrict my intake was cruel. I don’t want to argue about whether my mother meant to be cruel or not because in this case, impact matters more than intent. It would have been bad enough if she had put me on a diet and then just left it at that, but, no. She had to nag me about it. She would tell me that I had such a pretty face. If only I wasn’t so fucking fat! No, she didn’t say ‘fucking’, but it was certainly implied in her tone.

We did not have sweets in the house. My mother insisted that we had fruit and veggies at every meal. I know that’s a good thing, but it made me not eat fruit or veggies for several years when I was in my thirty. I wasn’t doing it on purpose–I just could not make myself eat fruits and veggies because of being forced to do it all my life.

I want to write a self-help book because I have found one easy trick to curing depression, anxiety, and body dysphoria. It’s called dying, and I cannot recommend it enough. Twice is even better, to thoroughly cement the teaching. I jest, but not really.

Ever since dying twice, I’ve mulled over how to talk about this. I know it sounds like a humblebrag to say that I suffered walking non-COVID-related pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and an ischemic stroke within twenty minutes without a scratch, but it’s basically true.

There is no way for people to relate to what I went through. I know that. It’s why I rarely mention it. In addition, I know how it sounds when someone peddles something that isn’t relevant. I know how impatient I used to get when people said to look at the bright side of life or that life was precious or that we only had one life to live. I hated that bullshit because it sounded so sanctimonious. “You don’t know me or my life. Don’t tell me to be grateful!” That was me whenever I heard anything of that ilk.

But. Here’s the thing.

They weren’t wrong.

Here me out. The one thing that I’ve learned from my medical crisis–well, the biggest thing. I’ve learned plenty–is that life is really fucking short. I can’t say we only have one life to live because I’m on my third, but in terms of relative time, 50 years is a blink of an eye.

Before I had my medical crisis, I suffered from depression, anxiety, and body dysphoria. I had an almost-crippling depression that made it dififcult to get out of bed in the morning. I had anxiety that made me almost paralyzed with indecision. And, I hated my body with an intensity of a thousand suns. It started with my mother putting me on a diet when I was seven and nagging me all my life for being a fat cow.

Taiji helped with all three of these to a certain extent. Before I started it, I could not be in a crowd of people for many reasons. Too many emotions pouring into me; too much physical contact; too much noise. My depression told me that everyone hated me, and my anxiety told me that no matter how I talked to people, I would get it wrong.

As for the body hatred–I refused to look in a mirror. Even when I was doing my grooming, I would studiously ignore it. I hated my face and my body, and I refused to let people take pictures. My mom used to complain about that, too. That I would not let her take pictures. Well, geez, Mom. Youv’e told me in not so many words that I am hideous and grotesque because I’m fat. You’ve done this my entire life. I can’t imagine why you would be shocked and surprised that I don’t (didn’t) want my picutre taken.

I detested my body and face. I thought I was just too disgusting to live. Fifteen years of studying Taiji (at the time of my medical emergency) got me to studiously neutral. Meaning, I would say I was neutral about my body and face, but I didn’t really mean it.

Tag Archives: self-help

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