sad binch

Debunking 10 Common Depression-Beating Tips PLUS 15 (Very Serious) Ways to Manage Your Depression

I’ve read a lot of self-help pieces about overcoming depression. Mental health articles and blog posts are often the first place people go looking for answers. The internet is a great resource to help us feel connected and to know we’re not alone. But if you Google “how to overcome depression” it only takes a few clicks to realize you have to sift through a lot of junk.

First, you’ll find there are a lot of websites that promise relatively quick fixes. The top Google ads suggest you can fight depression in 4-6 weeks. But the website is suspiciously opaque. From my understanding, the treatment involves a device that sends magnetic field pulses to the head. Perhaps that’s not the easiest first step in managing depression. Other ads promise treatments that reportedly take mere hours to lift depression. All you have to do is take ketamine, which has elsewhere been described as an addictive club and date rape drug. Regardless of your opinions on whether ketamine is the next best drug to cure depression or soothe its effects, these treatments are not necessarily of interest to some people nor are they easily feasible or accessible. So now what?

Beyond the ads, you’ll find articles that list *hot tips* to combat depression. Most of these strategies are recycled across websites and they’re not exactly novel ideas. And while the advice may be useful for some people, I find that most of it is pretty unhelpful. Here are the top 10 examples:

Meditate

I don’t particularly mind buzzwords, but there’s nothing I hate more than the word “mindfulness.” It’s a useful concept, but it’s overused to the point where I don’t even know what it means anymore. I’ve tried meditation. It was a fun exercise where I spent 15 minutes cross-legged on my hardwood floor, trying to “embrace” the barrage of negative thoughts that images of receding tides and mountainous landscapes couldn’t push away. I spend most of my day shoving aside these negative thoughts—why would I carve precious time out of my day to listen to them when I could be napping and having nightmares instead?

Do some cardio.

I’m not going to lie—exercise would definitely do my body good. My indoor cat moves around more than I do. It doesn’t help that my medicine makes me impossibly lethargic. I don’t talk about it with my friends, but thanks to my good friend depression, I’ve gained 50 pounds in the past year and a half. Now I can’t find much to like about my body. Those unreasonably bubbly Instagram influencers say that you shouldn’t work out because you hate your body; you should exercise because you love it. But what they don’t tell you is how to cultivate that love. In the meantime, I’ll be on the couch watching reruns of Law and Order SVU.

Drink more water.

Happy, healthy people always tell everyone else to drink more water. Ever notice that? Growing up, any time I complained about an ache, my mom would tell me I needed to drink more water. Headache? Drink more water. Menstrual cramps? Drink more water. Fell off the porch and broke your arm? Drink more water. It’s not like I don’t try. It’s just that most days I don’t realize it’s 4PM and I haven’t had anything to drink all day. I’ll open a can of sparkling water, drink a few sips, put it down on the end table next to me, and forget about it for the next 2 hours. Then I won’t want to drink anymore because the carbonation fizzled. So sue me.

Eat foods rich in Omega 3 fatty acids.

Just like drinking water, I often don’t eat anything until 4PM. My body doesn’t know the difference between hunger and anxiety. If I can muster enough energy to make anything to eat, it’s certainly not going to be salmon. What if I was allergic to fish? I’m not, but what if I was? I suppose I could take supplements, but I had a friend in high school who took a fish oil pill every night and she almost always threw it up. Plus, if I barely eat, I’m going to want as many carbs as possible when I feel like eating again. And salmon has exactly zero carbs.

Make your bed.

This is definitely a suggestion made by someone who has never met a depressed person. The quintessential “side effect” of depression is the inability to fulfill personal responsibilities and instead take 3 hour naps in the middle of the day, everyday. I do everything in bed—sleep, nap, eat, read, nap, binge-watch Netflix, nap, and go to the bathroom. Why make your bed when you’re always in it? Technically, you could consider my bed made if I’m inside it and have the covers pulled up past my head.

Go outside.

I don’t live in a bad neighborhood necessarily, but last year my next-door neighbor got shot through his front door in a drive-by shooting and died. Taking a walk in the park is not always, well, a walk in the park.

Also, I once paid $120 in parking tickets just because I couldn’t bring myself to go to the city building to rightfully contest them. That’s what we’re working with here.

Volunteer.

This one is the hardest to argue. Volunteering not only helps the community, but selflessness makes you feel good about yourself. I want to give my time to benefit others, but being depressed means I have little energy to do the other things I have to do—like meet my work deadline and finally change the litter box.

Email an old friend.

Old friends are the ones that started rumors about me in high school. Old friends are the ones who pushed me away when I did something good for myself. Old friends are the ones who abandoned me when I became depressed. Old friends and the consequences of their bad choices are, in some ways, woven into the fabric of my mental illness. Some wounds scab, but never heal, and it doesn’t do any good to pick at them. I would rather drink 100 ounces of water in a day than email an old friend.

Get natural.

I tried to get in touch with nature by planting a bunch of succulents and keeping them around the apartment. It’s not hard to keep a succulent alive. That’s what everyone told me. But the sight of all these dead succulents doesn’t particularly help my suicidal ideation.

Simplify your life.

They say that one way to simplify your life is to think of an object, a person, or a concept and ask yourself, “Does this bring me joy?” If it doesn’t, dispose of it. I think if it was that easy then I wouldn’t have trouble cutting ties with the toxic people who exacerbate my depression. Also, how does this approach even work for depressed people? The things that once brought me joy don’t really offer much anymore. That’s kind of the essence of depression?? If I am to dispose of everything that doesn’t make me happy, I’m not sure what I’d even have left?

Perhaps this all sounds too negative or it sounds like I’m making excuses. But that’s kind of how depression works. We need to be a little more realistic with the advice we give to people with depression. So I made my own list*. Take from it what you will.

Feeling down? Here are 15 tips for managing depression:

Gather all the fermenting fruit in your kitchen, draw a bath, and use the fruit as a substitute bath bomb.
Make a voodoo doll out of aluminum foil and heat it in the microwave.
Tell your therapist you’re thinking about seeing other people, throw a chair across the room, and see if she begs you to stay or if she abandons you.
Call your local radio station, say you’re at a BDSM dungeon, and request them to play Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby One More Time.
Take a trip to a landfill and key the words “Fuck Jonathan,” or the name of someone who wronged you, onto the side of a near-totaled car.
Get high and lather conditioner in your pubic hair.
Have brunch with your mom and ask her to tell you about the night you were conceived.
Scream the words, “Degrade me, daddy!” while masturbating.
Draft a will. Upon your death, designate someone to disseminate your pre-written statement detailing your past sexual trauma to all of your abuser’s loved ones.
Paint your cat’s nails red and recount to her all the ways your alcoholic father embarrassed you when you were a kid.
Call your best friend and ask her to talk you through an orgasm.
Create a character whose primary personality trait is self-destruction. Be her for a day. Don’t tell anyone.
Make a low-quality amateur porno with an ex-girlfriend.
Go to your local dealership, ask to test drive a Ford Fiesta, and drive it into a creek.
Make a fake twitter for your therapist and DM the account any time you’re feeling suicidal.

*I read these aloud to a friend and she thought this was my bucket list.

If you feel so inclined, like this post! And please leave a comment, especially if you’ve tried one of these very helpful tips.

5 Things You Need to Know as the Friend of a Depressed Person

Don’t ask your friend to make decisions. Indecision is a common side effect of depression. She’ll never know if she wants to drive herself to meet you at the bar of if she wants you to pick her up on the way there. She can’t decide between having an easy escape plan if she drives her own car or having a designated driver so she can drink until she blacks out and makes her usual poor decisions. You need to take one for the team and make decisions like these for her.
Don’t ask what medications she’s taking. Not because it’s uncouth or embarrassing, but because it’s likely she doesn’t remember any of them. There was that time in high school she was on Paxil but it made her suicidal. A decade later she tried Lexapro until it made her suicidal. Then the next few months were a blur—cocktail after cocktail of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. She can’t even name all her medications for her doctor.
Don’t pretend your friend isn’t gaining weight. This does not mean you should comment on it. It’s possible she spends so much time disassociating all day, she hasn’t realized she’s gained 50 pounds. You should be able to recognize that while you both used to wear a men’s small, you can no longer exchange clothes. Is she cold? Don’t offer her your sweatshirt because the odds of it making it past her shoulders aren’t in her favor.
Don’t tell her to adopt a dog as a way to soothe the depression. Even if it’s untrue, she does not think she is capable or responsible enough to care for a dog. She lives on the second floor—there is no doggy door. It is unreasonable to assume she can emerge from under the duvet and get out of bed (every few hours!) to let the dog outside. She’s not so hopeless that she’d inadvertently kill the dog. But she would make it depressed. Your friend’s health insurance doesn’t cover anti-anxiety medication for her new border collie.
Don’t show up unannounced. It’s likely that your friend does not have time to cover the stench of fermenting fruit, untouched since the last time she went grocery shopping three weeks ago. She does not have time to vacuum the Cheez-Its stomped into dust and buried deep in the carpet. She does not have time to gather up the pile of empty chip bags on the floor next to the couch, the half-drank bottles of water in between the couch cushions, or the clothes thrown all over the bedroom and into the hall because she couldn’t find her favorite pair of sweatpants. She does not have time to keep up appearances. One more thing, if you must show up unannounced, don’t knock loudly. Chances are your friend is taking her daily 3-hour depression nap.

An In-Depth Look at a Sad Binch’s Life

Do people blog anymore? Either way, I know I’m late to the game. I have a tendency to do that—I made a Myspace in 2009. I used to own Blogging for Dummies, but I never read it, and I just recently donated it to Goodwill.

I’m great with helping my friends write the first message to someone they matched with on Tinder, but unfortunately for me, I’m shitty at my own personal introductions. I don’t have an elevator pitch, and no, I don’t know my favorite movie. I suppose two truths and a lie is an appropriate icebreaker? I’ll start. My mom’s addicted to gambling, I’m a sexual assault survivor, and I’m really good at yoga.

I think the most salient thing about me is that I’m a PhD candidate in Sociology. I’m currently writing my dissertation on non-heterosexual women’s experiences with vulvar pain. I know—what a sexy topic! But in all seriousness, grad school is the kind of fresh hell that makes you wish you were never born. I think about dropping out every single day. I didn’t gain the freshman 15, but I definitely gained the grad school 50. Yeah I got my Master’s degree, but grad school really only ever gave me excess body fat and a deep, bottomless depression. My psychiatrist and I are still trying to find the right cocktail of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. But she’s the kind of psychiatrist who keeps a jar in her office with a label that reads “ashes of whiney teenagers.” So if anyone has any recommendations for a new psychiatrist, let me know.

I identify as a feminist killjoy, genderqueer, radical lesbian. My partner and all my friends are queer—except our token straight friend. We talk about polyamory, Karl Marx, my parking tickets, and how everything is a social construct. I assume this means I already lost some of you. But if you’re anything like me, you haven’t yet unfriended your old manager who loves using the word “libtard.” Maybe you’ll also stick around because you love to hate me.

I love lists so here’s more essential information about me.

I strive to only listen to woman artists on Spotify. It’s 2019—I’m tired of men’s voices (#MeFuckingToo). Spotify can create playlists like boozy brunch and chillin’ on a dirt road, but they don’t have a feature to skip songs by male artists? Yeah okay.
When I was in middle school I would blast Maroon 5’s She Will Be Loved and pretend to star in a music video. I broke up with my girlfriend over earth-shattering events out of our control, but I knew I had to fight like hell to get her back. I stood outside her house, banging on her door in the pouring rain. She opened the door, and upon seeing me completely drenched, shirt soaked through and clinging to my stomach, she immediately became overcome with emotion, and without thinking, pressed her lips into mine. We stood there making out in the rain to the sultry sound of Adam Levine’s voice. Except my ex-girlfriend’s front porch was really my walk-in closet. And my ex-girlfriend was really a blow up punching bag I stored in my closet. I often closed the curtain to my closet and made out with my plastic punching bag, pretending it was Chelsea from That’s So Raven. I spent a lot of time in that closet. The symbolism is painfully cliché.

If you don’t think this is the most perfect GIF, just get out.

I saw twin psychics –“the Angel Ladies”—at 17 and they predicted I would “walk the halls of Harvard one day,” but it’s over a decade later and all I have are 20 VHS copies of The Nutty Professor.
Right after I graduated college, I applied to a Craigslist job post titled, “toys, toys, toys.” Oddly, it wasn’t the most legitimate company and it was easily the worst job I ever had. All I had to do in the interview was enthusiastically love toys and estimate how much the remote-control helicopter cost that was sitting behind the owner’s desk. I guessed $100 and he proudly corrected me—it was only $17 or a similarly absurd price. Something about buying and selling toys at wholesale prices. I don’t know, I zoned out and didn’t quite fully realize until my first day that the job description was just straight up hustling. I had to carry around a box full of product and whatever I didn’t sell got deducted from my “paycheck.” The company didn’t have a license to solicit at people’s homes so we had to stick to businesses. I walked into Pizza Huts and insurance companies and dentist offices, asking if the employees wanted to buy any tasers. (Apparently pepper spray and tasers are toys?) One day I was out on the job with my boss and he told me not to go into the dingy looking bar across the street. I ignored him. I don’t regret my decision because I sold almost all my shit for the day, but I also almost got tased by a very intoxicated man throwing back beers at 1 PM. The last straw was the day I got mugged. Not only would I not get compensated for the day, but I would have to pay for the portable speaker someone swiped. I took my lunch break in my car. I could only afford applesauce and I ate it with a fork while sobbing, my head pressed into the steering wheel.
I have a witch’s altar in my dining room along with 3 Tarot decks despite not having a damn clue how to read Tarot.
I’m excruciatingly indecisive. I’m learning that it’s likely a byproduct of my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I try to explain this to my friends, but they still don’t particularly love when I’m not sure if it’s best for me to drive to the bar on my own so I have an easy escape plan or if I should just let them pick me up so I can have a safe ride home later. Indecisiveness might be my worst flaw, but I don’t know. I haven’t decided.
My friends definitely think that my puns are the worst thing about me. But if I don’t make a dozen puns a day, you should probably call my therapist. Something’s wrong.
I have a medical marijuana card. I guess PTSD is good for something.
I often wonder why I’m hungry even though it’s 5 PM and all I’ve had that day are old airplane peanuts and 3 cups of coffee. I usually can’t distinguish hunger from anxiety.
My partner often commends me for staying strong despite all the trauma, but like, the other day I cried for 3 hours because we ran out of peanut butter.
My therapist randomly emailed me an article about the differences between a borderline personality disorder and a highly sensitive person. I’m still not totally sure what she was trying to say. I locked myself in my bedroom, hid under the covers, and overanalyzed the email for at least 6 hours.
I’m 100% positive I have misophonia. It’s the hatred of sound. Personally, I can’t fucking handle any sounds related to the mouth—chewing, biting, swallowing. I learned quickly that misophonia is vastly misunderstood. When I explain the condition to someone it can go one of two ways. First, they might say that they have misophonia too. They think because the sound of people chewing gum with their mouths open is “ew so annoying,” they totally also have a medical condition. But there’s a difference between misophonia and pet peeves. As soon as you’re triggered by a particular sound, your body goes into fight or flight mode. For me, if I can’t escape the situation, I’ll start to sweat, my body will shake, and I’ll get violent. A lot of people think I exaggerate. Scoffing at the legitimacy of misophonia is the other common reaction I get. But honestly, if you eat a banana anywhere near me, I’m already thinking of at least a dozen ways to murder you. I turn either homicidal or suicidal. It’s lovely never knowing what you’re going to get. I can’t eat meals next to my partner unless we turn up the TV to near-maximum volume. My friends know now to put music on if we’re having a potluck dinner. Sometimes they forget, but it’s nice to mostly have their support. My misophonia was worse a couple years ago. My ex-girlfriend once got so annoyed with my passive aggressive dirty looks, she took her tacos to the bedroom to finish eating. She may have been on the other side of the apartment with the door shut, but I could still hear her crunching. It was essentially grounds for a break-up. I also vividly remember the time someone in my philosophy class was eating trail mix. I couldn’t leave the room because I would miss the lecture. Instead, I sat at my desk visibly yet silently sobbing for the next hour and a half.

Where do I get off using two That’s So Raven gifs in one post?

I don’t have OCD, but I do have compulsive tendencies. If I set the microwave for one minute and run to the bathroom, I need to race back and plant both feet on the kitchen tile before the microwave sounds. If I don’t, then the next time I’m in the car with all my friends, we’ll get crushed by a tractor trailer and everyone but me will die. If I’m walking on the sidewalk and a car is coming up behind me, I pick something on my path, like a tree. If I don’t reach the tree before the car passes me (and I’m not allowed to quicken my pace), someone will shoot me in the back and I’ll bleed out on the sidewalk.
Another fun game I’ve been playing since childhood is pretending that authority figures have access to my optic nerve. They can see what I see, as if they’re looking through my eyes. Currently, I’ve been imagining my supervisor in my head. I act as though I’m not in on it, but secretly I walk around my apartment as if I’m giving her a tour. Here’s a basket of folded laundry. See! I’m clean! Here’s a bookshelf—I’m very well read! Here I am washing the dishes. I am a very responsible grown-up! Now I am petting my cat under her chin. I am very affectionate! Here I am working at my desk. I am productive and care very much about my work! But this uncontrollable compulsion means I carefully police my behaviors. I’m cautious not to look down at my chest when I’m putting on my bra because I don’t want my supervisor to see my boobs. I close my eyes for as long as I can while scooping cat poop because I don’t want my supervisor to see how long it’s been since I last cleaned the litter box. I don’t look down at the toilet after I pee because I don’t want my supervisor to see that I’m not hydrated enough.
I’ve been told I can be exhausting.
I try a little too hard to remember the last thing someone says to me before we part just in case they die and I want to tattoo their last words on my body.
I guess I think about death a lot.
I’ve recently been cataloging all my fears in hopes that getting them out on the page will diminish their impact on me. The latest fears added to the list are pistachios, school bus lights, and videos of surfers riding 80-foot tsunami-like waves.

It’s 2019 and I’m a millennial. This blog is supposed to be my safe space, damn it. So I’ll likely write about mental health and trauma, family dysfunctions, what I learned in therapy, my experiences with men, and that one time I applied to be on The Real World. Maybe I’ll post rants or personal essays or stand up material or maybe I’ll get high and write in inscrutable messages. For an absurd amount of time I thought I had borderline personality disorder, so really, you never know what you’re going to get from me.

As a forewarning, I plan out a lot of projects, but I never see them through. So far I started but couldn’t finish two podcasts, 17 essays, and a commitment to drink more water. I recycle New Year’s resolutions yet truly believe every year will be different. But, like, I’ll ~totally~ post here regularly.

Also, you can follow me on Twitter at @sad_binches if you feel so inclined. My Twitter is currently wildly successful and critically acclaimed. I once had 9 followers. Then I dropped to 8, which if you think about it, is pretty impressive because that was 11% of my total followers. I wondered how long a Twitter with a bio that reads ~positive vibes only~ would stay with me. The answer is 3 days.

Please stay with me longer. I have abandonment issues.