 |
Rucha's Friends
|
Insensitive to Gluten
|
I’ve seen my mother on the brink of death. It was my first and only visit to El Salvador. I was nine years old.
We’d gone out to dinner at a restaurant that specialized in fruits from the sea. My mother ate a stew of mariscos. Seafood medley in a bowl, essentially. She’d been told she was allergic to shellfish in the past, but one little rash and slightly laboured breathing wasn’t enough to stop her. Shrimp is just that good.
My last memories of that night involve myself and my two younger brothers, then five and three, dumped at the home of the next-door neighbours, watching as my parents hopped into a cab with my mother clutching at her throat, gasping, “No puedo respirar,” turning pale. My brothers were crying. I was the dutiful big sister, singing REM songs and reassuring them that everything was going to be alright.
I didn’t actually think everything was going to be alright.
For some reason, I think of this event as epitomizing the difference between white people and the rest of the world. At least, when it comes to food.
I suppose I should preface the rest of what I’m about to say by announcing that I am pretty much white. Phenotypically, yes, but also culturally. While I was raised on rice, black beans, tortillas, yet-to-be-hip avocados and ripe plantains, I grew up preferring blander offerings. Birthdays were reserved for mock chicken legs and mac ‘n’ cheese. And the same continues, in sheep’s clothing:
Yoga. Organic produce. Wheat substitutes. White rice, rarely.
Which tangentially makes me wonder: are food sensitivities a gringo thing?
My mother has denounced many Western occurrences as “gringo things.” My favourite of these designations is women calling out in pain during childbirth, which my mother (blessed to have had quick labours with tiny babies, my five-pound self included) insists is reserved for the gringo variety of humankind. While I enjoy calling her out on these, and which she usually accepts with good humour, my mother’s led me to question whether some experiences really are just inventions of the warped gringo mind. The most significant of these being the omnipresent avoidance of gluten.
From a cross-cultural standpoint, abstaining of wheat things is probably the most mind-boggling dietary decision one can possibly make. Vegetarianism is weird enough (and having witnessed one of my brothers venture in that direction for a few years, I can verify that Salvadoran family members found it pretty incomprehensible), but not eating bread? Seriously? No one is too good to eat bread.
Food insensitivities are sufficiently difficult to explain to people removed from certain generations (e.g., X and Y), but the lingo barrier is only compounded when you factor in immigrant sensibilities and non-Western viewpoints. What is a food sensitivity, anyway? It’s not an allergy; it won’t kill you. So, is it a reaction that makes you feel less than neutral? Well, shit. No more tres leches cake for me.
I know that celiac is a real thing, and something that gets under-diagnosed in modern medicine. But I also know that everyone I’ve ever met who has been diagnosed with this thing has been white and (at least) middle-class, with the same cultural predilections as myself. Does this mean that the disorder has an eye out for former humanities students with natural toothpaste? Or is there some kind of trend happening under my nose, here?
I don’t mean to offend. I know wheat makes some of you feel shitty, and I’m not aiming to downplay your bloatage. But, I do wonder whether bloat awareness is a thing of gringodom. All of us gals grow up to become our mothers, and Conchy’s voice is calling bullshit in my head. It also doesn’t help that I’ve had girlfriends make light of their brief flirtations with wheat “allergies,” which we agreed via Facebook was a coming-of-age requirement for white liberal arts grads.
But in all truth, I’m not making fun. My pantry’s stocked with jars full of quinoa and oats that I’ve ground up for flour. I’m drinking the same Kool-Aid as the rest of y’all. Except I’m just a poseur, because wheat makes me feel fine.
This post is a part of Ethnic Aisle, the coolest multicultural blog party in Toronto!
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Indignity of Baby Fever
|
I am strong. My insides are strong because I’ve spent a lot of my life talking myself out of self-destruction, which turns your soul into a callous. My body is strong, too. Partly this is because I take care of myself, but it’s mostly because I have high levels of testosterone. If you need proof on this matter, I’ll show you my moustache and what happens to my arms after three push ups. I’ll make a believer out of you.
Which is why I can’t figure out why I want babies.
I want babies something fierce. The moment I hit my mid-20s, I woke up and decided I needed some babies. It was that instantaneous: one day I was using phrases like “little life ruiners,” and the next I was moving back to the Annex.
When you’re a self-centered young woman with feminist ideals, wanting babies is a terrible burden to bear. You find yourself unable to reconcile the devil-may-care self image you created over Slits records and cigarettes with the nagging reality that you are now a reader of Mormon hipster mommy blogs. You find yourself researching doula training courses even though you are impatient and cold, because you want to bring yourself closer to the miracle of life. You start thinking of life as miraculous.
Around this time, people you are actually friends with begin getting knocked up. Except, they introduce this information with a beam and “We’re pregnant!” and it doesn’t matter whether or not it happened on purpose. Instead of judging them, or pitying them, or calculating provincial abortion costs, you squeal and hug them and tell them you’re so excited, because you are. You want to change diapers and go on trips to the zoo. Nevermind that, for the last twenty or so years, you have hated the zoo.
You put yourself on a strict five-year personal achievement plan so that you can start popping ‘em out while you’re still young enough to get rid of them at a reasonable age. You have high hopes of emptying your nest by your mid-fifties, and it’s something you can almost get away with saying because you are still young and obviously a moron. Deep down, though, you realize there are things you can’t control.
Above everything, you trust you will be a good parent. Not just because you come from a ridiculously sized family with 20 cousins your junior to chase around, but because you have babysat for every crazy family in the city of Toronto and, through your fieldwork, have amassed a comprehensive list of things not to do. You have also come to appreciate your parents, because they were A-ok. They will probably let you dump your children off on them for long stretches at a time, too.
I have the names of my children picked out. I’m not going to share them because I’m one of those jerkoffs who doesn’t want to risk getting my genius choices stolen, but I promise they’ll be worth the wait. My dad, who also has high testosterone, named me in high school. Years later, my Salvadoran mother was so touched by this kind of girly act that she allowed the name to stand. So it runs in the family.
I’m hungry for some babies, but not enough to make them happen for awhile. Trust. I have a pile of goals I’d like to cross off before I’m willing to put aside my self-absorption, and I enjoy the luxury of behaving irresponsibly. I’m also a huge slob; a child would surely perish in my household. But I will happily play cool aunt or babysitter to your children, and I will do a good job of it. And I will peekaboo the shit out of any fine afternoon.
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Why I’d rather be dumped
|
Nothing milks the pathos like telling people you’ve never been dumped. This information provokes a whole spectrum of Strong Feelings, from the relatively benign “lucky bitch” to the more pointed “fucking sociopath” (that one from a former university TA on my 24th birthday, when excess beers turned both our nights into one big, sloppy confessional booth).
When my friend recently wrote about the pains of being dumped, I made it my mission to counter her argument with my own: that, if you have any self-respect, being the dumper can be infinitely worse. I speak as an expert. An expert in dumping.
I haven’t been in a whole lot of relationships in my life, but enough to know how they work. And here’s the thing: when a relationship comes to an end, it generally means it wasn’t working. There may have been deceit. There may have been denial. I could speculate all day, but the point is, needs weren’t being met. For BOTH PARTIES (and, for the sake of simplicity, we’ll pretend that all relationships involve only two people).
I know some people who have been dumped in cruel, unforgivable ways. I know someone who got married, paid off their spouse’s credit card debt instead of their own student loans, and dutifully served as the household breadwinner before being swapped after 9 months for the town exterminator. In that case, I side with the dumped–even though one might argue that this person had their own poor judgment to blame for the situation–because, in that particular instance, the dumped had been completely disrespected, used, and discarded. It was about more than romantic rejection.
When referring to garden-variety, low-stakes young adult relationships (the ones that don’t involve life savings and/or offspring, say), being dumped doesn’t automatically equate being wronged. It’s a preventative measure, keeping situations like the one I just described from ruining people’s lives. Some might argue that it’s even (!) a mutually beneficial act. But it’s painful. And only the dumped gets the right to complain about it.
People love to ruminate over heartbreak. Ask someone about their favourite album or book, and you’ll inevitably be treated to some gorgeously turgid tale of lovers lost. Being dumped gives a person license to act like an art school teenager, no questions asked, for weeks and even months at a time. Years later, experiences gathered during these post-dump periods are recalled with a certain dramatic gravitas. It seems that, for some people, being dumped is almost a gift–an opportunity to superimpose oneself into a Smiths song or any episode of The OC. Being dumped makes stuff feel really significant.
Dumpers aren’t allowed to wallow, and if a dumper’s had some kind of life-changing revelation after dumping someone, they know to keep it to themselves. This is sucky, because dumping someone you genuinely care about is the absolute worst. After I broke up with my high school boyfriend, with whom I feebly attempted to maintain a long-distance relationship for a few months into university, I couldn’t sleep for a week. I wrote him letters at 4am and ripped them apart. I collapsed into shriek-sobs when I ran into him the following summer at a hometown ice cream shop. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I did it because I knew I had to, because we were too young and too different. Because I owed it to myself, and to him.
And, here’s where the self-respect I mentioned earlier comes in: a person who cares about their personal integrity isn’t dumping someone they hate. They’re cutting things off before an ill fit leads to resentment. They’re signing themselves off to be villainized in the sake of their own mental health, and ideally, that of their partner as well. They’re knowingly positioning themselves as the Bad Guy, because it’s what needs to be done. It’s a huge, unwieldy, unsympathetic burden. There’s guilt. There’s hurt. Worst of all, there’s accountability.
Wouldn’t you rather be dumped, too?
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
In defense of a tech cleanse
|
I’m going to get into a lot of trouble for this post, mostly because it concerns almost everyone in the whole world including, yes, even my own awful self. But, it must be said: we need to put down our damn smartphones. I know, I know. This discussion is SO TIRED. But is it, really?
A couple of months ago, I met up with a semi-large group of people for a night of dancing. I’d been listening to my pre-gaming mix of La Bouche and 2 Live Crew while I sculpted my Night on the Town hair tower, so by the time I made it to the bar (late, of course) I was chomping at the bit for some shameless bump and grind. Lo and behold, all my friends were already there once I arrived. But, curiously, no one was dancing. No one was even standing up. No, every single one of my friends was parked silently with an iPhone, Tweeting or texting or whatevering away. This, on a Saturday night!
My first thought was, “Snap, I need an iPhone!” My current Android is on a budget network and doesn’t work half of the time, so unless I’m meeting friends next to a window on a busy street within 2-4 hours of my phone being charged, group Tweetathons aren’t usually an option for me. It wasn’t until weeks later that I considered how maybe my reaction had been a little, shall we say, effed.
A little perspective, courtesy of my social sphere: While roughly half of my friends are tech-rabid media types, the other half are either starving, overworked grad students, underpaid not-for-profit folks, or (let’s not beat around the bush here) straight-up hippies. I have several friends who don’t even own cell phones, much less fancypants mobile browsing devices. Whenever one from this group contemplates caving to the pressures of our mobile phone society, the others protest, “Nooooo! Don’t leave usssss!” which has so far proven successful in keeping me with a reliably cell-free pal contingency. I don’t even consider whipping out my phone when in the company of these (mostly) ladies because it would be supremely gauche. And, really, why is it so different for the rest of us?
I spend, not even kidding, a solid 10-12 hours, DAILY, in front of a screen. When you tack on the 8-9 hours of sleep I aim for each night (don’t judge), that’s as little as—you read right—a whopping THREE waking hours spent not staring into a screen. I don’t know about you, but those numbers kind of make me throw up in my mouth. So, I pose this question: what about mobile screen time is so damn appealing?
Alright, alright, as someone who still kind of (okay, REALLY) wants an iPhone, I actually already know the answer to this question: the internet is fun. Twitter is fun. Facebook is fun. Talking to other people about what you/they are up to is fun, and I spend a lot (too much) of my day doing just that. But, here is my very real concern: have we forgotten how to just be, IRL?
A couple of really good friends had me over for a dinner party a couple of months back, when my phone was relatively new and was having one of its rare moments of working. As the wine flowed, I became increasingly engrossed in my Twitter stream. How amazing it was to update how awesome my evening was panning out for all of the 13 people who pay attention to what I have to say! I think I may have even made a hashtag for horseradish meatballs, which were totes on the menu. Then, my very nice and diplomatic boyfriend pulled me aside and gently suggested that I stop being the rudest, most embarrasing person ever (but very nicely and diplomatically) and maybe, just maybe, keep my smartphone off the dinner table, and I realized I’d become one of THOSE PEOPLE.
Nobody thinks they are one of THOSE PEOPLE, but you probably are. Everyone is. A friend of mine once even wrote cheekily about “iPhone time” as if it were a Thing, because—guess what!—it is. And it’s so weird. Maybe it’s time for us to all to do a tech cleanse. We can practice looking into each other’s eyes, forming and spitting out voice words, and maybe—brace yourselves—even pausing to listen to other people’s voice words, too. We will take turns exchanging in real time. At the dance parties, we will even dance.
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
On Crushes
|
Maybe it’s all those telenovelas I grew up on, but as a kid I was really good at harboring crushes. I’m not talking about those routine “oh-he’s-so-cute” eyebatting sessions adolescence requires at least a couple of. Anyone can have those; they require no skill. No, I’m referring to the breast beating, Greek tragedy, decade-long ruminations over a single person’s complete and utter desirability because you are a SENSITIVE, TORTURED SOUL and they are a SENSITIVE, TORTURED SOUL and deep down ONLY YOUR SENSITIVE, TORTURED SOULS COULD POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND THE OTHER.
My awareness of my sensitive, tortured soul came when I was six and a half. I was socially inept and wrote stories about bathrooms with cameras in them. It was only natural that I should develop my first crush then, on a boy in my class named Kris. Kris was really smart and really funny and his mom was the Violent Femmes’ chiropractor, but more importantly, he had style. While the other kids in first grade had nasty, scraggly rat tails and gym teacher mullets, Kris’ rat tail hung gracefully over his nape like it belonged there. It practically flipped other rat tails the bird. I could tell this first grader was a cut above.
Kris begrudgingly let me sit at his table sometimes over the years, and even though it was usually to make jokes about my teeth or how fat I was, I valued those moments. While my closely-monitored media diet consisted largely of public television and Univision, Kris’ parents let him watch R-rated movies and MTV and he had an older sister, so I got to learn stuff. I liked living vicariously through his preteen cool.
I’d like to clarify, before continuing, that I am probably not a stalker. This epic crush only lasted until high school, at which point I found a new charming asshole to trash my self esteem. But I do know of Kris’ whereabouts, if only because Milwaukee is a damn small place and even smaller when you’re arty.
So, for the past ten years, Kris has been the front man in a number of pretty high-profile bands. He even slept with one of my good friends in high school (which I found both hilarious and unfair, especially after she turned out to be gay). Because of this, I’ve been able to chart the progress of my first crush over the years and evaluate what it says about me.
These days, Kris looks like a fat lumberjack Jesus. He smokes too much and drinks too much and probably doesn’t smell very good. He has really good stage presence. I don’t think I would like him.
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
April Multilingual Star!
|
Every month, we take the opportunity to honour multilingual volunteers who have gone above and beyond the call of duty. For the month of April, we would like to recognize Sarah from the German team, who translated over 190 phrases in the month of April alone! Thank you, Sarah, for being a true TIG star!
Sarah Kassem (http://profiles.tigweb.org/sarkass)
1. When did you become involved with TakingITGlobal’s online volunteer team? What motivated you to become an online volunteer?
November 2010. I was motivated by the inspiring ideas and the educational mission in the principles of TIG, and the international impact and empowering energy TIG is radiating to its members.
November 2010. Die inspirierende Idee und die pädagogische Mission in den Prinzipien von TIG haben mich motiviert mitzumachen, ebenso wie die internationale Relevanz und die Energie die TIG auf seinen Mitgliedern ausstrahlt.
2. What attracts you to your role as a volunteer?
The ability to be part of something grand and be part of a significant idea and network, and doing back-office work to keep the network going.
Die Möglichkeit Teil eines großen Ganzen zu sein, einen signifikanten Beitrag zu leisten, und die wichtige Hintergrundsarbeit in einem Netzwerk zu leisten.
3. What have you learned from the experience so far?
There are so many active and energized people out there striving to make a difference, this really impressed me, and it's an honour to support them.
Es hat mich beeindruckt zu sehen, dass es so viele aktive und energetische junge Menschen gibt, die sich so viel Mühe geben etwas sinnvolles zu erreichen, und es ist mir eine Ehre sie dabei zu unterstützen.
4. What advice would you give other young people out there interested in becoming online volunteers?
I would recommend it anytime. It just takes a few hours of your time, but you get the chance to meet great people, learn new things, and be part of a great social network by supporting it with your time and energy.
Ich würde es jederzeit weiterempfehlen. Mit nur ein paar Stunden Zeiteinsatz hat man die Möglichkeit tolle neue Leute zu treffen, neue Sachen zu lernen, und Teil eines tollen neuen sozialen Netzwerkes zu sein.
5. What are your overall thoughts on the experience?
The TIG staff are incredibly friendly and helpful people, it's wonderful seeing the TIG website grow and become global, and I wish and hope TIG will continue to provide all the great tools for spreading knowledge and education.
Die TIG Administration sind wirklich sehr nette und freundliche Leute, es ist ein großartiges Erlebnis das Wachstum der Internetseite zu erleben, und und ich wünsche TIG weiterhin viel Erfolg dabei.
|
|
|
|
|
|
April Multilingual Star!
|
Every month, we take the opportunity to honour multilingual volunteers who have gone above and beyond the call of duty. For the month of April, we would like to recognize Sarah from the German team, who translated over 190 phrases in the month of April alone! Thank you, Sarah, for being a true TIG star!
Sarah Kassem (http://profiles.tigweb.org/sarkass)
1. When did you become involved with TakingITGlobal’s online volunteer team? What motivated you to become an online volunteer?
November 2010. I was motivated by the inspiring ideas and the educational mission in the principles of TIG, and the international impact and empowering energy TIG is radiating to its members.
November 2010. Die inspirierende Idee und die pädagogische Mission in den Prinzipien von TIG haben mich motiviert mitzumachen, ebenso wie die internationale Relevanz und die Energie die TIG auf seinen Mitgliedern ausstrahlt.
2. What attracts you to your role as a volunteer?
The ability to be part of something grand and be part of a significant idea and network, and doing back-office work to keep the network going.
Die Möglichkeit Teil eines großen Ganzen zu sein, einen signifikanten Beitrag zu leisten, und die wichtige Hintergrundsarbeit in einem Netzwerk zu leisten.
3. What have you learned from the experience so far?
There are so many active and energized people out there striving to make a difference, this really impressed me, and it's an honour to support them.
Es hat mich beeindruckt zu sehen, dass es so viele aktive und energetische junge Menschen gibt, die sich so viel Mühe geben etwas sinnvolles zu erreichen, und es ist mir eine Ehre sie dabei zu unterstützen.
4. What advice would you give other young people out there interested in becoming online volunteers?
I would recommend it anytime. It just takes a few hours of your time, but you get the chance to meet great people, learn new things, and be part of a great social network by supporting it with your time and energy.
Ich würde es jederzeit weiterempfehlen. Mit nur ein paar Stunden Zeiteinsatz hat man die Möglichkeit tolle neue Leute zu treffen, neue Sachen zu lernen, und Teil eines tollen neuen sozialen Netzwerkes zu sein.
5. What are your overall thoughts on the experience?
The TIG staff are incredibly friendly and helpful people, it's wonderful seeing the TIG website grow and become global, and I wish and hope TIG will continue to provide all the great tools for spreading knowledge and education.
Die TIG Administration sind wirklich sehr nette und freundliche Leute, es ist ein großartiges Erlebnis das Wachstum der Internetseite zu erleben, und und ich wünsche TIG weiterhin viel Erfolg dabei.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Angst of the Halfie
|
Yesterday, I had brief but angst-ridden Twitter exchange with two friends regarding the inner turmoil of being a half-breed. We were prompted by the re-tweet of a Thought Catalog piece bluntly titled, “How to be Racially Ambiguous,” but, at least personally, this is a discussion that replays itself internally at least once per day.
Some personal background: I grew up having to check off a box inscribing my ethnic identity to the Milwaukee Public Schools’ quota-minded database every time I took a standardized test. I was told, by my parents, that the appropriate bubble for my No.2 lead smudge was “Hispanic,” so that’s where I put it. And that’s where it felt right, really. After all, hadn’t I grown up sharing a residence with a pair of non-English speaking refugee grandparents? Hadn’t I been subjected to toddler-era questioning, by my mother, over whether I was “Gringa o Salvadoreña?” wherein responses other than the latter would result in tickle torture to the brink of tears?
I grew up in a truly bi-cultural setting, with two bilingual parents who worked (and continue to work) in a largely Spanish speaking, Latin-American immigrant environment. But I also grew up white. I came out the spitting image of my Polish/German-American father, and I wonder how different my life would have been if the opposite had been true.
Truth is, it’s hard to live in between the lines; at some point you wind up becoming one thing or the other. Boring and cliche as this is bound to sound, society puts you up to it. And despite my parents’ best wishes, I suspect people are more inclined to process me as “white girl with Mestiza mother” (if, in fact, they know of my parentage at all) than “Latina girl” or “mixed-race kid.” Perhaps this is because of my unaccented English, the lack of melanin in my complexion, the fact that I have a name like “Kelli Korducki,” or that I dress more like Aimee Mann circa 1984 than a chola.
I may rock the white priv, but it’s never sat so great. I grew up speaking Spanish and attending quinces, and dancing merengue and bachata, while simultaneously feeling like I was a stranger in my dominant culture just because I looked more like I stepped off a boat from Poland (thanks, Papa) than my Salvadoran immigrant mother. Growing up, I would hear reactions to my mom speaking to me in Spanish–rude stage whispers, in English (which both my mother and I could understand), about how people shouldn’t be allowed in America without being able to speak English–and I would burn inside while my mother dutifully rolled her eyes and moved along. They never assumed I was her daughter, which always stung me.
 Mami and me, circa 1988 Back to the Thought Catalog piece. “Why would you want to be just one simple, uncomplicated race when you can make yourself more interesting at parties with your heightened sense of worldliness and traumatic multi-racial identity?” asks Carmen Villafañe. This is totally tongue-in-cheek, by the way. Sure, it’s great having that invisible backback to carry around when convenient, so that you can take people by surprise with your wacky “ethnic” background tales, but sometimes you want to feel your mother’s discrimination. Not because it will give you cool stories and street cred, but because she is your fucking mother. That is half of you. Just as much of you as anything else.
Segue: my best friend in the whole entire world, Carmen, is a blonde, blue-eyed, sunburn-prone curlytop of a babe who is both the hottest Fulbright scholar you will ever wish to have met and, also, a total halfie. African-American dad, white mom. We met in high school and immediately bonded over our shared neurosis, lit love, and half-breed status. Our 10th grade English teacher called us “fake minorities;” we called each other “house slaves.” We made inappropriate jokes over our mixed identities, because that was the only way we knew how to celebrate them. We live an ocean apart now, but I think our halfie status is one of the main reasons we’re still BFFs. No one understands a halfie like another.
 Mami and Papi Korducki: accidental subversives So, recent news: a few weeks ago, I caught a Tweet from my younger brother, Casey. “I’m a McNair Scholar!” he announced. Casey is his university’s VP for MEChA, an American Chicano student organization–which means my li’l bro wears his Latino identity a little more prominently than I. The McNair scholarship is a “minority scholarship,” and Casey felt nervous interviewing for it. “I know I’m not the candidate you have in mind for this,” he nervously told them. Needless to say, they gave it to him anyway.
I guess I don’t know how to close this subject, so I’ll just say this: It’s hard to be a halfie, because on the one hand you’re so damn privileged, but on the other, you never know where you belong. I suspect it’s an issue I’ll have to grapple with for my entire life, and my children (provided I have any) will also have to carry on the baggage–because, regardless of our Canadian dwelling, they will be Spanish-English bilingual or not exist at all. And, while my brothers and I will always have the unassumingly white names of “Kelli,” “Casey,” and “Ricky,” we are still the amalgamations of our heritage: “Kelli María,” “Casimir Enrique,” and “Richard Fernando.” We fit outside the box. And, increasingly, so do many others. We halfies are bound for the mainstream, and conversations about race are going to change for good.
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
Guest Blog Post: The bad funk
|
May is Mental Health Month, so I’m not going to sugarcoat this: I’ve battled my entire life with moderate to severe depression and anxiety. That is my norm, and managing the swings is a daily and deliberate act necessary to my well being. It sucks, but it can be done.
I’d like to give a huge thanks to Carleton University journalism student Lydia Russell-Roy for this insightful guest post on how to deal with internal funks–whether they be fueled by depression or otherwise. Good tips, she has!
It’s time to break the stigma.
-K
Now…guest post by Lydia Russell-Roy:
There are some days when, inexplicably, I feel sad. Every little task seems impossible; I have to wait at every corner, the coffee pot is always empty, and I (over)analyze each of my interactions in a self deprecating manner. When I get in these moods, I get more upset at myself for being upset. I always try to rationalize and figure out the reasons for depression. However, sometimes we all just get in funks.
I sometimes call these sad days, depressed days. I am aware that depression is real medical condition and I don’t mean to discuss it flippantly. However, I think there is a spectrum of feeling depressed, at some points I feel that way. When these sad days come one after another, and it is harder to find the motivation to eat well and exercise, it could be indicative of clinical depression. It is important to understand depression symptoms so you can distinguish between natural emotional cycles and a more serious problem that should be addressed with a health professional.
Recently, instead of wallowing in my funk or trying to dissect why it is happening, I have been focusing on identifying ways to feel better.
Whenever I feel sad, my first reaction is to eat a cookie. Although this improves my mood for the thirty seconds I am ingesting it, I always feel worse afterwards. I start to think about how I didn’t go to the gym because I wasn’t feeling up to it, then I crash from the sugar and think about eating another cookie to improve my mood.
Even though it is hard to find the motivation to work out when in a funk, exercising is the perfect antidote. The endorphins that are released can improve mood and provide sustained energy to attack other tasks the rest of the day.
In addition to forcing myself to the gym, I have tried to ward off the blues by eating certain foods. I recognize that cookies are only a fake fix, so I read this article on depression dieting tips to see if there were foods that would help. I was surprised to learn that carbo loading might help prepare you for a big race not only because carbs are a good source of energy, but they can also reduce anxiety. Eating carbohydrates lowers stress by raising serotonin levels in the brain.
Selenium and vitamin D have also been recognized as mood elevators. Selenium is in foods, like beans, seafood, nuts and whole grains. By eating whole grain pasta and bread, you get the benefit of carbs and selenium. Seafood is also a good choice because it contains omega-3 fatty acids. Ingesting more of these “good fats” has been linked with reduced rates of depression. The fish with the highest concentrations omega-3 fatty acids are herring, trout, salmon and tuna.
I am lucky that one of my favorite foods, salmon, is full of this good fat. There is nothing tastier than a toasted everything bagel loaded with cream cheese, lox, cukes, tomatoes and onions. Although carbs can help reduce stress, that many refined carbs will negate any potential benefits. Instead of eating this decadent brunch, which leaves me feeling bloated the rest of the day, I make a few substitutions that are just as delicious. I replace the bagel with whole wheat toast and cream cheese with greek yogurt. In addition to being a healthier option, greek yogurt and lox on toast is easier to eat. You can pile veggies on this open face sandwich without the fearing that each bite will destroy the sandwich!
Unlike cookies, eating whole grain carbohydrates, fish, beans and nuts fit into the healthy diet I try to maintain. Knowing the additional benefits to my mood, motivates me to pass on junk food even when I feel I deserve a treat to get out of my funk.
       
|
|
|
|
|
|
50 for 25 (2): Autobiography of a Face
|
I swear I’ve read more than two books in the eight (8) weeks since the two-five. I’m just an updating deadbeat is all. Without further ado: Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy.
Motives for reading:
1.) Truth and Beauty. Like so many others, I was moved to read this depressing memoir about the aftermath of bone cancer because of writer Ann Patchett’s Lucy Grealy friend-ography, which I loved and which Lucy’s family hated. But actually, the scathing Guardian editorial by Lucy’s sister Suellen Grealy was what put me over the edge. Here’s a snapshot:
“My sister Lucy was a uniquely gifted writer. Ann, not so gifted, is lucky to be able to hitch her wagon to my sister’s star. I wish Lucy’s work had been left to stand on its own.“
OUCH. But, after reading Autobiography of a Face (AOAF), I will admit to preferring Lucy’s style over Patchett’s. Try as I might, I can’t get more than five pages into any of the latter’s novels.
2.) Heroin. I’m scared shitless of heroin, which is how Lucy Grealy died at the age of 39, eight years after AOAF was published. Knowing that ahead of time made certain tells, like her casual admissions of childhood morphine dependency, scarily foreshadowing.
3.) Iowa Writers’ Workshop. My dream school, minus the whole moneypit factor (and, what I am repeatedly told, the apparent worthlessness of creative writing MFAs). Lucy went there.
4.) The Brooklyn Flea. Three paperbacks for ten bucks! This book was one of them.
Stuff that I should have reconsidered:
1.) I read this in March. You know, the “I-hate-everything-why-won’t-it-just-be-spring-sniff-sniff-stab” month? This is not an uplifting piece of literature, regardless of how exquisitely written it is. Do yourself a favour and read this when you hate life a little but not overwhelmingly, yeah?
2.) I read this after reading Prozac Nation. I’m not an emotional submissive. Literary whips and chains take their toll. Y’know? Next time, pacing.
Overall:
Memoirs, even more than fiction in my opinion, are pretty taste-specific. Some people should simply not be reading accounts about the lifelong implications of childhood cancer battles, because doing so either takes a lot out of you or you’re a sociopath. Neither is a good thing.
But, besides the tough stuff, this book has a fair bit of wry and subtle humour to take the edge off, like a candy coated asprin. This helps.
Bottom line? I’m glad I read it.
       
|
|
|
Latest Posts
Monthly Archive
Change Language
Friends
839 views
|
|
