A therapist has diagnosed me with anxiety and depression as “mood disorders”, so my experience of these disorders is not serious enough to warrant medication or mild enough to do nothing. Cognitive behavioral therapy has been the most effective treatment to date, but perhaps talk therapy to unpack my past will be beneficial in the future. When I feel anxious, my neck tenses, and I can feel my heart beat like a drum in my chest. When depressed, there is a perpetual weight behind my eyes, not heavy enough to let me sleep and not light enough to let me find interest in things. When I experience both simultaneously, the opposing forces paralyze me. Some factors are built in my very nature. I see some genetic predispositions for anxiety and depression in myself and my family, and thyroid issues sometimes require medical care. Other factors are environmental. Growing up, there was one way to live out my spirituality, one way to live out my sexuality, and one way to be: Roman Catholic....
The most terrifying question: "Is everything okay?" What would I even say to that? That the wave of uncertainty stemming from my lack of purpose is devouring my soul day by day? Clouding my brain? Draining my motivation? Locking me into a routine of hope and disappointment? I've tried Jesus (the prescription for everything). I talk to him. But I know I'm just having an inner monologue. The "Jesus" I talk to just so happens to be a reflection of myself. When he tells me to "enjoy that Taco Bell," I've brought my shallow image of him to life: a reminder that "the Father and I are one." Someone might say: "But Jesus is completely real, and you have to connect with Bible Jesus rather than the version you've created in your head. Ah, the Bible. Perhaps that's true. But... If I believed he was literally real, as presented in the Bible, would he start speaking to me? From past experience, he didn't. All quiet on the western...
I craved a Colombian breakfast: two fried eggs, black refried beans, some protein, and a coffee. I had been to Mi Pueblito before and knew I had to return. It was near the dumpy part of town (Gessner and Richmond). All the restaurants around here were good. I parked in the strip mall. Mi Pueblito sat couched between some chicken restaurant and a nail salon. I panicked briefly since I had not reviewed the menu in my car with the AC. I hate making waiters wait after they ask me what I want—though their job title suggests this is what they do. As I reviewed the menu, I started to sweat. Houston is fucking hot, and Mi Pueblito has a large menu. Finally, I decided to order their iced coffee and the "Calentado con Carne". I walked through the entrance wearing my striped polo (untucked) and khakis. Maybe I imagined it, but the hostess and a waitress appeared to exchange a look that said, "he's cute." As my hostess walked me to my seat, I questioned if my perception w...
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