All in My Head

I don't know who I am. I can't define myself by any one title: friend, daughter, partner, writer, bum, mentally ill. I love animals, books, words, things beyond my ken. But more and more, Shakespeare runs through my head:

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That thousands of strange shadows on you tend.

I live so much of my life in my head that at times I feel completely disconnected from reality and from those around me, as if the only reality is that of my dreams, my inner imaginings. Characters, dialogue, scenes, whole stories, vivid dreams, they play themselves out inside my head so that it's more interesting to reside there, where things seem more true than the brittle reality of the world around me. I always feel twice removed from the world.

Maybe that's why I'm always so desperate for my loves to pull me into and keep me in the real world, as if they could possibly have responsibility for me. It's an expectation doomed to disappointment. And I always am. Stupid me.

Lost It

Completely flipped the fuck out at the psych's. Anxious all the way there, pacing the office while I waited, he'd barely sat down when I started trying to talk to him about work. Couldn't sit for my nerves, just kept walking back and forth, and goddammit if I didn't start crying. Told him about how my job had forced me out, the deal of unpaid leave for insurance, the lack of a determination from the county, everything, and his reply? Why didn't I take the voluntary resignation, go on unemployment and take Cobra. And I had no reply for that, except that Cobra's expensive. But now I don't know. Maybe that's exactly what I should do. The situation couldn't be worse than the one I'm in now, and even after paying for Cobra, I couldn't be bringing in less than the county's giving me. So why the fuck not? I plan to look into it.

But what truly pisses me off is that that was my appointment. How's the Klonopin? Sometimes it's enough, sometimes it isn't. I don't go out unless I'm with my boyfriend. It's too hard. Do you have enough Lamictal? No, I'll run out this week. Do you have any samples? No, Lamictal's going generic, so they're not handing out any samples anymore. (Then it doesn't matter because I can't fill this prescription until I have the money anyway.) Are you seeing a therapist? I'm on the waiting list for one. Why? Because they're sliding scale. You're making an appointment for one when you go out front. Do you need to see someone today? No, don't worry about it. I always worry about it. You're seeing Nicole in one week and making a therapy appointment.

And out the door. What the hell did that do for me? I'm hustled off to his psychiatric nurse practioner for prescriptions and off to his wife therapist for her 15m of infinite wisdom: "Take a 10m walk, take one thing at a time . . . " Because, you know, I'm not a fucking moron who hasn't had successful and useful cognitive-behavioral therapy before. I've a Master's degree for Christ's sake. I'm not an idiot. I think it's time to take things into my own hands, to shut the hell up, dust myself off, and get out there and do what needs to be done. No more cowering. No more safety net. No more allowing myself to be weak. I need to muscle through. No excuses. If I'd done that, I would have never ended up in the hospital or lost my job.

And to top off my day? My fucking computer won't boot. I'm so screwed.

I Don't Know Anymore

I don't know what I'm doing or how I'm feeling anymore. I'm down. A minor depression maybe. Maybe something more. Brought on by days of heavy bleeding and IBS. That's enough to put anyone down for the count for a few days. I'm broken out like I'm 16 again. The bathtub's been stopped up, so I haven't showered. I feel disgusting and out of place and unable to face the world. I don't want to go out. I don't particularly want to do anything. I'm definitely going through the motions when it does come time to do things. I'd be hard-pressed to get myself beyond the front door today.

On a brighter note, I've been turning over the idea of a book in my head for, oh, a year or three now, but I hadn't considered doing anything with it because I had no characterization, and thus, no plot. There was no motivating force behind one of the main characters. Except that suddenly, today, while starring testily into the bathroom mirror, the character's motivation burst full bloom in my mind. Suddenly, I knew exactly what had happened to him, who he was, and what he wanted, or didn't want, and why he had become what he'd become. Moreover, it gave me a better handle on the other main character. I've a tertiary character that's still vague to me, but a little research might help me flush that out. Do I have any energy to do anything with all this, though? I doubt it. Which upsets me more, and it becomes a whole cycle of "I want to be a writer, but I don't write," along with accompanying feelings of guilt and failure. Guilt for wasting what talent I might have and fear of failing. Then there's the commitment and time it would take, and the game you play if you want to publish, and maybe all the work would be for naught. Then what? Then I wasn't good enough--just like I thought. (And if that's not self-fulfilling prophecy thinking, then I've never had cognitive-behavioral therapy.)

Otherwise, there's nothing much to say. I see the psych Thursday, I think. I don't even know what I want to discuss with him. I'm so very meh about the whole treatment process. I don't care about the drugs, I don't want to take them, and I'm fed up with being "sick." I should be better than this, I should be bigger than this, I should be able to handle this on my own. Treatment and meds have never, ever helped me. And I've tried a few. Effexor, Paxil, Zoloft, Prozac, Topomax, Wellbutrin, and now Remeron, Lamictal, Klonopin. I don't even know if I can put any faith into a diagnosis. I feel like I'm in that revolving door of doctors and meds, where you wait 30m for your scheduled appointment to sit 15m with your psych who tells you next to nothing while handing you a few more prescriptions across his desk. All the while you're barely keeping your head above water with all the doctor bills and prescription costs.

Still Here

I am . . . here. Which is to say that I have nothing to say, despite feeling somewhat better than I have, mentally speaking, since the hospital. My body, however, not so fine. First period in fourth months, non-stop IBS during the day . . . it's really more than I can be buggered to say that I actually swept up some and have a load of laundry going down in the basement. The dishes and dinner are waiting, but I can't quite bring myself to that yet.

Overall, I'd say I'm very . . . meh. With a bit of restlessness and random anxiety thrown in. Maintenance was supposed to be by to fix the tub and oven. No show, of course. And I've been sitting here waiting for them all day. Thus, no doubt, the anxiety. I still don't like the idea of having to deal with strangers or having people in my "space." I actually was resistant enough to the idea of leaving the new apartment that I rescheduled last week's psych appointment for this week. And I still don't want to go.

I don't care to write anymore either. That's be supplanted by reading. I'm reading again. And with that, the writing's dried up. There is nothing intelligent in my brain to say, no spark of personality to put forth. These are clunky words put together by a clunky mind and typed by clunky fingers. We're broke. I have no job. I have no idea what I'm doing with myself. Epic fail.

By the by, when I went down to do the laundry, I really took a good look at the basement, and promptly wished I hadn't. There are, I'm certain, the largest cockroaches I've ever seen down there. They're all dead, which is a good sign, I guess, but dear god. As long as they stay down there. The spiders are welcome to them.

Back to moving around the apartment and random futzing with this or that to pretend I'm being productive. If I were working, this would be one of those days when I couldn't be buggered to do my work because I'm too distracted and unable to focus. My body feels leaden, and I'm utterly unmotivated, except that I owe it to Jb to do something. Feh.