Meh.

I haven't been writing in a while. Haven't been taking my meds lately either. I just can't be buggered. Which sounds blithe, but really, I mean that there's something inside me that simply doesn't care. I don't know what motivates it, what brings it into being, but there's a level of apathy that's so profound that I, very honestly, do not care. Last week, I didn't care enough to eat. This week and last, I don't care enough to take my meds. Tell me how that works?

Then there are days I'm fine, except for a mild Eeyore down. Something constant and stable in its own way. But that's a day or two, and it's deceiving. I feel like I don't need all this kid glove handling. Still, Jb says I've been up and down. And I haven't been doing things I normally do. I'm trying to lose myself in books and sleep. And it pisses me off. Because I thought I was better. I wanted to be better. I want to be better. I just want this all to end.

Joint Venture

Jb and I had a talk yesterday. He doesn't think I should stop blogging; he thinks it's a good outlet for me and useful. I tried to express to him, though, that being laid bare and not being allowed into his thoughts about what's been going on is a little more vulnerable than I want to be. His response was that he didn't think he was supposed to respond to what I said here. I told him, on the contrary, I'd really like his response, especially if he posted it here -- to help me see how my perception of myself or incidents synch up with his perception of them. He agreed to try this.

This all stems from the fight we had over the weekend. Sometimes, in fights, I can't give in. I simply can't let it go. My emotions are too ... overwhelming. I become extremely tenacious or confrontational. Because I need it fixed, or else my emotions and mind go a little crazy, turning toward types of thinking that I really shouldn't: about breaking up, about hurting myself, etc. Anyway, when I finally got Jb to open up enough to tell me what, exactly, was wrong, he came back with this statement that I was always negative these days. I was negative about everything. And I felt, somehow, blind-sided. My knee-jerk reaction was to assert that I hadn't been negative all this time. But then, my belief in that became precarious. Had I been negative? Had it been something I couldn't see because I was so busy dealing inward with my own moods?

Having Jb comment on my posts, or on my emotional and mental state of mind, would help a great deal toward my own awareness, but it would also give me something to tell the psychiatrist. I can say I feel depressed, or I felt high as a kite, or I couldn't control my emotions, or half a dozen other things, but it's one thing to say how you feel or see yourself, and it's another to add, "And my boyfriends says I do this or that or the other." Since, we're assuming, this outside view of the situation is far more objective than my own inner view. Because that's what happens, isn't it? When you're inside the maelstrom, you can't see what's going on outside it. All you know is where you are, and all you can do is try to get through the worst of it.

And Away She Rides

I'm soaring right now. It's 11:53pm and my eyes want sleep, but inside, inside I'm wired. I've been like this most of the day, neither here nor there, not able to concentrate on any one thing. Spurts of productivity followed by spurts of a scatter shot mind. Tonight's trigger is Carbon Leaf, "Under the Wire," "Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat" and "The Girl and Her Horse." When Dar Williams used to send me flying with songs like "The Ocean" and "Iowa," I used to wonder if certain chords triggered certain states. If there was a correlation between sound and mood. If songs in the key of G were the ones most likely to set me galloping, and maybe those in the key of E, maybe those were the ones that sunk me. Sure, stress, seasonal change, major life changes, these are all triggers, but I swear that my daily triggers are much smaller: music, poetry, books, writing, ideas. I'm two for two today. I'm reading the kind of good, effortless writing that kills, sets the characters off in my head, until I'm doing as much fantasizing about the book as I am reading it. Ten pages read, twenty minute intersessions, lost in make believe and a vast inner world that's all too easy to slip into. And music, if it strikes me, I listen to over, and over, and over, ad nauseum. I can't get enough of the high it sends me on, of the thought of an open road, an open window, wind whipping fresh in my face. It's the runaways, and they're worse at night. Night drives are as much a trigger as the result of a trigger. They're my great escape, my run for the border. Something has to fill me up inside, freedom, miles, lights. And I want one tonight, but Jb can't keep up with me tonight. So I'll lie in bed, good and sweet, and my mind will go 'round and 'round, setting up scenarios, letting characters come to the fore, focusing on phrases, the repetition of words, until words are only sound, and the sounds become foreign, and I keep repeating them, repetition bringing them back 'round to meaning. But there's no sleep in that, not until my body simply gives way, or my mind runs out.

About Damn Time

Finally sat down and wrote the prologue to a three-book series I've plotted out. About damn time. I'm almost somewhat happy with it.

Couple pages down. Couple hundred more to go.

Procrastination

I'm anxious. I just got up to open the door and look outside. I'm pacing around the apartment. Can't play WoW. Can't play Fable. Can't watch tv. Can't read Nora Roberts, and dammit if Blood Brothers isn't a compelling read. But none of it's sticking. Ten minutes here, ten minutes there, too much thinking. I'm feeling that itching beneath the skin, the one you can't scratch, the one that makes you jittery, like you've had too much caffeine. I feel like there's something I'm missing. I know there's something I'm not doing. I'm not writing. I should be writing. I have the first two scenes clear as day in my head, have had them since last week, and they're not down on paper yet. What's the problem? Why the fear? Who cares if they come out good or bad. What's the harm in writing them. But I'm not. And I know I should be. And so I'm caged, between want and fear.

Monday

I always go into the week determined to do better, do more, feel better. The past several nights I've had problems getting to sleep, staying up as late as 3am. Not surprisingly, I'm sleeping later in the mornings--until almost 11am. When I wake up, I'm still groggy for several hours. I've read more than one article in the past that directly links insomnia and hypersomnia to episodes of depression and mania, so I think it's important to be noting this change in my sleeping habits. For example, right now, I could really use a nap. I slept until 11am, and at 3pm, I'm already tired.

Having said that, I started off on the right foot for once on a Monday. I spent much of the morning fleshing out characterizations for the series I'd like to write. I think I've done enough characterization to actually start writing. On a side note, one of the reasons I think I'm staying up later is the books. For some reason, at night, once the lights are out and the tv quiet, I start hashing over the plot and characters in my head, imagining scenes, narrating them to myself. It's an important process, though, and I hate the idea of curbing it, as these characters are real to me, and they talk to me and reveal themselves to me during these times.

I have also found the paper for the printer and envelopes. That means I can begin typing up a letter to HR telling them to shove it, as they've given me no further documentation of my unpaid leave of absence, a bill for the amount they overpaid me while on FMLA, information about Cobra, or a copy of my file, all of which I asked for back on May 9th. Cutting all ties makes me nervous, though, as I'm still able to get insurance with them for roughly $100 a month. I'm terrified of not having insurance, of being unable to pay for my prescriptions or the necessary doctor visits. Hopefully, unemployment and Cobra will help with that. I also plan to send in an application to the county for their adult pharmacy care program.

On top of that, management is bringing in inspectors to check out the apartments tomorrow. Ours is really fairly clean. I need to do dishes, pick up some trash. But overall, far more clean than our old apartment. I attribute this to the fact that we've actually tried to keep the place clean and to the fact that we now have hardwood floors. With Jb's dirty, outside work, there was no hope for keeping a carpet clean, add to that a sick cat, and well, good luck. Our new cat, however, is so low-maintenance, we're stunned. She leaves no mess, except right around her litter box. But that's very manageable.

I am, I admit, starting to feel a little overwhelmed by all the things I need to do. And the anxiety and IBS is there in spades. I'm due for another appointment with my PCP for blood work and with my gastro doc for a check-in. I really don't want to do either. And I've an appointment with the county to reassess my need for county assistance on the 14th. And a class on bankruptcy at the end of the month. In the meantime, we get by as best we can, and Kat Eggleston's "One More Step" is my theme song:

So you walk like you've never faltered
So you move like you still had faith
Head down and a turned up collar
Through a string of long, hard days
Walking through the darkest passage
Though you saw no light ahead
And your greatest act of courage
Was in taking one more step.

So you raise your voice in sorrow
'Til you heard no other sound
Saw nothing but your own shadow
With your eyes turned toward the ground
And when at last some kindness found you
Then it was as though you had slept
And the crowd in the dark around you
Were all taking one more step.

Oh, the warmest of standing water
It may some day come to freeze
So you'll tell your sons and your daughters
How to live with times like these
Tell them when their hearts are frozen
To trust their feet instead
When there is nothing left but motion
And taking one more step.

When we find that we are laughing
And we're running in the sun
Then we know that we still are breathing
And the longest night is done
And finally resting from the battle
Wondering where our feet have led
Amazed at how we traveled
By taking one more step.

Lost

There's a Firefly quote that's coming to mind today:

Inara: (to Simon) You're lost in the woods - we all are, even the captain. The difference is he likes it that way.
Mal: No, the difference is the woods are the only place I can see a clear path.

I feel like I'm lost in the woods these days, like I can't see my clear path. I stumble around my days, the apartment, looking for things to do, but unable to focus enough to do them. Jb's on my case again about not doing anything around the apartment other than cooking, bills, and groceries. These days, that's a lot to me. It's difficult enough for me to sit down and write up a list of groceries for 13-14 days worth of meals, but now that our budget's so tight, I have to add in the math, the coupon/circular, the adjusted cost, how many meals I can stretch one pound of meat. I know useless things, like eggs cost $2, milk $3.50, butter $4.50, cheese $5, unless you find a 2 for $6 sale. Sales on meat are deceiving, and unless you get there early, they're gone. It takes me all day to create a list.

I'm also lost as to what to do with myself. I once saw a clear path: Master's in Writing, writer. Then that diverged and I threw a possible PhD in Rhetoric in there, afraid I couldn't write. Then even that branched off to library work, my job at the library downtown, thoughts about a Master's in Library Science. But every time I saw a clear path, it split on me, until I had no path, only the woods closing in around me, and the knowledge that I was scared and unhappy. Now, I've lost everything: all direction, any clear path. And shouldn't that be freeing? But now I'm pigeonholed: "unstable," "bipolar," "irrational," "emotional," "depressed," "anxious," "unemployed." It's a loss of control and power, and I'm floundering. I can't see the tress for the forest.

I re-read those first two paragraphs, and they don't even make sense to me. Everything is disjointed. I'm starting to sleep more, later. Napping. I am swinging back down into a depression. In one of McMann's web pages he talks about going into the doctor to talk about his moderate depression, or his major depression, or the minor depression on top of his major depression, as if depression were a house of blocks that could be built. It's like a Dave Carter song:

One fine morning when my ship comes in
Gonna pack my fortune, take it home again
Stack my sorrows like stones until
I've built me a mansion on a high, high hill.

Depression is so full of metaphor. And sometimes I wonder if that isn't why while depressed and even manic, I've read that so many of us turn to music, poems, lyrics, like magpies, constantly murmuring others words in our heads, over and over, as if they could speak for us when we can't even speak for ourselves. It's like the butterfly in Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn:

You know better than to expect a butterfly to know your name. All they know are songs and poetry, and anything else they hear. They mean well, but they can't seem to keep things straight. And why should they? They die so soon.

And this is where it begins to get tragic for me. This whole post--useless. Rambling. Incoherent. I can't remember my point, I can't remember my metaphors, all I hear in my head are lyrics, poignant quotes, and all I feel is this upwelling need for meaning, somewhere, somehow. Sometimes I think the only thing that mattered to me was the stint I spent teaching. Peter S. Beagle again:

Only reason I've lasted this long is I had this stupid job teaching beautiful, useless stuff to idiots.

And what writer would depend on every other writer to supply her own words? But I can't use them now, and I fumble. Everything is subject-verb-object with a conjunction thrown into the mix, usually the same conjunctions. So I might as well end this with one last quote from The Little Hours by Dorothy Parker:

I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more.

And that's my mind these days. That's me.

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.

10:48 a.m. Nada

Didn't feel like writing yesterday, which is... meh. First time in two weeks I haven't felt like writing, and I don't know if that's the first sign of a change in mood, or no. I know it's the one thing Marya Hornbacher notes in her book as a telltale sign, and I can verify that one of the ways I knew I was sick was that I couldn't read or write.

Before the hospitalization, I was a voracious reader, going through the used books my mother sent me like they were M&Ms. I could finish one in two days reading only on the train during my commute and at lunch. I'm a Writing Intensive English major with a Master's in Writing and a concentration in Teaching & Pedagogy, as well as Creative Nonfiction. I've worked in a library on and off for over five years. I've taught college level English Composition I, II, and III. I have a certificate in teaching Adult Literacy. I've been a tech writer and a non-profit public relations writer.

I am not the kind of person who does not read.

Writer's block, however, happens. But it's the depression that takes all desire to write away from me, and I've been too depressed for years to take up that task. My writing comes out strong when I'm hypomanic, riding the edge of energy and anger. But now, words come slow and dumb, and even this blog reads clunky to me. In the hospital, I thought, "What a good opportunity to write about something important, to do a bit of creative nonfiction," and maybe one day I will, but at the time, I couldn't even bother to ask for pencil and paper. We weren't allowed pens. And there was a sort of respected silence, as if we were all in jail, and you didn't dare ask why someone was in there, or if it was voluntary of involuntary.

This lack of desire to write, to have anything to say, nor to read... it worries me most. I've a box of books my mother sent me, and I haven't even cracked it open. I tell myself I don't have time for them with the move in the next week. But part of that is justification for not reading. My greatest secret pleasure has always been women's magazines, but even in the hospital, and even now, I can't flip through them and retain anything. The glossy pictures hold no interest for me, and the spicy headlines no longer make me flip, almost compulsively, to page 112.

Dorothy Parker has always been a poet I've been able to relate to in my moods, though, and often I find myself repeating bits of poetry, like a magpie who collects shiny strings of lyrics, poems, sayings. If it weren't for the last line of the poem, Ms. Parker might have been spot on in her "Symptom Recital:"

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love again.

There's no falling in love again, but the symptoms, those came from a women who knew what it meant to fantasize about suicide, to try it herself, someone who knew depression, and it shines clear as day in that poem. These days, like Parker herself, I can't help but feel that that my "world," as well as my words, "is but a bunch of tripe."

9:59 a.m. Morning

Crawled back into bed around 7 and slept until 9:59 a.m. I don't know if this is a good sign, or if it's merely the fact that the phone rang three different times waking me each time. I assume the latter, but I could be wrong. The credit card companies are beginning to call, circling like dogs, hoping to get blood from a stone.

And that's the problem with being mentally ill for a long period of time. You lose almost everything. This particular bout of depression started in June 2008 and was coupled with IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome), which made the whole thing twice as difficult. I'd have anxiety attacks on the way to work, I'd throw up outside the metro, I'd have to stop halfway to work to use the bathroom, I even had an "accident" once. Sometimes, I couldn't even leave the house. There's nothing more humbling and incapacitating than being unable to control your bodily functions. Then there was the depression on top of it, or wound up in it, and there were days the depression was so thick it was like struggling through deep water, and I couldn't leave the bed.

Soon enough, I had exhausted my Family Medical Leave, though my doctor supported my need to be out of work intermittently as I dealt with both the IBS and the depression. But work only has so much patience with these matters, and I could see the moment my boss and HR began to treat me as if I was a liar and lazy, instead of incredibly sick. My boss began withholding work from me, and my job satisfaction plummeted. So did my self-esteem. It was cyclic, and only fed the depression. Eventually, she took me down to HR to formally reprimand me for what she called "abuse of sick leave," the terms of which said I was not to miss work or be late for over a month. That effectively severed any ability for me to make follow-up appointments with my PCP or my psychiatrist. I was so overwrought at my loss of control, at how far the illness had taken me, and my inability to live up to my supervisor's expectations that I had my breakdown in the HR office. I went into the hospital that night. It took them nearly nine hours to admit me.

When the psychiatric intake social worker began asking me about how I felt, about whether I had suicidal ideation, if I had a plan, I had to ask Jb to leave the room. I didn't want him to know how far down I'd gone, how very lost I was, how out of control. It was after the Heath Ledger overdose, and overdose was foremost in mind. I remember her asking me, "Why?" And I remember replying, rather bitterly, "It worked for Heath Ledger, didn't it?" She said, chastised, "Yes, yes, it did." And I could tell she took me more seriously then. I admitted to thoughts about cutting, about knives and razors, and fantasies about my sleep apnea machine, my CPAP. I'd lie in bed at night, put my mask on, wait for that first rush of air, and pretend it was a sort of poison gas, an euthanasia of sorts, from which I wouldn't have to wake up ever again.

I was in the hospital for nearly a week, partly because I entered right before a weekend and they don't discharge patients over the weekend, and partly because for the first five days, I didn't even consider going home, much less ask if I could. Instead, I wandered from room to room: the day room, the activities room, my room, the dining room, back and forth, down the halls and back. I didn't speak for the whole first day, and then I couldn't stop crying. I was shaky and in shock. They'd taken me off all my meds, waiting for a diagnosis from the doctor and psychiatrist who made their rounds in the ward. Not everyone knows this, but even patients who go in voluntarily are put in a locked ward. You sign away the responsibility of your life for at least three days. After that, you can make a formal request to be discharged.

The hospitalization was my first, and while humbling beyond anything I'd experienced, it was also freeing -- to be in a place with people who understood, to know I wasn't alone, to know I wasn't even as bad off as some of the patients who'd been in the hospital again and again and again. Being depressed, having suicidal thoughts, it was normal in the ward, and something that us patients often talked about at night before snack and after our meds. Group therapy was a laugh, something I often left to go curl up in my bed, but those late night sessions with the other patients, those helped far more than anything else could have. I'd like to write more about the hospitalization, but I think that'll be another post. There's simply too much to tell.

Anyway, it was three months after the hospitalization that I could even begin to think about a future, and that's when my job forced me into a voluntary resignation. I'd already been on unpaid leave of absence, but without money for all that time, there was nothing to do but let the credit cards go, to batten down and focus on the necessities: food, rent, my meds. And all the while, Jb supported me, even when I lost everything, even when I took him down with me. Now we're on food stamps, the county has me on temporary disability and cash assistance, and that in itself is a coup, as I've found they'd rather not help you than help you.

I've lost my train of thought now, and so I'll end this post here. I know I'll have to write more about the hospitalization at some point, but I think it'll come in fits and starts. My writing is shoddy at best these days, but I am writing, and that consoles me. Still, as I start feeling better and better, I worry about the day when I'll have to retake a useful position in society. And a fear flutters somewhere near my heart, and my stomach clenches to think about it. So not quite yet. Not quite yet. But maybe soon. Sooner than I'm ready for. I can't help but think: What if I can't hack it? What if the anxiety, the IBS, the stomach pain, the depression all come back? I know I'll be nearly manic the first few months: overworking, proving myself, charismatic among the other employees, perfectly charming with the customers. But then there'll come that fall, like a fall from grace, and I don't know how many more times I can handle that.

It reminds me of the Yeats poem, "The Second Coming":

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold

It's lines like that my brain seizes on, repeating them like a morbid mantra, over and over: things fall apart; the center cannot hold; things fall apart; the center cannot hold; things fall apart; the center cannot hold; I fall apart; I cannot hold.