9:59 a.m. How Do I Feel Today?

It's one of those "activities" they make you do in therapy and at the hospital. In the hospital, you rated yourself on a scale of 1 to 10. In therapy, I had a sheet of faces with the names of different emotions beneath them. Often, there wasn't an emotion that ever fit how I felt, or I couldn't quite name how I felt. On a 1 to 10 scale? About a 3 today. I'm feeling numb. I don't care about much. There will be no shower today. I will put my hair up in a makeshift bun with a hairband. I will not unpack--something I haven't really done since we moved in. I will not play on the computer. I will not read a book. If I do either, it will be for 10 minutes, maybe less. I may turn on the tv, but I will not watch it. If Jb comes home and asks anything of me, I will be upset and put out. I'm supposed to make a grocery list today. I will wait until the last minute to do it. When we go to the store, I will shuffle around from aisle to aisle without really seeing anything. I will not want to be there. I do not care about eating, though I will when I'm hungry later. I ate half of one of Jb's Nutty Bars because I couldn't be bothered to make anything more complicated. Jb will probably be upset that I did. I don't much care. He will take that as me not caring about him, or his feelings, but it's simply apathy. He can be mad at me if he wants to--he often is these days--and I don't care. I do not want to write. That is how I feel today.

7:43 a.m. Med Check

"Me and my medicine we are
So hard to take
Me and my medicine we are
So hard to take"

Kate MacLeod, "Me and My Medicine"

Meds: Took 'em. Didn't want to, but did.

Jb spent half the morning, I think, slamming every drawer in the file cabinet to find every single freakin' pen because I said I needed one to make a grocery list. I swear it's the stupid, petty things like this that make me want to give it all up. Why bother taking my meds? It's not as if it helps anything. I'm still down. Jb and I still fight. And almost always it ends up being my fault: I've snapped at him, I can't control my moods. It makes a person tired.

Breakfast: I don't feel like eating.

Now back to bed so I can sleep out the day rather than deal with it. I'm too damn tired. And again, that's just another way of saying I'm depressed, down, not up to dealing with the day.

Dreams: Vivid, but I don't remember them.

2:07 p.m. Upkeep

After a bout of depression and mania, I think--understandably--that when a person starts feeling better, they become leery of certain things (i.e. communing with Sharp Items of Peril (TM)). My hygiene is the first thing to suffer when I hit a depressive episode, and I'm still having trouble with physical upkeep, even as I'm straining to continue with my mental upkeep. That often overwhelms the more earthly need to keep up appearances. But when your boyfriend looks at your legs and deems them "furry," that's a hint--perhaps--that some things have gone on too long. Especially when you, yourself, look down and wonder how on earth things got so out of hand.

I knew today I was going to make myself take a shower, shave, shampoo. This doesn't sound like a monumental task by any means, I know, but it's something I've had to work myself up to. Not the shower or shampoo (well, possibly a little), but certainly the shave. There was a point, not overly long ago, when I stood looking in the mirror, trying to keep the pressure in my head in, and wondering how everyone couldn't see it throbbing to get out when they looked at me. It was one of those times when I understood implicitly why cutters cut. And Jb's razor was on the sink. And I picked it up. And I looked at myself in the mirror. And I wanted to cry so hard and shout out anything to alleviate the pressure in my head that I took the razor, and rather than cut myself, cut through a few fingers worth of hair, chopping it off without any regard for how it'd look. Now, on muggy, humid days, I have this little curl in the middle of my forehead that makes me feel like a Parkerism:

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very, very good
And when she was bad,
She played with Sharp Instruments of Peril (TM).

Needless to say, there was no temptation today. Possibly because I was too busy trying to keep the new bathtub from overflowing long enough to shower, shampoo, and shave. (Apparently, it has problems that require Drain-o-like finesse. Yet another perk of living in a house from the 40's.) There was some wary speculation of each other between the razor and myself. But we came to some sort of truce that seemed, blessedly, normal. I didn't press my luck, though, and was very quick about everything, which was just as well when the tub began backing up on me.

Post Secret

Found this on Post Secret yesterday.



I'm really not sure how I feel about it, but it stopped me cold.

Vivid Dreams, Recurring Themes

Spent some time last night listening to some people talk about their children and babies, and started up a side conversation with a buddy about how I didn't think I was mommy material. So, of course, last night this leaked into my dreams. And so did a few other things I wasn't prepared for.

In the first bit of my dream, I've had a kid with my ex, a little boy, but I haven't been raising him for some reason. And the first time I see him, he's a little man--about 5 or 6? -- in jeans and a dusty, light blue polo, just like the one his dad is wearing. He has wispy blond hair for some reason, though neither me or my ex do. And we're all meeting at the movies, where I discover this kid--my kid--is the sweetest thing, and I've missed this terrible thing all these years, and now I'm dedicated to setting up time to be with him. Because we fit together perfectly.

The next dream is the gender bender, three-way, recurring theme dream. In this type of dream, there is always a love triangle, and I'm always the third wheel, the odd one out, the one looked over, the one who loses. The girl who usually wins the man or the dream is a girl I once knew in grade school--almost always. I don't know why it's always her, though I understand the underlying fears and issues of the dream for the most part.

Anyway, in this version of the dream, I'm male. The girl I once knew has had a child, my child, I think, and we were married once. We definitely aren't anymore, and I'm desperate to setup time to visit with my child--because her family is keeping him from me. At the same time, the dream warps forward and I'm in Dylan McDermott's house. Apparently, this is her finance. Like two men who've loved the same woman, we sort of eye each other, then come to a tentative sort of truce for the sake of the wedding, the woman, and the child involved.

Somehow, I find that their relationship is on rocky ground, but they plan to go through with the wedding anyway. The reception is a mess. Me and my friends are sequestered at a table far distant from the wedding party, and I'm not allowed to see my kid. I raise a ruckus about it, the bride's parents make it difficult for me, and my friends do everything they can to sabotage the reception. Eventually, the bride's parents try to make us pay for the meal. I reply, "My parents paid $11,000 for your daughter's first wedding. I think you owe me a meal."

Chaos ensues. Including a chase through some underground sewer. Don't ask me about that one. Then suddenly we're at the bride's house. All the reception favors have arrived late, they're too big, they're not right. The bride sits wilted in her chair. The fiance is nowhere to be seen. I approach her, crook my finger, and whisper in her ear, "I want to set up time to see my son." She nods, exhausted, as if she's given in. I crook my finger again and whisper, "I wish you all the luck with your new husband." She replies, bitter, "As if I could with the wedding we've had."

And then, I wake up.

8:01 a.m. Med Check

Lamictal and Wellbutrin taken. Breakfast: salmon cream cheese and bagel. I've taken my pills and eaten--like a good girl. I'm fairly miffed at having to do this and beginning to resent it.

Everybody's Comin' to Get Me

Last night, paranoia hit me hard. It's been hitting me on and off for a long while, though it gets stronger and weaker at times. But it's only last night that I think I started seeing it for what it is. Half the time it manifests itself in the usual ways: thinking people are always watching me, talking about me behind my back, thinking mean thoughts about me, conspiring about me at work. Now I'm starting to think it manifests itself heavily in my relationships. I start thinking things about my significant other like, "Oh, he doesn't really love me. I just want him to admit what I already know: he doesn't actually love me." And there's paranoia about what they're doing, thinking, mostly in regards to me or how it affects me. Are they cheating? Would they ever? Do they want to? What are they hiding on their computers? What are they hiding in their lives? Why don't they ever want to spend time with me? The computer/tv/object must be more important than I am. Maybe I'm not capable of being loved. Etc., etc.

My thoughts were on the mental downward train last night because Jb was on the computer most of the night, watched a tiny bit of tv with me, then zonked out. I immediately started in with the whole, "He never wants to spend time with me anymore. He must not love me. The computer and tv are more important than me. This is just like my last relationship. I'm losing him. What if he cheats on me? He probably doesn't love me anymore. He probably hates me and thinks I'm crazy." Which he should when I think things like that. Because, you know, he couldn't possibly be tired because he's had a long week at work in 90 degree weather, which would be enough to sap anyone. So this becomes just another symptom to bring up to my psych doctor.

Also, I willfully didn't take my meds last night. I didn't want to. I didn't want to have to be taking meds, and certainly not so damn many. Most of the time, I'm extremely faithful to the idea of being med compliant. But last night, I was so down with the paranoid thinking that I didn't see how it mattered if I took meds or not. I didn't care. I didn't care about me.

On a better note, I did take my meds this morning. Lamictal and Wellbutrin down. As far as my sleep schedule, tried to go to bed around 10:30-ish. Not sure when I actually got to sleep. Slept until about 10:30-ish this morning. 12 hours. A little too long, maybe.