Sunday, November 4, 2012

Apparently I'm crazy. Is this news to anyone else?

...crazy, I just cant sleep.
I'm so excited, I'm in too deep.

Or, maybe,

Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely.
I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue.
Worry, why do I let myself worry?
Wondering what in the world did I do?
I'm crazy for crying, and crazy for trying.

But definitely not that other one.

Crazy.  Crazy.  Crazy.  The word has lost all meaning.


questions in my mind

Why does my coconut water sometimes have the aftertaste of Tomato?

Why does my previously well-behaved rabbit keep peeing on things?

Why won't the weather admit that it's November?

Where is my mind?

Discuss.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Newsflash: I write blog posts when I am depressed.

I don't think I'm even slightly unique in this.  I do think, though, that it leads to having a choppy, downer-ing, not very readable blog.  So, sorry for that.  Given that I have no other outlet, though, it is what it is.

Because here's the thing: I am so fucking depressed.  Non-functional, refuse to bathe, can't quite remember why I care about food issues depressed.  This indicates to me that I am in crisis.  When I can entertain thoughts like, "well why don't I just go to Rally's?" something is very, very wrong.

Just getting dressed in the morning and dragging my useless carcass to the office in the morning is a major feat - forget actually getting anything done while at work.  I think part of me wants to get fired so that I won't have to go through the motions of even this minimal level of functioning.  Logically I know that getting fired would cause a domino effect of terrible badness.  But then, logic left the building around July.

All of this is making me wonder: can I really live an unmedicated life?  I've been off the junk for a year now, and it has been quite a year.  What with adjusting to a new job, having my dad in the hospital, buying and moving into a house, and so on, it's no surprise that I've had my share of mood swings and crazyfeelings.  But none of that accounts for this; this unrelenting lack of hope or motivation or enjoyment.

Following the rabbit hole right down to its black, tarry center, I land here: I've been on all the drugs, and none of them work.  SSRIs and SNRIs make me physically ill, often to the point of not being able to leave the house.  NDRIs turn my manageable anxiety into full blown panic disorder and agoraphobia.  Tri-cyclics and mood stabilizers turn me into a zombie, even less functional than I am currently.  MAOIs, which I have not tried, have a much too scary list of side-effects.  Herbal remedies, yoga, and the like are sort of like putting a band-aid on a sucking chest wound.

Granted, I am not in the best place to be looking for answers.  (Black hole pit of endless despair = not exactly conducive to logical thinking about mental health treatment.)  But really?  I cannot find an answer, or even a potential answer.  I feel like I could get back on track if there was just something to try.  So tell me, oh imaginary world of the internet - is there something to try?

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Ants.

There are ants on my studio wall.  They move feverishly, trying to Get Somewhere.

They run straight up, toward the crown molding - then, stop.  Turn.  Jet across at a 45 degree angle.  Turn back.  Arrive where they began.  Start again.

They must Find It.  Now!  Where is it?  WHERE IS IT?

And it occurs to me: I should show these ants to a confidant who can tell me whether or not they are really there, or if instead my thoughts have have begun to crawl along the wall.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

when it rains...

Parents are funny things. You love them, you hate them, you want to strangle them, you love them some more. There is really no way out of this cycle. Your best hope is to be detached enough that you can function as your own person. At least, that's how it is for me.

I can only really speak for my parents, and what it is to be their child. Together, they make one somewhat functioning person. Individually... well, there's a reason that they'll never get divorced. Individually, they barely exist. My sister and I have, in ways, functioned as parents to them and to each other since we were small. As they become older and less competent, this role grows.

My dad is in the hospital again. He had a spinal fusion a few weeks back and is still recovering, still can't walk on his own. Now there are complications, the details of which remain unknown. Despite a lifetime of being overweight, alcoholic, and asthmatic, this is new. In our family, he has historically been "the healthy one."

His illness has caused yet another transformation in his personality. The first came after The Institution - it's stunning what anti-psychotic medication will do for someone who is, to put a point on it, psychotic. After that he was more stable. But he was still recognizable as my father. This... is something different. He is humble. He feels empathy. He is a new, third father who I do not yet recognize. And I can't help but wonder if he is going to die before this personality stabilizes, before I get to know him yet again.

When his illness began the catastrophist in me thought, "what if this is the beginning of the end?" Nothing that has happened since has indicated otherwise. The concept of my parents' mortality is not new to me, but now it is becoming tangible, fleshy. What I fear more than their deaths is their illness, their suffering.

This will likely sound selfish, but I worry most about how these things will affect my life, and my sister's life. Our society assumes that as our parents grow older we will take care of them. But there is another assumption upon which this is built, one that is rarely spoken: that our parents functioned as parents to us first. It's a sort of repayment "for everything they've done for me," right? No one wants to address what happens when that baseline assumption is simply untrue: when parents have left their children fractured, to climb out of a deep cave and into the harsh light of the world with no resources, no idea how to function as adults, blinking in the brightness of a harsh and unforgiving world. When we are left to learn it all ourselves, the hard way. Then what? Does the obligation remain to be a parent to your parents when it is not, in fact, reciprocal?

The answer seems to be that yes, it does.

I try to imagine what other people my age experience when the tables are first turned and it is they who care for their parents rather than vice versa. I can see how that would be disconcerting - traumatic even. I stare into the face of another challenge entirely: the knowledge that parenting myself has always been and will always be my own burden, and now the burden to care for them has become full fledged.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

a voice from beyond.

It just started pouring outside.

I looked out the window as I heard it begin, and shouted, "you son of a bitch."

See, the weather has taken to turning foul whenever it's time for me to leave the house. I have to leave soon, so naturally it has decided to rain. Sun poking through be damned; not in my square mile. Elsewhere, sunshine. Here, the devil's wife is crying her eyes out.

I'm guessing you'd given up on me? It's not as if I couldn't be found elsewhere on the internets. I'm freaking EVERYWHERE really. Why wouldn't I abandon my one personal blog?

But I haven't. Try as I might, I will probably never really give it up - or tend to it properly.

Like right now for instance. I must be on my way to work some Social Justice in the form of scanning, and uploading, and file naming.

But I'll be back, eventually.