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Friday, November 25, 2011

Shaken, Not Stirred

Ever had a nightmare so profound that you can't shake it off? I've had many, leading me to such rational acts as telling my father not to go to a certain store for a week, and freaking out whenever he wore a certain shirt. Last night's was one for the books. The kind where you wake sweating, feeling nauseous and fairly certain you've been crying, and for the rest of the day you're on edge, praying nothing happens and afraid to do anything, lest it turn out to be real after all.

Warning: Parental Fear Trigger ahead.

The realism didn't help any. I was sitting in this very house alone, my grandmother in physical rehab, during Thanksgiving break, and got a phone call that my daughter had died. She'd been in a horrible car accident and a piece of iron had gone through her eye. Of course, countless times during this nightmare I got visuals of exactly that, of my child screaming in terror, and I was shattered. My child, one of my best friends, my favorite pet, my life's work, something that will never happen again in my life, gone. Just gone.

I was stricken with grief. I didn't want to live anymore, didn't want to eat, and sometimes I was in shock, like I'd just blink and she'd walk through the door. In fact, part of me insisted it had to be a nightmare, and I'd look at the door, knowing she was about to come in, but she didn't. There was no closure, and I couldn't handle it. I couldn't see her again, it didn't feel real, and how was I supposed to go looking for a job when I my world had just died?

And I was still alone, but more alone than ever. My family was worried, but nobody did anything, as always. If you don't talk about it, it goes away, except for me it wasn't going away and it never would.

I was told I should move to the city and try to get a job, now there wouldn't be anything holding me back, and all I could think was I don't care if she was 'holding me back,' I don't feel free, I feel lost. I had the thought that I could finally move to California, that I'd never have to see my ex again, but if I expected to feel relief, I didn't. What if I did move? I'd be living with someone who has a child of her own, a daughter only a year younger than mine. Could I handle it? Would envy kill me? Self-pity? Would I get attached to someone else's child in a sad attempt to replace my own? Could I live with that? Would I ever be a functional human being again?

I didn't know, and I don't know. I woke sweating, nauseous, and spent, and I've spent all day dreading the possibility that my phone might ring, despite knowing that it didn't happen. When I walked into the kitchen this afternoon, I looked at the door, listening for her, and I knew she wouldn't come in. She's due home Sunday night.

I should have called my ex to talk to her, and for a while it seemed like the perfect solution, but I didn't think of it until nighttime, and at this hour, I'd be leaving a shaky-sounding voicemail begging to hear from my daughter in the morning. My ex doesn't return my calls when he has her, though. She doesn't call, and that would be infinitely worse than just trying to make it through the day, just reminding myself that even if the memories of the dream feel as real as any other memories I have, none of it happened.

I still feel sick and exhausted, I don't want to drive anywhere, and I hate that anything that takes my mind off it is only temporary.

So one time, at the cheese factory, someone walked up to me in my new hoodie, and without preamble, cut the ties that pull the hood tight because we weren't allowed to have any loose items or jewelry above the waist. So I clipped a stuffed turtle to my belt loop in protest, and no one ever said a word against it.

I made that damn turtle a raincoat out of an empty bag of latex gloves, and it worked with me for over a year. Yes, I've told that story before, but I told it better this time.

Monday, October 31, 2011

It's All In Your Head

I had forgotten about the anxiety part of depression, for the most part. Yes, I remember that one time in high school where my mind was spinning with so many thoughts that I simply blacked out, and yes, I've had sleepless nights since, but that doesn't hold a candle to actually spending four nights off my main depression/anxiety medication.

If you think it's all in my head, you're right. I'm trapped in here with it, and though I've never had a true manic episode, thank God, there's such a fine line between the two sides of bipolar that the depression is all worked up and I can hardly hold a thought.

I'll regret posting this later.

I'll call myself an idiot, then remind myself that I'm not technically stupid, and that there are worse things than this. I'm alive, right? Those thoughts won't comfort me, but they'll keep me busy for a while not wishing myself dead. Because really, do dead people care if they leave behind a handful of grieving and guilt-riddled people? I think not.

But I'm not wanting to die, so that's a moot point. The point is that I managed to sleep for three hours, which I'm proud of, before being trapped in my head in bed for the next two hours, messing up my covers, and thinking and rethinking the same things over and over.

How am I going to get a job, no one's hiring. I should shower and walk around town asking for a job today. On three hours sleep, on the edge of freaking out? Good luck, loser. I'm not a loser. No, I'm just a waste of space. No, you're not. You're right, this is unhealthy thinking, you should take the day off and try to relax. relax how?! I can't freaking relax! Think about something calming, think about how well that writing is going. I wanna write right now! Ugh, five a.m., she's asleep. You should be asleep. Why can't I sleep?!

Only say all those sentences at the same time repeatedly for two hours.

So hopefully my doctor will call in my prescription today, because if this is day four, I'm not going to make it to my appointment at the end of November.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

I'm No Quitter

I did not quit taking my medicine. I do not enjoy crippling depression, despite how glamorous it might seem on the surface to be reduced to a pile of sobbing, third-day-shirt self-hatred for no apparent reason. Not that I don't have several damned good reasons to be depressed, like my car being out of service, being unemployed in a small town and required to search for a full-time job to get food stamps, etc.

So, funny story: My mail goes to my sister's house. She went on "vacation" and holed up in her home with her husband and their dogs, and temporarily cut off all communication with the outside world. Can't say I blame them. Unfortunately, during their solitary week, a letter came for me saying to reapply for my insurance and food stamps or they were cutting me off. I didn't get the letter, didn't respond by their date, and lost my medical insurance. Hahahaha, good one, right?

So I scraped up enough money for two of my three medications, but the third cost $99 before tax, so I didn't get that one. I did, however, get my ass in gear to get my insurance reinstated. What's really funny *chuckle* is that all this coincided with my prescriptions expiring *haha* and my doctor doesn't like to renew them without seeeing me *snicker* but I couldn't afford a doctor's appointment! Hahaha!

Well, my insurance is reinstated because my unholy terror of being left without my medications was highly motivating. Unfortunately, another of my medications expired, and though I  was finally able to get the $99 one (at the bargain price of a single dollar), I didn't take it for a few weeks, so it'll take time to build back up in my system. Because it would be too easy if they were instant-happy pills, which to my knowledge don't actually exist.

Remember I mentioned once losing my train of thought when stressed? I could reread what I've written, but I'm feeling pretty apathetic right now, which is a preferred state, so I'm not going to mess that up. The complete blanking of the mind is a relief.

So one time, at the Career Center, I applied to work at the cheese factory. Night shift. We'll see if they hire me, since I quit last time.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

9/11/11

Oh dear God, forgive me for having posted my annoyance before posting something about the losses and whatnot of September 11. I was sitting on the living room floor changing a diaper when we got a phone call and turned on the tv. I have now proved that it moved me enough to remember a decade later where I was when it happened. I also remember that the Spiderman movie was pushed back because the poster originally had the twin towers visible.


This picture  its owner, who is not me. 
99% of people won't re-post this because they're godless heathens who have no loyalty whatsoever to the Great and Powerful Oz United States.

99% of people who read this won't re-post it.

People who have backbones, people who read their friends' statuses, people who think abuse is bad and people who believe any number of honorable things will NOT repost this because they see it so much that it begins to lose meaning, or they're tired of reading that they're unworthy if they don't re-post or click like.

Am I really not your friend because I wouldn't post the third letter of my last name? I read the post, must I then prove my worth by responding to every chain-post on every friend's wall?

Yes, I added you to get friends on an application. I needed more neighbors, more vamps in my clan, whatever, and I added hundreds at a time a few times. But if you've been around more than a couple months, I've kept you for a reason. This is where you can pretend to get worried that I've stalked you, because I've visited your profile. I've kept up with your public status updates, and we probably have more in common than the games we choose to play, though that alone says something.

Some of you may have noticed we don't even play the same app anymore. Are you still a wizard? How many farms do you have? I may not remember, but when you change your avatar, I notice. I send a prayer your way when you ask, but I don't click like because hell, you don't know me. I don't know you, either. I know this guy's cat is stupid, but hilarious, I know this woman is beautiful in a way that implies she doesn't realize it, but it's all superficial.

Okay, so maybe I'm really not your friend.

I don't click that stuff for my family or my "real life" friends either, though. Really, Aunt So-And-So? You're going to delete everyone who doesn't have the backbone to re-post a copy/pasted, recycled, mass-produced comment? Delete me, then.

In "real life" I'm one of those people who's quiet so much of the time that people forget I'm there. They either assume I know everything and tell me nothing or tell me things several times because they're sure no one has mentioned it. Thanks, Dad. You told me about your congestion (read: constipation) medicine when you called two hours ago. I haven't forgotten. No, Grandma, I wasn't told that my cousin is having a bridal shower tomorrow, I did not plan on going and I have nothing to give her.

Don't re-post this if you don't care. Don't re-post it if you're too busy. Don't re-post it simply because the title has challenged you, or because you labor under a belief that people will think you uncaring or unpatriotic if it doesn't immediately grace your Facebook wall.

If it pisses you off, however, you may re-post it to share another example of how much stupidity exists on the internet. You may also re-post it if you think it makes a good point, or if the whim takes you, or if you're bored.

And remember, even though 99% of my readers WILL NOT RE-POST THIS, between 28% and 76% of statistics are made up on the spot anyway. So sayeth I.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

A Shmoo Can Do Most Anything


I have a somewhat important and completely random question for anyone who knows what a SHMOO is.

The shmoo was a creature from Al Capp's Li'l Abner, which became insanely popular on its introduction, and I'm trying to find a certain shmoo-themed song for my grandmother online somewhere. That would be "A Shmoo Can Do Most Anything" (1949) Music You Enjoy, Inc. Any video, or anyone who remembers the lyrics would be greatly appreciated. This is as much as I have:

a shmoo could do most anything because he is a shmoo
a shmoo could be most anything that you want him to
if he's in trouble he won't cry
he knows just how to multiply

If you don't know what a shmoo is, you should google it. Seriously. A single shmoo could fix the world. After destroying the economy, but I'll let you insert your own joke about that.

SHMOO MERCHANDISE AND TOYS
Image borrowed from http://www.deniskitchen.com/docs/new_shmoofacts.html

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Build a Bridge

I'm officially over living in the middle of nowhere.

I used to live just north of the middle of nowhere, but I don't anymore, and the difference is huge. I live in a town with no gas station or grocery store. There is, however, a hardware store, a bar, and at least five churches. For around five hundred people, if you count the area around the town, which actually belongs to no town at all. The church I've been to actually gets about twelve people on Sundays.

But I digress.

My current gripe is about the lack of Internet access. No one (including my grandmother, who is paying the bills while I'm unemployed) can afford it. The options are Verizon, which is apparently too pricey, and this guy who gets such a good connection that, for a fee, he'll give you the access code and you can use his. That's what everyone has. And yet, last month, for $40, the internet worked in five-minute blocks for maybe a total of an hour, maybe less. This needs no exaggeration to be true.

I have a smartphone, which is my lifeline because I can't in good conscience ask grandma to pay $40 (or, at dial-up speed, $30) for Internet that doesn't work. This leaves me unable to do a lot of things that I do online. Of course, I wasn't able to do them the past month and a half either, so the difference is that now we're not paying for it.

I love Facebook. Or, I loved Facebook. There's only so much to do on a mobile phone, which means my apps are all null and void. Can't check on my farm, restaurant, city, etc. on my phone. The family gets pissy when I don't announce things, such as the vacation I'm currently on, and earlier I got a message on one of my photos that my cousin was mad at me for being in California and not telling her. My cousin who lives in Vegas, and who'll be visiting California after I've left. Sorry, cuz, that I didn't FB-alert "the fam" that I'd be in the state.

I'm only here for a week, and my daughter is going to the mountains, the beach, Disneyland, Universal Studios, and Hollywood. I really can't visit the six-plus cities from San Diego to San Francisco where extended family resides, especially when I'm staying with the friend who paid to fly me out here, and I don't have a rental car.

Those are not complaints, by the way. Those are the fun part. The complaint is that my family is butthurt that I'm not doing my duty.

Back to the point. No Internet once I get home. I'm on a badass little two-screen setup right now that makes me want nothing more than to pull up Photoshop and multi-task the hell out of it to see what it can do, and I'm soaking it in while I'm here. In the evenings, between running around doing glamorous and exciting things, none of which involve trying to explain my life to people who don't try to explain theirs to me, either. [/bitterness]

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

One Time, at the Cheese Factory...

We had so much free time on the night shift that when the line went down, and everything was cleaned and swept, I built a camera out of spare cardboard and plastic. It was one of those large, heavy duty-looking things with a scoping lens, though of course, mine didn't actually scope. It had a thin strap to go around the back of my neck, and let me tell you, my coworkers were impressed. My significant other wasn't when I brought it home, but then, not everyone is creativity embodied. It looked like this:

Disclaimer: I don't own a Diana+ Retro Camera, more's the pity.

But mine was cardboard, plastic, and tape, instead of cool stuff.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Depression is Depressing. II

There's a lot of stigma that comes with clinical depression. My own father has said I'm just crazy, though admittedly he hasn't said it to my face in years. I mentioned having seen a school psychologist once and everyone suddenly got worried, leaning away as though I might suddenly attack them with my hat or the nearest utensil. No, actually, I had a bad case of senioritis, but details.

It's some of those everyday reactions that (pardon the pun) drive me crazy. At first, my being unhappy, for whatever reason, garnered a sharp, "Build a bridge and get over it." Pause for explanation: One of the differences between feeling depressed and clinical depression is the inability to get over it, and that there doesn't need to be a reason for it. All the happy thoughts in the world can't get rid of the hopelessness.

This is where I fight my own stigma. I live it, and I've lived it for over a decade, yet I still feel like it's some kind of personality defect. Everyone has hard times, but most don't collapse, unable to do anything but try to keep alive. Yes, we've all been there, and that's why it's so tricky, that's why it's so hard to understand. We've all wondered if the world would be better off without us, and we've all had that flickering thought that maybe if we lost control of the car for just a moment...

Would that flimsy-looking metal barrier stop the car? Would the car flip? Sink? Could I get the door open? Would anyone report it, or would I die? Would I want to be saved? Are my underwear clean in case the EMT has to cut my clothes off?

We all think that stuff. Right?

I tend to think it more than most. I hate the two bridges I cross four times a day going to and from my daughter's school. I wonder if there's any bank on the other side, or if I'd go straight into the water. I'm afraid that if I did lose control of the car, people would think I'd committed suicide and that would trump any good memories they might have of me; the ultimate failure.

The people who have dealt the most with me over the past years, who have seen the uncontrollable mood swings, still have problems completely understanding, and I mentioned this earlier before I started a side-rant. At first it was, "Build a bridge and get over it," which by the way makes it worse because God, I wish I could do that, you have no idea how much I wish I could do that.

Then people began to accept, but not being in my head, couldn't tell if I was legitimately, normally depressed, or uncontrollably, clinically depressed. The response became, "Did you take your medicine?" Yes, I did, actually. I do not like curling up in a corner somewhere crying while trying to convince myself that suicide will send me to hell, and an eternity of hell can't be much better, so I am highly motivated to take my medicine each night before bed. Plus, if someone randomly saved me from an attempt, I could end up crippled and unable to even try again.

Ridiculous? Possibly. Morbid? Probably, but if it works, it works.

I've gotten a new reaction now, and I think I'd have preferred the old, "Did you take your medicine?" The problem, apparently, is a misunderstanding. I'm having a hard time right now, what with being technically homeless and other things I don't feel like listing off. I think that gives me a right to claim legitimate, non-chemical depression. I got beat up by a cat yesterday (story for another time) and was mopey because a) I hurt, b) I'm sick, and c) it's gloomy outside, and well-meaning family started listing off basic blessings for me, as though they feared for my life. Yes, my daughter is healthy, aside from her illness, yes, I have a roof over my head and wheels under my butt, but I hurt, I'm sick, and I'm sweating a bit because I refuse to take off my sweatshirt so everyone can see that I wallked out of the house today with my shirt on inside-out.

Thank you all for reminding me that I have a place to sleep at night. (Though I'm sharing the bed and am so sick of Christmas decorations I could scream. Just sayin'.)

I am going to post this, and I'll come back later to fix the typos. It's difficult to compose a legible blog on one's phone, qwerty keypad or no. OMG it's so hard! *sniffle* I hate my life! I'm going to go cut because the only way to deal with my pain is to fall into broad stereotypes!

Right.

Edit: edited

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Depression is Depressing.

I am miserable with my life. It doesn't count as suicide if you just ask God to hurry up and smite you, right?

To reassure anyone who thinks this theatrics, I am currently technically homeless, and living with a family member who needs help. This house has been seriously compared to Hoarders by worried family. I live out of a suitcase because my personal belongings, including my bed and perishable food items (which were mistakenly delivered with the rest), are divided between several people's storage units. I hope someone finds the food before spring, though I'm sure that by now it's been cold enough for the water bottles to explode and warm enough for the milk to sour. There are four cats in the house, three of which use the litter box, four in the garage who don't have a litter box, but get let outside sometimes, and two in the back room who neither have a litter box nor go outside. One must enter and exit through the garage, which, no offense to those up above, stinks to high heaven.

My friends live online because those I graduated college with have moved on. I have an amazing phone, a few really amazing friends, and severe, sometimes debilitating depression, as of about fifteen years ago. I used to tell myself that the worst that could happen would be ending up homeless and alone, but I've pushed my "worst" standards to far more horrible things. I am not currently being eaten alive by maggots while impaled in a hole full of spikes and having hail pound into my open eyes. Please, please, God, please, don't use my sense of sarcasm against me and make that happen.

Irony (or not, if you know all the technicalities of the word) is that just over a year ago I was set to graduate college, then move to the Golden State of California, where my daughter would attend a private school for hardly anything, thanks to one of those amazing friends, and I would be nearer the kind of job opportunities I'd dreamed of. My ex questioned me, gave me the verbal go-ahead, and took our flight information so that goodbyes could be said, we got the kid a cell phone for easy contact, got a Facebook so they could chat easily, etc etc.

Sunday before graduation, a week and two days before the flight, yours truly was delivered of a restraining order and a motion to take any and all custody away from me. After a week of locating a lawyer (since if you don't have one, at least here, the case defaults to the other person), during which I didn't sleep and unknowingly contracted pneumonia, I completed no final exams and was given a pity D to graduate in a class I'd been acing. Damned final exams. I don't really remember graduation. Had a high fever that day, and was super-proud that no one could tell how dizzy I was.

Anyway, after bouncing from place to place, I failed out of an attempt at grad school (admittedly a subject I ended up hating) and here we are. The child is tired of moving and living with other people, and despite the emotional abuse she suffers when with her other parent, I wonder if I'm doing any better.

"You should get on disability."

It's really disheartening to be told this, especially following a short speech about not being capable of handling a real job and needing to be realistic. It is disheartening both from one's (ex)friend, and from one's father. There is no explaining to some people that working for minimum wage 5 hours per day, 4 days per week isn't much motivation for someone who feels worthless. There is no explaining that 8 hours a day 5 days a week at a job one loves, being needed there instead of expendable, might just possibly maybe somehow ease the feeling of being useless, and that being paid enough to live on one's own might instill a sense of greatly needed pride, thereby propelling one out of one's dismal hole of hopelessness. And unfortunately, when pressured so much to get a job I've already not been hired at for years, it is difficult to contemplate looking for that big fish. It only makes the whole "not capable of handling a real job" thing all that more real, and the big fish looks like a dried-out goldfish the cat left behind the couch. It was shiny once, but all that's left now is a lost dream.

And yes, this is probably all ridiculous and blown out of proportion, but no matter how I try to correct myself, I can't get out of the mindset that "If you were capable of getting an A, but got a B, you might as well have failed."

I have now been struggling with depression for half my life. It doesn't get better for long at a time. The littlest setback is heartbreaking, and losing a dream that was in my grasp broke me. I've never been as close to hurting myself as I was a year ago, and though I don't intend toin fact, I intend not toit can always be worse, and that's what I'm afraid of. If I can hardly cope the way I am, how will I manage another ten years of this? Another twenty?

My depression is being treated, but there's no cure. I've apparently trained my mind to push aside my worries, and so anything that worries or distresses me is forgotten. I don't remember to do laundry when I have the time, nor to job search. If it does pop in, I'm busy, or I'm in a bad mood, or I'm too sleepy to do anything (or so I tell myself), and if I can't fill out an application properly, and better than anyone else, then it was not only a waste of my time, but a waste of the hiring manager's time. I feel like a waste of time.

I haven't blogged in forever because I had no internet access aside from my smartphone, which a friend thought I deserved, no matter that I don't (but it's mine! *clutches and hisses*). I don't even know where I'm going with this. Sudden memory loss in the middle of a sentence isn't odd when attempting to discuss worrisome or depressing topics, either.

Okay, I dragged you all down now, and gave you a taste of a long-term, severe depressive's thought process. I wish I could think of another cheese factory story right now, but since I can't, here:

Margaret Bourke-White. At the time of the Louisville Flood (1937)

It could always be worse, right?

Sunday, January 16, 2011

17 Hours

I should be asleep, since it's technically morning. I didn't realize it was past 5 a.m. or I would have gone to bed. There's a reason I'm still conscious, and that reason is that I've only been awake about twelve hours. Friday I went to bed about midnight, and Saturday I woke up at 5 p.m., which is seventeen hours later. I had not imbibed any substances to explain this Rip Van Winkleism, so all I can think is that winter has me screwed up beyond belief, which seems to be the norm.

Is it May yet?

Update: 7 a.m. and still awake. Methinks a nap is in order...

Friday, January 14, 2011

Dear 2011,

This is a direct plea to seek help. Your older brother, 2010, wreaked havoc on many lives besides my own, and from the look of things, you're a little off-kilter yourself. I suggest you check yourself into some kind of psychiatric facility ASAP. I'm sure I speak for the others when I say that we'd rather you were mentally sound and able to function as a good year, and that we'd be willing to have time stop for a few days, or even a week, while you got yourself together.

In my own little corner of the world, there was a loss in the family, and I nearly lost my father as well. Could you give us a break? And I don't mean that literally. The broken leg, ribs, and arm were more than enough of that. I just mean take it easy on us. I'll even go with you to your therapy sessions if you like, and hold your hand. Just please don't do anything rash like age me double-time. If I have any grey hairs, I'd rather not be able to see them just yet.

If you could, would you give Father Time a bit of a vacation? He got his paycheck rather recently, and could use a trip somewhere nice to relax. Maybe he can take baby New Year with him and they can have some good bonding time, work things out so that 2012 surprises everyone by being awesome instead of the end of the world.

Don't get me wrong, 2011, I appreciate you. I survived 2010 and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right? Ha ha ha. No. Forgive me if I'm being picky, but I think it would be quite a treat to have something to look forward to besides making it through another year. A career, perhaps? A move to a more moderate climate? Well, I'd hate to put any pressure on you.

GET THEE TO REHAB, 2011. Get the help you need before you become another drop in the bucket. How do you want to be remembered, really? As yet another sucky year in a string of other sucky years? Or the one that stood out and shone brighter than the others, the leader into something people like and actually want to remember? Think about it.

In closing, thank you for taking the time to read this. Tell baby New Year that if he doesn't shape up, I'm feeding him to the badgers. Don't ask me if I'm serious unless you really want to find out.

Yours disgruntledly,

An Unsatisfied Customer.