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 to—in fact, I intend not to—it 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?

Types of Depression

Suicide Prevention, Awareness, and Support

Changes in the HUD Definition of “Homeless”

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...

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.

Dream Interpretation

I dreamed I went to school with Mr. Feeny. Yes, Mr. Feeny, the teacher from Boy Meets World.

Let's start from where I remember: for some reason I'm married, and I'm cleaning the house. It's a nice house, at least two stories, very spacious. All it has in it is the hand-me-down stuff I currently own and tons of my stuff shoved against the walls in piles, but I'm trying to clean those up before Mr. Feeny arrives.

When he shows up, I've done a decent job and I'm dressed nicely, except for the towel I've still got my freshly-washed hair wrapped up in. Don't ask how I managed to get dressed without noticing that. So we get ready to go to school together, which we've apparently done before, and we're all buddy-buddy as we walk out the back door.

Instead of a lawn, however, there's a busy street and a train going past where my house just was. There's also a guy chasing a fluffy white dog along next to the tracks, and I'm worried one of them is going to get run over. Then the dog changes into a little blonde girl, and so now he's chasing his daughter next to the tracks, and I'm even more worried. I want nothing to do with this. Then the little girl turns into a preteen boy who is walking along the edge of the street instead of using the sidewalk. That's a little less terrifying.

Anyway, Mr. Feeny is trying to hail a police officer. If we can get a ride to school from the police, he saves gas and time because he doesn't have to find a place to park. After a few minutes of this, I point out that it could take a while to do so, and that my car is parked along the edge of the street. I tell him I'll drop him off and he can run to class, and then if he'll just let my tardy slide... An attack of conscience quickly follows that request. How can I ask him not to count me tardy when I would be? In real life I'd have been all about getting that free tardy, but in the dream it offended my moral sensibilities. Go figure.

No clue what else would have happened there, since my alarm woke me up, but I did have another dream as well. I had waken up and was visiting family in a nearby town, keeping in mind at the time that my daughter was at school for the day instead of home sick like she has (in real life) been for the past couple days. I run some errands, and just when something incredibly important comes up, I realize that, as it's the last day before the holiday break, her school gets out at 1:30. (This is actually true. I often have dreams set in the day that will come when I wake up. I guess it lends more realism to the misery about to follow).

I panic. I tell my dad that no, I can't help my sister, I have to go now because my daughter has just gotten off school and the bus will be bringing her home in an hour. It's an hour's drive. I take off, and through traffic and road construction I make my way home, long after the bus should have shown up. I imagine that she's gone home and panicked because no one's there to let her in and the police have been called and I'll end up in prison for leaving a child at home alone. Then I realize that I didn't send her to school at all, and that she was asleep when I left. This gets me out of prison, but how much of a panic must she be to have waken up alone? She must be starving from not having been fed! In what horrible state will I find her?

The answer: Sitting on the couch reading a comic book. (She's been doing this a lot lately.) She's fine, though she wondered where I was, and she's hungry. Could I make her a bagel? I do so, in echoes of this morning, when she came in the living room, sat down with a comic book, and asked for a bagel. That dream is going to torment me all day.

So apparently I want to send her to school instead of staying home again for illness, and I'm feeling guilty about not going to school myself. And I want Mr. Feeny to come bully me into shape or something. I don't know, I totally made that up.

Exempt From Reading: A Ranting Post

If I could do so and live, I would tear my brain out right now and stick it in a jar on a shelf somewhere for a while so I could have some peace and quiet. My lizard light isn't pulling its weight, and I'm wary of sitting under 100% power for a full hour, but it looks like that's what I'll have to do in order to stay awake. Still, my brain won't shut off. I could easily fall asleep on the hand-me-down futon three feet away, with no pillow and only a throw blanket to keep warm, but I'm so tense right now that I could scream.

So one time, at the cheese factory, I don't know what the hell the people in the other room were thinking, but they came in with a giant piece of scrap cardboard on which someone had drawn a cartoonish picture of a person mooning the viewer. After telling them they were crazy to spend their work time on such a project, I pointed out that there was way too much butt showing to not add a tattoo. "Do Not Enter" was my contribution.

Back on topic, now that I've calmed some. I'm sleepy most of the time, no matter how much or how little sleep I get. That, in addition to unemployment stress, makes it difficult to hold a solid train of thought, which makes it difficult to keep myself on-track and searching for a job. I got stumped on a cover letter and did nothing for about three days trying to convince myself that I was, somehow, still a competent human being.

Perfectionism can be crippling.

"If you got a B and you were capable of getting an A, you might as well have failed," my mom told me, and though I logically know it isn't true, I still fight it. I couldn't think of anything genius to write in that cover letter, and the immediate first thought, after a few false starts, was that if I set it aside, I'd be able to do it later, when my brain wasn't mush. But my brain continued to be mush, and when I reasoned that a decent cover letter (as opposed to an epic one) was better than not applying for the job, that voice in the back of my head told me that it would be a waste of time and effort, both for myself and the hiring manager, if I sent in a cover letter that just got me tossed in the trash anyway.

Yeah, seriously. I see where the problem in that logic is, but I also see the somewhat twisted point. So, you're the psychologist, here. What the hell am I not paying you for? I need answers, dammit! Solve my problems for me while I'm over on the futon, all right?

Before I go, however, I'll give you an update on last time. I managed the Facebook message and did my best with probing questions, and an attempt at friendship was agreed upon. I was not offered the Trans-Siberian Orchestra on a platter this time, but this weekend we'll be watching a Harry Potter movie or two. From the futon. Which is calling me.

ZZZ Z Z Z zzz z z z ... . . .

The "F" Word

No, the other "F" word. The one that people don't like to hear from the subject of their romantic interest. Yes, that one. But let's go on.

The movie was great. I wasn't expecting the Harry/Hermione topless makeout scene, no matter that I'd been warned, then smirked at (a sign that H~ was serious and looking forward to being proven right). They did a good job of condensing a 500-page camping trip into something epic. You're not here for a movie review, though.

My date didn't look directly at me the entire night. I'm not unfortunate-looking and had been complimented via text-message on my Facebook picture, so I know it wasn't because my face was offensive. I looked pretty damned good, actually. I can understand not being as talkative in person as you are in text, considering I'm the same way, but you know the silence has gone on too long when your date turns on the car stereo.

Not to say we didn't manage to talk. At one point I was retelling the glory of Prom Night in Hollywood and Other Interesting Tales, and we compared the kind of history you learn in the Midwest versus the kind you learn in Southern California, but conversation aside, no sparks. Not one. Even if my date had nice teeth there would have been no sparks.

I'm grateful to the friend who tried to set us up. Texting was genius and I could see hanging out with this person again. No romance though, and that's why I haven't accepted a second offer to go see the Effing Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I am not shitting you, if you'll pardon the language. This person offered to buy me an inexpensive tv because mine is in storage, mentioned us stargazing at their place with their telescope, subscribed to my effing YouTube (which they'd have had to find first), and commented on three of my pictures.

Quoth a friend: That's what happens when you talk to computer savvy people.

The consensus is that searching someone is normal. However, most of us keep our searches secret. We go look at our blind date's photos, or maybe we even Google their screen name, and if we're a little crazy watch the videos they made five years ago, but for God's sake, don't leave messages on everything until you've known them at least a week. This person has now added me on Facebook, YouTube, AIM, and YIM, commented on the only three photos that don't actually have people in them, subscribed to my videos, and told me via text what they thought about these things they found. Add to that the fact that I get texted from noon until probably five, then again from about seven until I say I have to go to bed, and I'm feeling smothered. From someone I've seen in person once, known less than a week, and haven't ever made eye contact with.

So I've been looking for gentle ways to let this person down. We got along, but I'm not interested in romance. From them. The Almighty Internet says that we haven't known each other so long that an e-mail is a crappy way to send a tasteful note, but how can I do that when I just keep getting texted? I'd say stalker potential, but I'm counting on the fact that we live a good hour and a half drive apart to discourage that.

If it wasn't a mutual friend who'd set us up, this would be easy. I'd just send a text that they're great, but I'm not interested, and it would be done. I don't want to hurt my friend, though. She hand-picked someone, knowing how long it's been since I dated, and said, Here, I give you this, my friend, who I, your friend, find worthy for your attentions. She couldn't have predicted all this.

I usually make a huge deal out of things, but this is justified, right? Even after just one date?

Nervescitement

I am near puking with nerves/excitement, which I will hereafter refer to as nervescitement. (I totally made that word up, it doesn't exist on Google. Seriously.)

I am not antisocial so much as asocial. I'm pretty withdrawn, and I rarely seek company, which is a cycle that feeds upon itself. People know this about me, and so they don't invite me to things. I don't get invited to things, so I miss out on the social opportunity and continue to be unsure of myself in company, or at least I feel that way. Apparently I'm perfectly normal, despite the tension constantly coursing through my body.

But let's skip the potential diversion into Freud's theories and my childhood.

I don't date, which is mostly situational. Family still occasionally tell me they know someone, and I roll my eyes and they say that I should meet this person, then never mention it again or tell me later that it wouldn't have worked anyway. I'm talking extended family though, not the sibling and cousin who still occasionally threaten to buy me an hour's "entertainment" from someone of questionable moral character. I know, I could've said hooker, but I am completely in love with metaphors.

So when a friend texted me that they knew someone, I rolled my eyes. I was given basic information that this mystery person likes Harry Potter, classic rock, and the movie Labyrinth, and I gave the typical mhm, yeah, whatever type of response. I was told to look this person up on Facebook. Yeah, sure. I was told to text this person and then given a number.

Hold the phone, there. Text?

Texting is not intimidating. It's something I do regularly, and it gives me time to proofread before speaking and, if necessary, to censor myself. When you're face-to-face with a stranger and you're supposed to be making small-talk, when they give you a two-word answer, you can't go do something else for five minutes, then scroll through previous conversation for something amusing to refer back to. Or, at least, I can't.

I'm a master at dropping conversation when it's with someone I don't know well. Then, once I open up, I give mini-speeches like these. My sister rolls her eyes at my stories, as though she doesn't tell them, too. My friends, who I eventually realize have gone mostly silent, with the occasional witty comment, apparently enjoy the show. "It's cute."

But back on topic. Since texting doesn't intimidate me, I did it. I texted and was witty and charming and all the things I am online, with the buffer of the computer screen and the time to phrase things perfectly. The moment things began to slow, I said I had to go, leaving before the conversation went stale.

So after two days of this, I've been text-asked to go see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows this weekend. My mental conversation with myself went something like this:

me1: You don't know this person and you're going somewhere with them?!
me2: Yeah, that's what dates are for. DUH. You'll be perfectly safe.
me1: Unless they're a serial killer!
me2: They mod a Christian website, and a sweet, personable friend referred you. They've been screened.
me1: Meh. But what if I make a total nerd of myself?
me2: They like Potter, Star Wars, Star Trek, and Lord of the Rings. I think you're safe.
me1: Omg, they're a nerd. I'm so out of their league.
me2: You have recently decided that cosplay looks like fun, you hypocrite.
me1: Touché. But what if I get shy and come across as a snob, which you know happens a lot.
me2: Deathly Hallows.
me1: But...
me2: Deathly. Hallows.
me1: *can think of no further arguments*

So I'm going out. On a date. With someone I don't know. I won't tell you how long it's been since I went on anything remotely like a date (aside from the time I was tricked into a date, but that's another story). We may put away childish things, but the second someone from the opposite sex is involved, it's high school all over again.

OMG I AM GOING ON A DATE. WTF AM I THINKING? Do I need to clean my apartment? How long should I hide all of this from my family/daughter? What if I fall back into serial monogamy? (Which, for me, was insta-attachment, two years, then BAM!Over. Twice.) OMG I HAVE A FRIGGIN TWIN BED. Which is the most ridiculous thought of all, considering my personality, my values, this person's values as a good Christian, and that we haven't even met yet.

me1: OMG! I don't even go to church! I'm practically a heathen! I'm not worthy!
me2: Calm the hell down! Not all Christians think everyone but them is a godless sinner!
me1: But what if they expect me to go to Church?!
me2: OMG SHUT UP!!!
me1: *whimper*

So, making a mountain out of a molehill, but it's an adventure, right? :p