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I just had to share. Enjoy your weekend!

D.O.A.

It's dead. I killed it. The corpse of my social life rots on the curb. That's where I kicked it sometime in the last year. I've been getting better, so now when the weekends roll around, I actually want to get out of my house. But my list of people I can call is very short. By my own fault. I stopped calling them and no one calls me anymore because I said 'No' so many times.

Then last night I heard something unpleasant. Walking the third to last length of my last commute of my 12 hour Thursday, I was tired. Here's a rundown of my day. In the morning, at 10:30-45ish--filled with the fear that I may miss my train, I ran/walked 4 blocks to catch the bus to the city. I left late and then traffic in the tunnel was really really bad. Not only did I miss the last train to the village in Long Island where I teach, I almost missed the last train to the town within taxi distance to the campus. But I was lucky that I didn't have to wait for the subway or I would have had to cancel class. But after rushing through the underground tunnel, I caught the backup train. Arriving in BFE L.I. some 90 minutes later, I then had to pay $50 for a cab ride; knowing I drew it out of an account that would have a negative balance when my rent check was deposited. But, I had to get to work.

After I gave my 85 minute lecture and dawdled to fill the hour before the train left, I walked the half hour to the station. A walk in the humidity and full sunlight with a very heavy totebag carrying books and a gymbag with my swimming gear and other personal affects that went unused. I found out that day that people are required to take a tour of the athletic center before they can use it. But people are required to make an appointment for a tour. I have one on Tuesday. From there, it's the 90-100 minute train ride, with a change and wait in Jamaica then to Penn Station. And a push through the hundreds of people up the skinny stairs to speedwalk to my school where I will be 10 minutes late for a 2 hour seminar. After those 2 hours, I passed up the chance to go out with classmates because of the negative state of my bank account. Which meant it was time to go home. And walk to the Port Authority because I pay for my subway by the ride now.

I let down my hair because it had become a disaster anyway, it was 8:45 pm and trudged towards the Port Authority. The walk is 3.5 Avenues by 8 blocks, and usually takes 20 minutes when there is no traffic. Worried that I was rude to my friend when she was asking if I would join them, I typed out a text message apologizing. As I concentrated on my phone and walked, I got to 40th and 9th, The Port Authority. Walking along the front, crossing the 41st Street chasm dividing the P.A., I heard a voice echoing.

"There is a girl in desperate need of a man." Well that's not a nice thing to say. I stealthily glanced from side to side and see that I am the only one walking by. Could he mean me? No. That's ridiculous. "I mean, DESPERATELY. Look at her!" Ugh. I think he did mean me. I hit the SEND button on the phone, sighed and pondered the bruising, harsh comment. What about me would make someone say that? First of all, it aint true. I can't even take care of myself, what would I do with a man? Ah, perhaps that's it...am I visibly not taking care of myself now?

So I picture myself in my head to work it out. My hair surely had gone to frizz. It needs a cut. I was wearing Birkinstocks--but femme ones, you would too if you had to walk almost 2 hours that day! My skirt was all rumpled and stretched out. Ok, maybe he had reason. My blouse was a loose one,untucked--I have no waist so I can't tuck shirts in, it makes me look like a freak with boobs sitting on my hips! I know I wasn't smiling. I certainly wasn't excited about going home. I was tired. My make up had melted off hours ago. Does all that equal 'looking like she desperately needs a man'?

Well, anyone who has spent even one hour in Manhattan knows how sickeningly beautiful and put together the women in my age bracket are. They get fancy haircuts with coloring, wear tight and skimpy clothes, jewelry, sexy shoes, cute bags...it's very expensive to look that way! Midtown looks like a real-life fashion magazine. With frumpy tourists and cops thrown in for "authenticity". But the truth is, no Wall Street Suit or Hipster guy will look at a woman who's not a walking ad for Vogue. Except, of course, to pity them.

Regardless, have I let myself go? I thought I looked nice when I left in the morning. I was late because I ironed my skirt. (A VERY new thing, this ironing. It used to be a once a year event.) I put makeup on in the taxi on the way to work. My hair is a wreck. Fabulous. But because I've seen myself looking good I like to carry that image in my head. It helps with confidence. But maybe I'm clinging to that picture while getting slovenly with the reality? Crap. That's not good.

Whatever. I climbed into the short bus to wait for it to fill so we could all go back to Jersey. I found myself wishing I had stopped and confronted the Jerk. Clearly he has issues to be so interested in my "needy" state. Maybe he was attracted to me and then repulsed? We'll never know.

I look forward to the day when such ridiculous things don't even register with me, let alone occupy half an hour of thinking time. One day I'll have real things to worry about. (money isn't worth worrying about because there is nothing I can do until the friggin school distributes our student loans. NJ is way too expensive, I may have to go back to NYC and roommate life.) So, this blog is my Friday night entertainment because I didn't have the energy or the money to do anything else. For which I take full responsibility and expect no sympathy. There's a show about papermaking artists on PBS now. I hate television.

Greetings Earthings!

I come in peace. I know many of you are worried about me because of my recent posts and the lack thereof. I'm fine. The beginning of the semester has been swamping me with work so I haven't wanted to spend valuable writing energy and time on blogging. Thank you for all of your kind thoughts. I just read them today. I had to boycott blogs altogether to make sure I didn't get sucked in as I'm wont to do. Thank you for your prayers as well. I could feel it. I've been carried the last few weeks and staying upright through things.

My last post was an expression of despair and frustration, for months and months I have been working to get better, to get back to being myself. I had another set-back and just crashed. But I seem to have contained the worst of it to the weekends. Which is a very good thing. Things have gotten better, just too slow for my tastes. Teaching seems to be ok this term. I'm slowly getting some confidence back. I'm teaching at a school way out in Long Island where the students are nice and polite which is a refreshing change. I still have two classes in the city but I'm trying everything people have advised me to do. My anxiety is much reduced.

OH! I forgot one of the most important things. I've been on Wellbutrin since 1996. Large amounts of it. It worked well the first year or two. Then not so much and they started me on the cocktail. But, in August the doc put me on Lithium because it has helped me in the past. It made me worse. After two weeks I felt like I did in June when I was afraid to leave the house and my cat was dying. Then I spent a weekend in Philly with some old and dear friends. I felt awful. My best friend got really worried. She said, "You aren't right. You aren't yourself." That's what I've been saying for months.

When I got home I ditched the Lithium. And then I had the idea to get off the Wellbutrin. It is possible that my body doesn't metabolize it the same way it did 9 years ago. Likely even. Maybe I got better, so the drug was just messing me up instead of helping. I looked up side effects online and some of the stories did sound familiar. So I began to reduce my dose, slowly. And I felt better some. I became more conversational and actually talked to people on the phone again. I've cut back to 300mg from 450. The first week of classes I started taking 225mg but had a really bad week--you read the results of that. So I have stayed on 300 mg, been waiting for things to settle down to reduce even more.

My anxiety has gone way down since then. Riding the bus and walking places doesn't fill me with panic anymore, so commuting is no longer torture. I did have a panic attack in Union Square last week which brought me to tears but that was isolated. I'm getting things done. I took my second and hopefully last comprehensive exam on Tuesday. I registered for one class, also hopefully my last. And, I negotiated getting another class in Long Island for the Spring.

It feels like the flood of emotions that has been drowning me for almost a year now has been welled up. When something bad happens, I don't fall apart. I'm able to hold on to my reason. Imagine yourself on the ocean in a life preserver. Through all of this I have felt like I was floating upside down with my head in the water--gasping and kicking for air, and occaisionally coming up for a breath. Now, it feels like I'm right-side up, trying to maintain my position above the swells. It's very different.

I still suspect there is something physically wrong with me. This depression doesn't originate with my thoughts. And everything I learned over the years to battle it doesn't work anymore. It feels different. It doesn't come from sadness, it feels like it comes from the outside in--like my body is half dead. I am 29 and that's the time when serious mental disorders tend to set in. I used to think I was free from that worry because mine hit me early on. But now I'm not sure. There is a long history of mental problems on both sides of my family.

Here is a list of things I have done to get better:
Faithfully take my meds and go to appts.
Began a Yoga routine (i've slacked on it recently)
Changed my eating habits to more healthy ones
Kept up with housecleaning and tried to keep up with other chores
Got out of a relationship I couldn't deal with
I've tried going back to church--it's even lonier when you don't speak the language though and I usually cry through sacrament meeting
I make myself go to the library at school to do work
I'm trying to keep up with my friends
Keeping regular sleeping and waking hours
Made showering a daily necessity
Leave my house on time to eliminate lateness anxiety
Tried to adopt a caretaker attitude towards myself
Planned a book editing project with a friend
and other things

I discovered this summer that the tedious little things are important. I was ashamed of my dirty apartment but didn't think it worth the bother to clean. I changed that attitude, realizing that accomplishing small tasks can give me confidence and reduce negative influences. I also walk at least an hour a day in my commute to classes. I plan to start swimming next week on the Long Island campus. I'm also looking to buy a cello when I get my student loan. I don't play my saxophone because it's too loud and I live in an apartment building. Music has always soothed my soul.

That's the status of things with me. I cried for an hour today but it was a good cry, and rare. I think it came from grief. And the weather is finally turning. The oppressive heat should be gone for the year! YAY! Now I'm off to buy some ice cream, and start my laundry while I watch the movie Videodrome.

Is life supposed to be hell? I'm not sure I would have signed up for this if this is all there is. In fact, I think I prefer hell. Then at least I'd know that I deserved it. And I could stop trying. And stop waiting for things to get better, stop hoping. That sounds like an improvement. This is not fire and brimstone anguish--more the eternal slow drip of corrosive acid on my soul. Each day is a fight to just do this stuff. Endless. Fight fight fight fight. For what? There is no satisfaction. There is no pleasure. There is no contentment. I work and then I escape my thoughts and try to escape my emotions. When I do accomplish something, my reward is a reduction in shame and guilt. But slight. And the gargantuan effort hardly seems worth that but I do it anyway. We do it anyway. Having to wait 45 minutes at the drugstore because the hoochies don't announce when it's ready anymore, reduces me to tears and fury.

My job terrifies me. The only way I can get through it is by pretending it's not real. By not thinking about it at all. I show up, put on my dog and pony show--and try to smile like they told me to then go home and lose myself in assinine television. The worst thing is that I know how wrong I am, I know how disgusting I sound. I am unbelievably privileged and I pee on my life. But if I quit, then I really might kill myself for the shame and self-hatred of it. As it is, I'm NOT suicidal. I'm bored and dissatisfied to the point of rage. I try so hard to make this stop and get better. I live with my drill sergeant in my head, and we hate each other. Because it doesn't work.

I'm living on the cliff of madness. Hanging on with my fingernails to rationality and order. But my fingers are bloody and sore. Why am I still hanging here? The wind bangs me against the cliff bruising me. What's there to make it worth holding on? My best friend in Georgia wants to kill herself and there is nothing I can do from here. I turned in that paper I spent 6 months on and it's bad. They want to talk to me about it. It was all I could do not to sick up on the professor as he told me. Men want to get in my pants and I want to tell them all to go to hell. There's never enough money. I just dropped 150 for medications that may be making me worse for all I know. I killed my parasites and now none of my clothes fit anymore. People in the gulf...

My doctor thinks it is time to check me in somewhere for a week. I told her that was impossible without insurance. She seems to think there are ways around that. I think she is being naive, she just got out of medical school.

Life is moving from one unpleasant ordeal to the next, to wake in the morning to a litnany of fears making me want to stay in bed. The knowledge that I am losing time, wasting it, getting older is a constant undercurrent making me sick. Reality becomes more and more vague as I detach myself in order to continue, more unreal and insignificant compared to sanctuary of my mind. I just don't get the point of this. I'm not getting stronger or better or learning. I deteriorate. I become a worse person. Life is a test? Adversity is for our own good? Obviously I fail. I have 60 more years of this? Is this what I hung on through everything else for? Is this what I have been waiting for and straining for? Well, it sucks.