Friday, April 24, 2015

This. This. This.

OMG, this article. Spalding Gray. Suicide. Neurology. Frontal Lobe. Depression. Rumination. This, this, this.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

No change

Still sad. Still obsessing over every word I say and desperately hoping I've not offended anyone. Still trying to figure out  what the appropriate facial expressions and responses should be when interacting with others.

Still sad. No change.

I want... Why can't I just keel over, boom? Why?

Thursday, April 16, 2015

New here?

If you're new to my blog, welcome. Here's some advice for tooling around:

Most people come for the information about shingles but stay for the witty banter. I'm not an expert on shingles; I just know a lot about it from doing intensive research while I was laid up for a month. I never did try the medical marijuana, so I still can't give an opinion on that.

45 Mercy Street: That post is not an academic analysis; it's only my take on the poem. My blog post will not, I repeat, will not help you with your academic coursework. Sorry.

My posts from 2012 on aren't that great because I wasn't focused on writing so much as I became immersed in Facebook and Twitter. That being said, there's some good reading prior to that (at least, I like to think so). I'd say your best bet is to go back to 2008 and work your way forward from there. There's a lot about the nature of hope, friends who betray or abandon friends and mourning the end of relationships, why I think a lot of adults with ADHD get misdiagnosed (really misdiagnosed), and lots of my thoughts on what the world of medicine and doctors can and can't accomplish for mere mortals who ask a lot of questions.

I somewhat neglected my blog for a long time, but I'm back and should be for a while. I'm going through some stuff and this is where I come to hash it all out. It's like having one of those therapists who doesn't talk and makes you do all the work to reach your own conclusions, except Blogger is free.

Also, I'm reasonably sure I'm on the path toward a major coronary event, so I want to keep writing so there's some documentation of my condition leading up to that. I've been really good at predicting things I was told were unlikely to happen. Doctors don't listen to me enough which is why I only go to them if I'm in agony or there's a compelling risk of death or disability on the horizon.

Also, I talk about suicide a lot. It doesn't mean anything; I currently have no imminent plans to take my own life, but I still contend it's the ultimate human right and I'm entitled to it if I get to that point.

Go ahead--snoop around the old posts. They're not too bad.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

I'm nothing if not consistent

I've been re-reading the 2013 portion of this blog. I've made no progress. Still accurate. Feeling this one in particular:

Monday, April 13, 2015

If I don't know, how can anyone else?

I can't tell if I'm losing my mind or reclaiming it.

It could just be menopause. At least, that's what I keep reading. Except...I take hormones, so that's not supposed to happen.

Here's what I do know: When I am depressed, I can't keep up, physically or intellectually.  I hang back, I'm slow, I wander, I don't grasp conversations, and I can't keep track of what people expect from me. I just can't connect the dots. I can't follow the rules because I can' rmember what I'm supposed to say or how I'm supposed to interact.

Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?

It makes me even more of a dory dork than I am under the best of conditions. Ugh.

Let's review

Here is a post from 2008 that sounds an awful lot like my current situation. It's uncanny, actually. I do know myself, that's for sure.

I found that picture on a Bing search, which is where my MS clipart now defaults. I don't  know whom to credit, so there's this:

A song in my head

I was going to post the lyrics, but they're pretty clear. Fun fact: I still have this album on vinyl.

Because we can't call in sad

Ikon Images/Corbis via NPR
A few days ago, NPR ran a story about how people who are depressed usually don't or simply can't take off from work. I've never missed a day of work from feeling depressed, although my productivity has been known to take a significant hit.

It's a good story and worth the time to listen. There's a recap on the web page, but I'd recommend you listen to this one in its entirety.

Click here to go to the NPR story:

Working Through Depression: Many Stay On The Job, Despite Mental Illness

Maybe it's just menopause

Of course, that would mean I've been going through menopause since the late 1970s. I only mention this because there seems to be a prevailing attitude in American culture that if you are female and not doing well emotionally, it must be hormones. I find that to be simplistic and dismissive.

I'm just hoping this mood lifts sooner rather than later, because the longer it goes on, the less I like people, including people I normally like a lot. I'm not paranoid, exactly, but anything that is said to me that feels even slightly harsh, feels like boiling oil to me right now. I've lost all perspective, along with my sense of humor and many IQ points.

I'm deeply insecure under the best of circumstances, but my current state has amplified that by about a thousand. Some people will understand that and be patient with me, but others will take it all at face value and keep score for later.That's their short-sighted prerogative.

I keep thinking back to the therapist I had who would admonish me to "look at the data." She'd say, look at the data. Is what you perceive actually true when held up against facts? she was right. I need to keep doing that exercise. Maybe I'm just projecting my own self-hatred out of me and onto everyone else. No one else is the problem, no one else has anything to do with my perceptions. It's all in my head. My intellect hasn't waned so much that I don't know that.

In other news, my debt-payment and gift-distribution plan is progressing nicely. I feel really good about that. I hope all of the recipients feel the same, even if what they receive initially seems puzzling. I've sent some off-the-wall things in the last week. Cans of soup may be the most odd. Ah, well, it makes sense to me, and that's really all that matters in my head.

Why keep a diary?

For me, blogging is way to process and organize thoughts going through my head at any given time. It is unapologetically self-indulgent in nature. I'm OK with that.

Here are some actual writers' thoughts on the topic:

Sunday, April 12, 2015

The problem is

My heart hurts. My soul hurts. There is no prescription for that.

If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?

The one person who always told me she'd take me as I am, warts and all, has reneged on the promise. She has expectations and unwritten rules, she has scolded me and she's carrying a raging, eight-year-old resentment over something so mind-boggling bizarre, I'm having trouble processing it. Her new friends are bubbly and fun. I am not bubbly or fun. I am dark, introspective, fat, homely, morose, and feeling abandoned. So, I'm alone, and that's OK. That's OK. I know how to navigate this. This is my life. I've been here. I know this.

I keep thinking about my impact on the world. I try so hard to be good, do good, be kind, and never say a hurtful word to anyone. I try not to take up any space or anyone's time. Sometimes I think vile thoughts, but I keep them to myself.

I keep thinking about how being good to others is supposed to help us feel better about ourselves, to give us purpose, to ground us and make us more grateful. I have no problem being good or kind or grateful; in fact, it drives my life. Just tonight, Frank said, "If being kind and doing good paid at all, you'd be a millionaire, May." A millionaire, indeed.

Instead, I'm just a sad, pathetic, reject of a person whose brain can't manufacture whatever is required to not be sad all the time. Now my brain stops me from being funny and intelligent, and that is an insult I can't bear much longer. My brain also causes me to be in physical pain all the time, and it still sends out those rogue signals that make my coronary artery squeeze itself shut. It won't go ahead and kill me though, and I'm starting to resent it.

I am so tired. Not just emotionally, but physically. This pushing myself every day has taken a toll. It's not benefiting me in the least. The world benefits from my efforts, but I, personally, do not.

I only have $3,000 in credit card debt left to pay off, which I will do at the end of this month when I rearrange some accounts. Then, I don't know what will happen. I'll be free to take whatever path feels right. Stay, go, whatever. I'm working on my will, making sure my accounts are in order. I've started paying all of the utilities several months ahead so Frank won't have to scramble to figure that out if anything happens to me to stop me from paying the bills. If I decide to go, I'll send Jolie money for the theater ticket she bought on my behalf. I know she'll appreciate that a lot. I will owe no one anything. That's important. Really important.

I don't know how much longer I can go on being a massive fuck up. And I am a massive fuck up. There are no more redeeming qualities left in me. I'm just sad, fat, slow, and homely, an obese middle-aged person with nothing of value to anyone that can't be very easily and immediately replaced. This is clarity. This is truth.

And it's OK. It's perfectly OK. As long as I don't owe anyone anything, I'm free and clear. It will be like I was never here. I have been trying so hard to pay everyone back for anything they've paid for on my behalf, and I'm almost there. Whether it was a drink or a graduation gift, it's all being paid back. Nobody will be mad at me or feel like I cheated them. They can't because I will have paid them back! This is America where Money fixes everything. I am erasing myself as others have erased their relationships with me.

I've been taking stock. I've made a list of things I've observed from visiting people, from their Facebook posts, from conversations, from email. I've started sending them things to fill the gaps in their lives. From things as mundane as a pretty toilet brush, to cookbooks, to money, to garden tools, to car accessories, to music, to driving school tuition, to utility bill payments, to lists of babysitters, to sneakers, to bottles of supplements, to Omaha Steaks, I'm trying to make sure everyone is covered. Whether I stay or go is irrelevant. What matters is that I am debt-free, I have made people's lives easier, and nobody can say I left them with unfinished business or I owe them. All of my business will be wrapped, tidied up, tied, and so resolved that no one can be angry with me or disappointed in my decisions. I will have done something nice, and they won't be able to claim I somehow slighted them. No debt owed! Zero-sum game!

You have to admit, this is fucking brilliant on my part.

And if you haven't spoken to or seen me me in over a year, fuck off and don't even attempt, just don't even try to tell me how important I am to you. You lie. You fucking lie. You like a concept, not an actual living, breathing human. I'm calling you out on that bullshit.

I'd like to leave you tonight with a song I love that keeps playing on a loop in my head. Lyrics follow, but mostly, just listen. It's so beautiful. It's so perfect. So perfect.

I'll write more tomorrow. I'm feeling like I still have some things to say.

Departure and Farewell
(Dan Messe)

The summer folds the afternoon,
And pins a shadow to the lawn,
And sweeps across the empty room
Where I am gone.

The sunlight films my waving hands.
The final scene has just begun,
And pulling back the world expands,
And I am gone.

Hey, I am gone.
Along the way I'll say to you,
“So long, my love, so long...”

Another light now fills the sky.
The window searches for the sun.
Another chance to say goodbye,
But I am gone.

Hey, I am gone.
I'll find a way to say to you,
“So long, my love. so long, my love.”

So long...

I'm pulling back.
The world expands.
And I am gone.