When it rains...

The transition between late September and early October was a rough one. Many shitty things happened at once, though in the grand scheme of things none were catastrophic and I feel like maybe I don't even get to complain because so many people are dealing with worse, but the fact remains that it was a really shitty 3 weeks. While C was hunting, our beagle got sick. It seemed that he aspirated something, but his breathing didn't improve over the next two weeks. The week C was hunting, I ran out of my meds because I just didn't have time to go to the pharmacy, and when I did go the doctor (for some unknown reason) didn't refill my meds for a year, but only for two months. So they gave me 3 days worth but it was a full week before I got back to the pharmacy. My OCD/anxiety were ramping up.

While my brain was in this state, I got totally slammed with sample processing my first 3 days back at work after the week off while C was hunting. As in 3 9 hour days with only 1 break to pump if any, and like 5 minutes for lunch. One of those days I had 3 blood samples to process- when I've asked in the past that no more than 1 blood happen at a time, maximum two per day, and I got 3 AT ONCE. And in the midst of this, I was informed that I was going to be consolidating my lab space in to *half* of what I've had for the last 8 years (which is ongoing, and the people moving in are apparently not getting what they asked for either and keep asking me for more space which I don't have to give). I was feeling really undervalued as an employee. During this time my dog was not really getting better, but he seemed okay. Stable.

My mom wonderfully was able to watch the kids while I was working late and C had to leave for work before I could get home. On Thursday of the week I was finally able to get my meds. Friday morning, on my way to work, I heard a (seemingly) harmless little "click" and the engine stopped. Of course. It was the timing belt. C came, we towed the Subaru home, and it sat there in the driveway til Tuesday when we got it towed to a mechanic. Fortunately I was able to get a ride with someone else on my floor at work who lives near me for the week we were down to one car, and my mom helped with the kids again. The mechanic informed us that we needed a new engine, the brakes needed maintenance, the power steering boot on the driver's side was torn, and oh, by the way, the clutch needed to be replaced too. The cost of all this? Well, we couldn't get a used car that would last 150K miles for this price, but damn. Not money we really had, but we did get the car back on Friday which was great.

Thursday night we noticed MacGyver was really struggling. He was lethargic and did not finish his food. I called the emergency vet (because, naturally, the regular vet had closed 10 minutes earlier). This earned him an overnight stay, medicine, and some Xrays. We learned that our 11 (almost 12) year old beagle has congestive heart failure, pneumonia, and possibly a mass on his liver (we didn't have $700 more to spend on the ultrasounds to confirm the mass and get a better look at his heart). He did get to come home on Friday evening, and we were all so glad to have him home. He's now getting better every day (and getting back to being a pain in the ass, which is wonderful).

Home!!

And now? Now I'm rebounding, but my soul is exhausted and wrung out. My mental state is muted. It's better this week but I'm still reeling from the ups and downs (mostly downs) of the last few weeks. I just need a break, but I'm treading water to stay afloat at work and there's no end in sight. I just hope the Universe is done fucking with me for a while.

Oh, and another fun note about something that *just* happened: one of the people at work informed me today that she took my desk phone into the cell culture room for my ENTIRE MATERNITY LEAVE. I realize that I've been back for 6 months, and cleaning/sterilizing my phone now is an empty gesture, but what in the ever-loving-fuck. Join me, won't you, in a massive full body shudder? And then this same person just left candy on the chemical bench. Which I've since thrown away, because there are just places that food NEVER goes.


On the upside, my garden (mostly tomatoes) went gangbusters this year.

Praying mantis! From my Mother's Day eggs, perhaps?

Tiny watermelon! We had to pick it early because a rabbit bit the stem through...

Most recent harvest

Edit: Oh, Universe. I see what you did there. PMS on top of everything? Lovely. And now, ladies and gentlemen, my first postpartum period.

Control

The day after election day. Always a turbulent one, is it not? Either the things you voted for passed or they didn't. In my case, they didn't. Badly. My state voted against something that would have helped schools across the state have funding. Teachers would have been able to have raises and job security, and the schools could have hired more teachers. They could have had more money to spend per student. Apparently, though, if it involves a tax increase (which would have been a measly $75 for my family, per year, though it would have created a tiered tax structure) for anyone, people will vote no. I tend to put my kids first, and I'm tempted to just give the school the $75 my taxes would have increased. I know nothing is perfect but come on. At least I voted.

My parents have a dog (had?), a chocolate lab. Shen. He's nearly 15, and we got him as a tiny brown furball just after I turned 16. We went and said goodbye to him this weekend. Well, me, C, Dee, and a close friend  (who until recently dated my brother and loved the dog like her own) did. J stayed in the car because he didn't want to go inside. Shen hadn't been eating. His back legs don't work. He lay there, shaking, and his tail didn't even try to wag and I sat there furious that they were letting him suffer like that. I was powerless to help. I am not strong enough to perform cervical dislocation on a (once) 120 pound lab. I had no options. I wanted desperately to end his suffering but I could do nothing. Just like when my grandma died. She, at least, had the refuge of morphine. Saying goodbye was the same. Shen was gone, only his husk remains. When I said goodbye to my grandma she was no longer present in her body. I said goodbye to their empty, ancient meat. That was all. This, two days after some of our best friends had to put their own dog down after his 18 years with them. I hope they've put him down by now, or that he's died on his own, but I've heard nothing.

Dee may be night weaned but she sure as shit isn't sleeping through the night. I have been up with her for at least an hour (continuous or not) 5 out of the last 6 nights. She sometimes sleeps all night, but it's rare. I just want a full fucking night of sleep. Like 10-6. With no interruptions, and I want to sleep IN. I haven't slept in since Dee was a baby, C was hunting, and we all slept until 11 one morning. That was over 2 years ago.

It seems that the universe is telling me I have no control over things. Reminding me. Taking away my sturdy ground and making me feel powerless and angry. Frustrated and helpless to the edge of tears. I control what I can. I let the OCD slip in here and there aroundtheedgeswheremaybeit'snottakingoveryet. I load the dishwasher. I put the spoons/forks/knives in their slots where they go so they're sorted. I desperately try to keep tiny little places sorted and clean. Plates aligned just so in our crappy tiny 20-year-old dishwasher. I can't focus. I fight the irrational fury from escaping and causing my kids' sweet faces to crumple. All J wants to do is read a book with me. It's a long and sometimes aggravating process because he's just learning but he insists on reading Level 2 readers because those are the Spider-Man books we have and because "See Mama, I can do these, I just need a little help and ugh I can't remember this word...". Dee...she's two. She's mercurial and sassy and smart and there are times when I cannot stand to be near her because she makes me want to scream for no reason at all. When I snap at them I break inside, watching the light in their eyes and their lips start trembling. I'm a terrible mother sometimes. Then J says things like "Mama, you're not lazy. You do all kinds of wonderful things for us like make us costumes." And I want to retreat into a cave and cry because I don't deserve them.

I know I'm being stupid and irrational. I have taken my meds. I know. I have been playing far too much Spore because it's somewhere I have 100% control over the things that happen to my people. 

Doldrums

Have you seen the movie The Phantom Tollbooth? You know the part where they're stuck in the Doldrums, not motivated or able to do anything, like they're surrounded by molasses? Yeah. I'm kind of stuck like that. I'm not exactly depressed, but just sort of...stalled.

I can't run anymore for a while. I pulled my soleus muscle. This means no stairs, no walks, no runs until it's healed. Dammit. I am limited to yoga and strength training, which is fine but doesn't help satisfy my need to move, to rove, to think. It's stupid and annoying, and I brought it on myself. Basically, I thought that running barefoot/with minimal support would be a good idea when I got shin splints. Well, yes, it did help those...but then my pronated arches (especially my right foot), further "assisted" by the slope of the sidewalks in my neighborhood, put excessive strain on my soleus. The lower portion and the upper portion were unequally worked, and the upper was weakened while the lower was strengthened and then pulled. The result is stabbing agony after about a quarter of a mile, as well as agony when I kneel/sit on my calves (comfy, generally) or when I take the stairs. Or try to stretch/work my calves (going up on the balls of my feet and lowering back down, etc).

Everyone on my floor at work (except me) hates their job. Yeah. Happy place to be every day. I can't do anything about it, my boss is awesome and theirs...are not. But it's not exactly a pleasant environment, it's very negative. 

I'll get over it, but still. Blah. Back to work, I suppose.

Depression Sucks for Everyone.

If you don't regularly read Hyperbole and a Half (or hell, even if you do), you may not have registered that Allie has been on a 19 month hiatus.  She's gone through hell, and thankfully made it through to the other side (almost). What she has written is one of the best descriptions of the process of depression that I've ever come across. So go read it, and send her a virtual hug.

Climbing Out

Thank god. It's over. I can climb back out of this hole and feel like a real person again. I was starting to wonder how long it would last.

Focusing on living in the moment really helped...going back to dwell on the past or ponder the future didn't.

My Depression Has a First Name...

Okay, so not really. Beth Anne (over at Okay, BA!) has dubbed hers "The Big Ugly" but I don't feel right stealing that name. My own is different. It's mine. I feel oddly possessive of it, but possessive in the way that a person might be possessive of any illness. It's *my* disease. Maybe naming it will make it less scary. Har de har fucking har.

It's my old familiar, back again. Of course. Right when I join a study about it.

We had a white elephant gift exchange at work today. I bought a gift, knew I'd be cutting it close because it was at 12 and I'm in meetings every Tuesday from 11-1. I missed it. I got done with my meeting just in time to snag some food (which was yummy) but I missed all the fun. Pity party for one, yes? Someone kindly snagged a gift for me, since I was absent, which was very nice and it's awesome (Grinch boxers and M&Ms. Hee hee.) but I still feel sad and alone and pathetic and it's so stupid that I feel this way.

I think I'm feeling overwhelmed. I'm tired (of course... Because *god forbid* L would sleep through the night again. Or wake up less than twice, for less than 45 minutes...) and I'm feeling unmotivated. I feel restless. I don't want to move. At least it's not the complete Mess, just the depressed part. It's a piece of my mess pie. Fuck. Naming your illness is hard.

Fuck this. It's DEPRESSION. Giving it a cute name won't make it better. It's just depression. Plain and simple. It's ugly and big and horrible, and it's mine.


Breathe. In. Out. Feel the beat of my heart. Live in the moment. This, too, shall pass.

November 28, 2012 - A Clouded Skyline

Days are getting shorter.

So is my temper.

So is my patience.

I hate it.

I feel uncomfortable in my skin. I feel like my meds are worthless, even though I've been sure to take them every day. I feel exhausted and melancholy. Is it because 2 years of interrupted sleep are wearing me down or is it my dear old monster come back to haunt?

I'm in a study, using mindfulness methods to help curb depression. Go figure that I'd start downward just as soon as I enroll. My first session is tonight. We'll see how it goes.

I feel like I never finish anything. There aren't enough hours in the day. I went through 3 different cardigans today before I finally picked one.

I hope I didn't curse my children with this.

August 31, 2012 and Its Associated Muddle

Everything is speeding past me. I feel like I'm caught in some kind of vortex. I'm caught up at work, but somehow I feel like I'm grasping at rapidly flying objects and unable to get ahead in life. That isn't how it is in reality, it's just how I feel.

My children are fine. I'm healthy, C is healthy. I just can't get my heart out of the downward spiral.

Someone (jokingly) yesterday said something about being able to leave your kids on the balcony of a nearby apartment so you could watch them while you were at the bar (we were at happy hour), and then another friend pointed out that you could see when they climbed over the rail and fell so you'd know you were about to be arrested for child neglect. As soon as the words "climbed over the rail" were out of her mouth I could picture L falling, falling....and my spine crawled and my heart raced and I had to redirect my thoughts immediately or ohmygodiwasgoingtocry.

I feel like I haven't been taking my meds, but I HAVE. I take that damn Zoloft every morning. I haven't missed a dose in at least 2 weeks, and that was only 1 day and wouldn't still be affecting me. I can still redirect myself but I still feel quiet and melancholy and grief-stricken inside. I have dreams about my dear friend in which I try to figure out which tattoo to get to remember her (interestingly, these dreams also prominently feature my younger sister who was extremely close with Kristen). Maybe I'm just still grieving. I know it's only been a few weeks, it's entirely possible.

I also am still bleeding/spotting from the Mirena I had inserted at the end of July. That was exactly one month ago today, actually. I've had 2 days where I wasn't either spotting or bleeding. *Whee.* From what I understand things should be getting better soon, and then hopefully no more periods at all (or at least, very light ones). We shall see.

I don't even particularly feel better having gotten all this out. I think I just need the upcoming 3 day weekend to get here so I can rest and relax and do some crafts. I've been feeling twitchy and compulsive lately, which is also not necessarily a good thing. It's not this bad yet, but it's still not a picnic.

Thoughts on a Hazy Morning

Look, the Rockies disappeared!

It's 8:30 and I'm on my second cup of coffee for the day. No surprise there, given how *fantastically* well we slept last night. The sky is hazy, the sun was red as it came up. We were wondering if there was a fire somewhere, other than the ones in Washington. It took my friend and I over an hour to get to work this morning because there was an accident on the freeway.

I forgot to take my meds this morning. I've been depressed anyway, my friend's death sent me into a downward cycle and I find myself lacking motivation, lacking in energy, just plain lacking. I'm tired, deep down to the bones and back tired. Spiritually tired. I need a vacation. I will get one in a month, when C goes on his annual hunting trip, but that's a month off.

J starts preschool next week. I'm happy and sad at once, my baby boy is starting school. He won't be done for *at least* 13 years, no including college.

Happy Tuesday, I guess. Hope it's a good one!

Optimism

I didn't forget my meds this morning. I have book club tonight. I am going to be spending tomorrow cleaning my parents' house for some money. On Sunday I am making some stuff for our Etsy shop and hanging out with my family, and maybe having some people over. L still slept like crap last night (thanks to sinus congestion + teething).

Nothing major has changed, but I feel so much better today. Thank science for Zoloft, mood stabilizer extraordinaire.

Ooops.

I'm pretty sure I forgot my meds today. That or I'm in a "down" cycle and just having a rough day. My brain is all "YOU FORGOT SOMETHING IMPORTANT! FEEL GUILTY!" and the rest of me is all "Meh, lets take a nap and not work."

Fucksocks.


Also, is fucksocks not a great word? Thank you, Christopher Moore.

Musings

I can feel it here, under my skin. Writhing. Panic, trying to build, making my body an ill fit. It is trying to break through, but hasn't yet. I fight it. I feel isolated and uncomfortable, like something is just WRONG but I can't pin it down. I should channel it into a story, I guess. It isn't quite a tickle, it's just a feeling, crawling along the nerves of my spine like a repressed shudder between my shoulder blades. Phantom wings trapped beneath my skin. It's the same sensation that maggots or larvae give me, but less urgent. I can resist the panicky shudders. Gooseflesh under the muscles of my back. Melancholy. Deep sadness that comes from OUT THERE somewhere. I feel like I've done something wrong, guilt courses through me, but I've done nothing.

Musings

I've followed a number of blogs that have addressed PPD (postpartum depression) in one way or another. To some extent, I feel that I've found companionship in these strangers, in that I know what those feelings are and they are familiar to me. It's like a sisterhood of sorts, but more subtle. It's almost like we're all part of a gigantic "You're not alone" amoeba. Anyway, I've been examining my own mental state, and I'm very happy with where it's at, which is huge for me. I realize that I've been falsely placing myself alongside sufferers of PPD, because my depression/anxiety/OCD is much more deeply rooted than something that showed up postpartum. Yes, it got worse after my son was born, but was it truly PPD? I don't think so. I almost feel jealousy toward the women with PPD, because their illness has a distinct cause and there is an end in sight. PPD doesn't last forever. It may last a few months or years, but it does end. (If this is an incorrect statement, please comment and let me know.) In my case, the cause is genetic and possibly also epigenetic. For me, there is no end in sight. If I stop taking my meds tomorrow, by Sunday I will be a complete wreck, and probably have horrifying visions in which I slap my child or beat my dogs. I will become short tempered, and I will have to physically remove myself from frustrating situations before I do actually become violent to my loved ones. I will not be able to suppress the panic attack when I accidentally grab the caterpillar on my spinach plant. I can always hope that someday normal will not be maintained by taking one and one-half small blue pills every day. At this point, I've pretty well accepted that I will be on Zoloft indefinitely. I would be thrilled to be able to wean back down to 25 or even 50 milligrams, but I'm still far under a hefty dose and I try to content myself with that knowledge. I can hope that someday I will not need medications to stabilize the serotonin levels in my brain so that I can be a rational and functioning person, but I also realize that placing too much desperation on that hope is a silly and unrealistic expectation.

Do I wish I had PPD? No. If someone gave me the chance to trade my mental health problems for PPD, would I take it? In a heartbeat.

I think part of this is that a support system for PPD is developing all over the country, both in "real" life and in the blogosphere. Don't get me wrong, this is fantastic. But what about those of us whose depression is not PPD? Those of us that are looked at funny like it's "all in your head" if you mention it in a gathering of friends? It seems that when a woman mentions she has PPD, fellow sufferers come out of the woodwork to embrace her and support her in her struggles, offering sympathy, empathy, and the knowledge that she is not alone. When someone mentions that they have depression, an image of an attention starved artist type, or a person involved in a shooting, comes to mind and everyone steps back, emotionally speaking. It's almost like only really, truly crazy people are depressed, and anyone else doesn't actually have it. Depression is called the "common cold" of mental illness, and is so often treated as such- something not really worthy of paying attention to anything, because it will just go away on it's own. I know that for some people that's true; people who become depressed after the loss of a loved one or a job. Situational depression is a real thing; but what about those of us with depression that doesn't go away? Those of us who deal with it week in and week out, treading water indefinitely in the oceans of our minds.

I've just been mulling this over a lot, as one of my coworkers is going through some situational depression of her own. Watching her struggle with the stereotype she's so afraid to become has made me aware of how the world sees people like me; it's been a sobering experience. This coworker is a friend, and someone with whom I share camaraderie, but our struggles are definitely very different. Hers will smooth itself out and go away; mine will stay, lurking under the surface, possibly until I die. I am so grateful that I have the option of being a normal person again, but it's still hard, knowing what lies underneath. All the meds do is allow me better control of my anxieties, and allow me to be a bit more apathetic toward my compulsions. I no longer have to get up 4-6 times a night to check that I turned on the alarm or that I locked the front door or turned off all the lights. I usually don't have to stop what I'm doing to clean off my desk (or clean the closet, or reorganize my dresser, etc) because if I don't do it right now, some dark and ominous force is going to make me have a panic attack. I no longer sit in a fetal position trying to breathe through the overwhelming desire to flee from an unseen terror.

I am grateful for my relative stability of mind. I wish I knew that there would be a time in the not-too-distant future when my mind would stabilize itself and I would no longer need the help.

The Struggle to Love Myself

My struggle with my weight has been a big part of my life, as I imagine it is for most people. I have been "fortunate" I suppose, in that I have not gotten truly fat, but that doesn't make much difference in terms of self-esteem, unfortunately.

I was always a very skinny child, on the lower end of the growth chart. When I turned 12, I weighed 95 pounds. I was 5'2" or thereabouts, as I am that height now. I grew a (lovely) pair of 34D breasts that year, which came with the predicted taunts from my 12 year old male classmates. They actually started calling me "BI" for "Breast Implants" because out of the blue they noticed that I had breasts. At the time I was also measuring my bra size wrong, so I thought I was a 36B, but my actual measurements in that area didn't change until I was pregnant with J. Anyway, that summer, I got my first period. At the start of 8th grade, I still weighed 95 pounds. By the end of that school year, I was 13 and weighed 125 pounds. My eating habits hadn't changed other than the weight gain made me experiment with bulimia (not my thing, fortunately) and anorexia, though I was no good at being hungry all the time. Since I couldn't do anything about my weight gain, I turned my stress and self-loathing into cutting myself. Around this time, my stepfather started making remarks about my weight gain, saying things like he could picture me as a really fat teenager munching on candy. My boyfriend at the time dumped me *through a mutual friend* and had the friend tell me I'd shrunk and gained 30 pounds. Lovely. Middle school boys are pieces of shit.

I continued to struggle with my weight for the next few years. Marching band helped a bit, since I was super active, but that still didn't make me feel any better about the tummy I'd developed. One of my best friends joked that I must be pregnant because I was always covering my stomach with my arms. (Wow, my friends were really shitty. Huh.) Anyway. Then when I was 15, my step cousin molested me. Actually, if you define rape as "penetration of any sort" you could say he raped me. Repeatedly. He threatened to go after my little brothers if I didn't let him do these things to me. During the day he called me a fat pig and told me I was ugly, but at night he would sneak into my room and do what he did. Thank God he walked in front of a train and is burning in hell now. It took me about a year of biweekly therapy sessions to get past the shit he pulled. I still get upset about it. UGH.

I felt ok about my weight, but not confident enough to bare much skin in the summer by the time all that happened. I estimate that I still weighed around 120 pounds. I hated my body, in large part because of what the cousin did and said, and because I felt that it was my fault. However, my first serious boyfriend and I started dating a few months into my sophomore year of high school, and I discovered that making out made me feel good. Really good. Matt loved my body and my curves, and he loved to kiss me. That was all that mattered. I felt good with him, until I got hit hard in the depression department. I made the mistake of asking him to be my shrink, and I lost him. Less than 2 months later, I met C.

I slowly began to regain control of my life, and by the time I was a senior in high school I was staying up til 2 or 3am every week night doing homework, and getting up at 5 to take my sister to choir practice before school. I lived on gas station coffee. I lost so much weight that I actually got down to 102 pounds. I started to love my body again.

In college I gained the "Freshman 15" and started going to the gym. On my wedding day I weighed 120 pounds and loved my body. In graduate school, I gained another 5 pounds. I started going to therapy and was formally diagnosed with anxiety and depression when I turned 23. At about this time I actually got measured for a bra and found out that I'd been wearing the wrong size for 10 years, that I was actually a 34D, not a 36B. I suddenly was very proud of my boobies. I took MacGuyver running and on walks every day. I really felt like I was getting a grip on things and decided that I didn't want a PhD after all. Writing my master's thesis, I gained 10 more pounds. Then we moved back to Colorado and I got pregnant with J. You've already "heard" the rest of the story if you've been reading long.

There you go. I don't love my body now. I don't hate it as I used to, but I don't love it. I *do* love my breasts, but that's about it. I hate my stomach, and the fact that I've been asked if I'm pregnant about 4 times since J was born, just because I had a little bit of a tummy. I'm trying to love my body, but it's hard. I keep finding things to be critical of. I'm trying to turn my insecurity into motivation to exercise and tone up, but that's not working very well. It's hard. And unless you're insane or anorexic, telling yourself that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" is just plain WRONG and it won't work.

I think that's enough rambling for tonight....

Depression, and What it Really Means to Me

I am setting aside the anxiety and OCD issues that accompany my depression, and just addressing the depression in this particular post. Warning: there is some swearing and some generally awesome bitchiness here. If you don't want to read it, stop NOW.

If you've ever been depressed- truly depressed, not just sad for a few days because you broke up with a boyfriend/girlfriend or didn't get a job- maybe someone has said some pretty stupid things to you. I've had people say them to me. These are people I am close to, people who are educated, and people who know me. Yet they still think it's helpful to say these things. (And no, I have never actually responded in the ways listed below. I just want to sometimes.)

Why don't you just snap out of it?
Um, really? Gee, I hadn't thought of that. I wish I could snap out of it, just like all those people with diabetes just snap out of it. 

Have you tried St. John's wort?
Yeah. Okay. I don't really know where to start with this. Lets go with the fact that a plant has variable potency from plant to plant, there isn't an agency that controls the distribution, dosage, etc and takes into account this variability, and also, why would I take a plant that may or may not have the right amount of the right KIND of biochemical regulation that my brain needs to function properly when I can take a scientifically tested and proven medication instead? 

I think my spouse/friend/cousin is depressed. He/she/it cries a lot because someone just died last week/they lost their job/they broke up with someone/their pet hamster died. What do you suggest they do?
I'm not a doctor but I suggest a good fuck. Really. Unless they are seriously depressed, can't sleep, can't function normally, and feel like they are being kept prisoner by some psycho sad person in their body for like more than a few weeks, then they are probably just SAD. It's part of the human condition. DEAL WITH IT, you fucking pussy.

Okay. That was cathartic. Well, not really. See, I ran out of my meds on Sunday. Grandma died on Tuesday. I'm PMSing like nobody's business. These three things combined make me one hot fucking mess. I haven't really allowed myself to cry yet for my grandma, because I am afraid that if I start I won't be able to stop. I haven't been able to sleep well since Monday, and I am tired all.the.fucking.time. C tries to help but he's suddenly become Mr. Horny and it's driving me crazy. Thank God I've started spotting so I don't have to have sex with him right now. Yes, that's how I feel. Did you miss the part about me being out of my fucking mind with depression right now? I actually cried on the phone with the insurance company last night while I was trying to 1, find out WTF happened to the PCP I had picked out, and 2, get an appointment for today to get my meds refilled. I forget how much I appreciate being *normal* until I run out of meds. Yes, it's my fault. I should have paid more attention and taken care of this shit last week. Whatever. It's too fucking late now.

I did meet with my new Kaiser doctor today for the sole purpose of getting my meds back on track. Whee. I wish I'd met with her under better mental health circumstances, because I'd have liked to seem like a nicer person than I feel like I am right now, and she seems very nice, but whatever. I had to do this stupid "are you depressed" questionnaire. Um, YES I am depressed, you stupid asses! I ran out of the medication I have taken (almost) every day for the last 4 years for my depression and my grandma died this week. Of course I am depressed. Your stupid fucking questionnaire isn't going to tell you a fucking thing that I couldn't tell you in about 30 seconds about my medical history. Also, the MA made me weigh in when I got there. Yeah. Nothing boosts my mood like getting on a scale fully dressed with my shoes on and weighing in at 4 pounds MORE than I actually weigh naked, and then it being in my fucking medical record now that I'm overweight. It recorded my BMI at 25.2, which IT ISN'T any more. I know, I know, it's a seriously stupid thing to get pissed about. But I have busted my ass (well, sometimes) to lose that 7 pounds since Christmas and to have the fucking doctor's office screw me over on that and make me out to be fat is NOT cool right now. Yeah I said 7, I gained back 2.

Of course, J is being a normal 2 year old and throwing occasional (daily) fits. I am in the worst possible mental state to deal with that. So I yelled at him today for crying because he didn't want to put his coat on so we could go to the doctor. Go me. Great mothering, stupid. Then of course, he cried harder and I started crying. This is such a fucking joke.

My Zoloft had better start working soon. I can't take much more of this bullshit. I doubt it will really kick in until Sunday though, it usually takes a couple days to get me back to normal if I miss a dose or two, let alone 5. Whoever in the cosmic scheme of things invented depression needs to have their fucking balls cut off with a pair of chicken scissors. Oh yes, I went there. Yes I did. Thank you Mr. Sigler for that bit of imagery.

And on that note, I bid you adieu. I can't really see myself benefiting from further internet ranting right now.

A Failed Experiment

I had been, for the last week or so, taking only 50 mg of my Zoloft instead of the 75 I am supposed to take. I was hoping I'd be ready to wean myself back down. FAIL. Also, fail because I forgot to take my meds this morning.

Not a fucking chance. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. Why on Earth would I expect that I could deal with that on top of the stress of dealing with lots of people (particularly family) for 3 days straight. Or, better yet, expect that I could deal with all of this as well as trying to make Christmas gift bags with homemade goodies when I have no time, and without snapping someone's head off?

Apparently I am still crazy after all these years. Har de har har. I actually really hurt my mother in law's feelings tonight and I feel absolutely wretched, and it doesn't help that DH is mad at me for it. As if I don't hate myself enough. I didn't mean to be such a whiny bitch, I really didn't. I love my MIL and it kills me that I hurt her feelings. I honestly hate myself right now. I just can't stand this person that is residing in my body and making me say these things and feel so damn bitchy. I hate it. I hate this. HATE THIS. I am constantly on the edge of either an outrage or tears. Wonderful. I want to hurt myself. I won't but that doesn't take away the memory of the relief of watching the blood droplets well to the surface in the blade's wake. God I hate this. WHY ME? Why can't I be fucking NORMAL without needing medication? It isn't fair. It isn't fucking FAIR. I just feel so horrid. I am a horrible person. I hate myself.

I know I won't hurt myself. I know I won't hurt anyone or anything. It just hurts so bad. I can't even explain it. At least I'm not having a fucking panic attack. So I've got that going for me. Honestly I prefer the panic attacks to loathing myself and the occupant of my head masquerading as me.

It also doesn't help that I weighed myself recently. 142. That may not sound like much to you but that tells me I have gained 20 pounds in six months. TWENTY POUNDS. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I can't stand this. What the fuck is wrong with me? (Yeah, I know. Serotonin imbalance. Whatever.) I feel so helpless and horrible. I hate this. I want to rip myself apart just to feel something else. And the fucking tears won't even come. I am just sitting here with my eyes burning and nothing is happening. NOTHING.

Pity Party for One, Please

I'm just going to be whiny for a moment.

1. Someone stole my purple mug that C got me in graduate school, for me to keep at my desk so I could drink tea and write, research, etc. This pisses me off. I want to kick them in the nuts. If they have nuts.

2. I have GAINED probably 15 pounds since J turned one. This makes me very sad, because I am now back to where I was when I got pregnant, but it's worse because I have this stupid post-baby flabby belly so my pants don't fit, and I have a muffin top. I feel fat and disgusting. C likes that my butt is bigger (well, he says it's perfect, but I am not happy). I just feel gross and fat and like people are judging me.

3. We have no money. I want C to just get a fucking job already. I *know* he's trying but I think I could try better. Scratch that, I KNOW I could try better.

4. I think I forgot to take my meds this morning. Pretty sure I did. Maybe that's why I'm so effing cranky. That and I may have forgotten on Saturday too. Ugh.

Update:
I got my mug back and left the postdoctoral fellow who took it the note that I had previously posted on the cabinet. Unfortunately I didn't get to confront him directly as he was not at his desk. That bastard better leave my stuff alone. I do not tolerate that kind of violation of my personal space. Here's the note, if you are interested. The mug had been in a cabinet in the break room, with our lab's name on it and a label that says "Private, do not take."

Dearest Thieving Ingrate who took my mug:

I understand that in this economy it can be difficult to find the money to purchase things like mugs for you to use at work. However, I would hope for your mother’s sake that you had better manners than to steal things that do not belong to you. My purple mug does not belong to you. I did not bring it here for you to use and to take without permission, and I assume your mother raised you better than to think that you can take whatever you please without asking.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Tena

Panic Attack

The tickle begins deep inside, against my spine. Slowly, it spreads is arms and wings and legs, the many, many legs, and stretches luxuriantly. My breathing has to become shallow and quick like a rabbit's, or I will scream. My stomach clenches and I want to vomit but do not feel nauseous. My heart can't decide whether to pound or to flutter. The urge to scream grows as the tickle overtakes my core. I want to run, I want to hide but I want to shriek and cry and yell and ask the world why it is changing from what it was yesterday. I want something to take away the edge and make me focus away from this horrid itching inside.

For the love of my sanity, Stop.

ETA: It turns out that laying down in the dark and meditating on the states of various body parts for 20 minutes is very calming. No more impending panic, but now I am feeling very subdued. I'll take subdued over panicking any day.

Musings

I need a different career.

I took Friday off, and it was wonderful. I got a ton done around the house, J and I had a blast, the dogs got taken for a nice walk. All weekend was like that, with J and I bonding and doing chores. I felt liberated, happy, and free.

I came in to work this morning, and felt the anxiety building. Crushing me. I feel like a prisoner in my own body when I am at work. Sometimes the cell becomes transparent and I can see right through it, as if it isn't there, but then moments later it's back, the hard surfaces enclosing me in their grasp. Feeling judged, an outsider. Incapable of blending in. Terrified of making a mistake that will make people think less of me, that will make them think I am a slacker. I want everyone to know I get my work done.

I used to want to me a doctor, specifically a pediatrician. Then I realized that just wanting to take care of children was also covered by wanting to be a mom. Next logical step? Just get my degrees in Molecular/Cellular Biology. PhD didn't end up being what I wanted any more than med school, so I got my MS instead. Moved back home, get a job as a lab monkey. Two years later, slightly higher ranked lab monkey, drowning in mucous in her prison cell.

Every day I resent having to work. Joyless Occupational Bondage, as the MK ladies called the daily grind. I know I am so lucky to have a job, and I am glad I have a job, but it takes me away from my son. C is working an overnight shift tonight, so he's gone til 2am. I wish his job could support us without me having to work. I don't want to work outside the home at all. I want to be home with my child, and other children as they come along, but at this point that just isn't in the stars. I desperately wish I could just get a job as a teacher. After baby #2 that will be an option- I didn't want to be dealing with maternity leave while teaching, since I've heard that's a big pain in the ass. The funny thing? I always thought teachers didn't make very good money. Turns out I'd make more teaching than I do now, plus I'd get summers off. Summers off would be better than no time off.

I only need to take two classes. Next summer, perhaps. After C is done with his degree.

Things I Strongly Dislike

...currently includes my job. I am bored and not doing a damn thing related to my background today. Ugh. I have wanted to go home since I got here but because I have "stuff" to "do" I can't go til 5.

I wish I could take a sick day to cover depression/anxiety/ocd/lack of motivation, but I don't think that will fly.
"Hey, boss, I am not in a good head space, so I'm taking a few sick days."

*Sigh*