On Being Single

I was talking to a friend of mine today about being in a relationship. She's also single and kind of loves it. I'm more unsure about how I feel about being single. I love that I have the bed to myself and that I can watch whatever I want on the television without being sighed at. I love that I can hang out with my friends without feeling guilty. I love that I don't have to make nice to his friends when I actually don't really like them.

But it does get lonely sometimes, and that loneliness really screws up my head. It makes me so sad and desperate and depressed that it scares me. I start eying the knives and sometimes will bang the stapler against my arm in order to make that depression back off a little bit.

The problem is, it never does, not fully. It's always there, waiting in the background, knowing that it has the upper hand, knowing it will always be back.

The days that are hard around here, when the kids are acting up or when money is more tight than usual is when I think it would be nice to have some backup. Someone there to catch me when I fall. And someone I could do the same for. Someone to share all the fun times, with, too. All the silly things the kids say and do, all the good things that happen. That's when I miss being in a relationship. A true, trusting, honest relationship. That's all I really want. I think that's all most people want in a relationship - pure trust.

The last time I left myself open to that, I got shat on. It's becoming increasingly difficult for me to allow myself to trust anyone again. I even close my inner self off to most of my friends, just for fear of being rejected. I worry that if they know the real me, the one who says all those horrible things about herself, then they'll think I'm crazy and won't want to be friends with me any more. That's why I hate that voice.

I wonder how I can regain the ability to trust again. Is it even possible? Maybe I should just give up on the idea of being with another person again. I mean, being single really isn't all that bad. Although, I do wonder if I'm just not telling myself that in order to keep any possible partner at bay, in order to make sure my heart doesn't get hurt again.

Alone-time vs. Adult-time.

I had an interesting discussion with my therapist today. I told her how I had felt on Saturday, being home, alone, all day, after hearing about plans my other friends had made where I wasn't included. I don't think I was excluded for any particular reason; I think most of them think I don't have time to do things during the day, so they just didn't think to ask. At least, that's what I'm telling myself, because if I go down the alternate path, nothing good will come of it.

My therapist is under the impression that I don't need alone time so much as I need other-adult time. She's probably right. I get to see friends sometimes on a Friday night, but more often than not, it's just me and the kid and when she's gone to her dad's for the weekend, I don't really know what to do with myself.

Yesterday, I went to IKEA and it was fun. I got out of the house and got to shop for things I need (new dresser) and things I want (kitchen stuff) and just browse thru things I'd like to have some day. It would have been more fun if I'd gone with someone, but it was a last minute thing. Still. It was nice.

Now I just need to make sure I let my friends know when I don't have any plans on the weekends. Maybe it will keep me from spiraling into the self-loathing monologue so frequently.

The Voice In My Head When I Talk To Myself

It's meaner than any real voice I've ever heard. It calls me names.
You're fat.
You're ugly.
You're stupid.
The only person who loves you is your 7 year-old and that's only because she's too young to realize what a complete and utter failure you are as a human being.
You're fat.
You can't do anything right.
You're never going to find a job.
You're too dumb to get the jobs you're looking for.
You're fat.
You should just get a job as a cashier, that's all you're good for.
You're screwing up your kid.
Your life is a failure.
You're a fat cow.
You will never get ahead.
You will always be broke and broken and no one in their right mind will ever want to be with you.
Your friends don't really like you, they just put up with you.
No one likes you because you're fat and ugly and stupid.

I hate that fucking voice. It never stops. Sometimes it's quieter than other times, but it's always there, always waiting for me to slip into the slightest funk so it can start in on me again. It's me, it's who I am, and I hate it. 

Trying to make sense of the things that I think.

Sometimes I feel like people always think I'm lying. That I'm making it up about still not getting unemployment and thus, not having the rent money. I'm not lying. I know I can prove that I'm not lying, but still, I feel like people think I am. Does this come from the fact that I don't trust anyone? Is it because I was lied to for so long, and so often, by my ex-husband? Probably. I wonder if I can get over that. I do tend to assume that certain people are lying to me - not my kids or my mum or sister or friends, but more like people who've fucked me over in the past. I think that's pretty normal, yeah? So then why do I assume that everyone thinks that I'm lying?

My brain is weird.

I read this post by The Bloggess - she's one of the few blogs I read anymore - and it seems like I'm not the only one who feels like a total fraud. Her followup post about it has some good ideas that I may try to implement, so I don't continue down this path of self-flagellation. It's definitely not helping my depression, although I do think the depression is mostly what makes me beat myself up so badly.

Serotonin Boosters, Cider, And Some Kind Of Smelling Salts

I have a follow up appointment with my GP tomorrow. I did not take any more of the Seroquel. I just can't be that zonked out at night and feel so crappy the day. I'm tired enough as it is. I do think I'm going to talk to her about Wellbutrin, though. It's another SNRI, which is what I need, since I'm allergic to SSRIs. Maybe it will help when I start to really slide into a big depressive episode.

I've been feeling a bit better. I don't understand how this depression shit works. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Stress does definitely play a part, but I'm under the same amount of stress as I was a month or so ago, when this all started, but I'm not nearly as down as I was. I haven't cried in days, even though every day has been filled with frustration and worry about money. And I got laid off last Monday, and while I did have a little bit of a weep about that, it didn't send me into a tailspin. It pissed me off, more than anything.

If I could just figure out what triggers these episodes, I might be able to figure out how to head them off. It would be nice to not be blindsided by this crap. I don't really enjoy having to lie in bed, sorting thru my brain, in order to figure out whether or not I'm going to be able to face the day.

This song helps. And it makes me smile, which is never a bad thing.

Seroquel

A week or so ago, I went to my GP about the unending depression and she gave me a prescription for Seroquel. I knew this was technically an anti-psychotic drug, generally used to treat bi-polar disorder, but I did a lot of research on it and it can be used, in small doses, as a side treatment of depression. The side effects listed were scary and on one site I found, called crazymeds.us, it pretty much said you'd feel dead on your feet all the time.

I took one dose of 25 mg around 9 pm the first night and it didn't make me feel particularly tired that night, but the next day was a total fog. I felt like I was walking thru sludge all day long and like my brain was full of cotton wool. It was awful. I didn't take it again. I do have a call in to a psychiatric prescriber, so I'm hoping I can get something that won't make me feel like such a sloth. I can't be that exhausted all the time.

I was talking to a friend of mine, who is bi-polar, and she was telling me that she takes a really high dose of Seroquel before bed. She said the few times she's forgotten to take it, she wakes up the next morning feeling fantastic. She knows, however, that the tiredness is worth it in order to keep her manic phases at bay. 

Finally, there's a really good documentary about being bi-polar. If you struggle with this, or know anyone who does, I highly recommend it. It's hosted by Stephen Fry, who is bi-polar himself. I found it to be fascinating.  This is part 1.

And this is part 2.

Give it a watch.

Surfacing pt. 2

I'm feeling better. Like, not hanging on to the better by a thread thing, but honestly better. I don't know what switch was flipped in my brain, but it flipped and I'm very glad of it.

My primary care doctor gave me a prescription for Seroquel. I took it once, but it made me feel so groggy and lousy the next day that I haven't taken it again. I'm hanging on to it, just in case this better feeling doesn't last, but it's been a couple of days and I haven't felt like crying once, which I'm calling a result.

Depression is a weird beast. I don't enjoy it one little bit. I wish there was a way to cure this disease, instead of just medicating it, because the side effects from a lot of the medications are almost as unbearable as the depression itself.

I should just rename this blog The Big Blog of Depression.

I was trolling thru the jobs section on Craigslist yesterday, when I noticed a listing for a short contract job I did in June/July. They need someone again. They didn't contact me. Maybe I really am shitty at what I do. Maybe I should just find some dumb, $10 an hour job and say fuck it to trying to have a career in anything. Maybe that's all I'm capable of doing.

And I have to go drop off my laptop at the job I have right now, the job that reduce my hours to a whopping 8 hours a week when my kid got sick last fall. The job that gave my job away to someone they fucking FIRED a year before. I don't want to see any of them. I'm afraid of what I might say. Because what I want to say is something like this:

Thanks for kicking me in the head when I was down. Thanks for giving my job away to someone else, thanks for not understanding that my sick child is important, but so is my job, and that, even while she was in the hospital, I was still doing my work, bringing my laptop with me to appointments and into the hospital, so I could be there for her AND still get my work done. Thanks for leaving that shitty accidental voice mail saying that I never answered the phones and was terrible at my job. Thanks for putting me down when another company called, looking for a reference. That was really great. You people suck and I hope you go out of business.

I just feel like, ever since my hours were reduced, that my life has been one long suckfest. I'm completely broke right now. I can't even afford to get my kid a birthday present. I had to go to a food pantry last week because I didn't have enough money to buy food. I'm rationing fucking toilet paper because I'm so strapped right now. And the shitty part of my brain, the one that sends me into these funks, is saying "It's because of those people at work. They're badmouthing you around and that's why you can't find another job." I have no proof that that's true, mind you, but that's what my brain is doing.

I hate my brain.

"You live in terror of the future because you're always waiting for the next bad thing to happen to you."

Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15416#sthash.lCiJj6xe.dpuf

Ah, awful weight! Infinity

Pressed down upon the finite Me!

My anguished spirit, like a bird,

Beating against my lips I heard;

Yet lay the weight so close about

There was no room for it without.

And so beneath the weight lay I

And suffered death, but could not die.

Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15416#sthash.lCiJj6xe.dpuf

 Renasence - Edna St. Vincent-Millay

These two pieces describe how I've been feeling lately. I can't remember where I heard the first one, but it rings true for me. This is how I live now, waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing it's just a matter of time.

I can't get out from under this depression. It's making me crazy. I hate feeling like this. I want it to just go away, but every day, I wake up and it's still there. I'm so broke right now, which is only adding to all of this. I have $29 in my bank account. I haven't bought my daughter her birthday present yet because I don't have any money to get her anything. I send out resumes constantly and I can't even get in the door for an interview. I'm angry and upset about everything and I just want it all to stop. How do I make it stop?

Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15416#sthash.lCiJj6xe.dpuf

Surfacing

I think I may be surfacing from my latest bout with depression.

Being in the midst of depressions sucks, but it's almost scarier when you're starting to come thru to the other side because you can feel the darkness reaching out for you, wanting to pull you back under, and sometimes that pull is kind of seductive. Sometimes I would like to just fall back into it and never get out of bed again. This teetering on the edge, waiting to fall on one side or the other, is way too precarious for me. It makes me feel kind of fragile and shaky and I don't like it at all.

I wish I could just make the depression go away for good. I hate it so much.

Black Dog

I started hitting myself with a steel stapler tonight. It was either that or the knife block.

Thank god I'm seeing my therapist tomorrow.

A Special Kind Of Fucked Up

I've been trying to date again. I split up with my husband about 4 years ago now, and I've had a few dates here and there, but nothing has gone anywhere. I can't figure out if it's me or if it's them or if it's a bit of both. I just know as soon as a guy starts kissing me, I freeze up and freak out and stop things from going any further.

My ex cheated on me, several times, as I came to find out after we broke up, and it really did a number on my self-esteem. But it's been almost 4 years. I don't want him back. I don't find him attractive anymore. But I can't see to move on to someone else because my skin starts crawling and I feel like I'm under attack when I start getting kissed. And these aren't guys who are being pushy - it's just a normal kiss.

I don't really want to be alone for the rest of my life but I can't seem to figure out how to get past this.

Blog Privacy

I quit blogging on my regular blog because I felt like too many people were reading it whom I didn't want reading it. My ex-husband, my father, and his insane wife, for starters. I'd said some deeply personal things on there that, in retrospect, could be taken out of context, or in my father and his crazy wife's case, used against me. So I shut it down. I'm now vacillating on how much I want to put on here. I know the chances of the crazy wife finding it are slim to none, and since my page views are in the single digits, no one is reading this, but I'm paranoid now.

Where do you draw the line, even when your blog is anonymous? Is there any such thing as internet privacy any more? Should I just assume that everyone who was reading my other blog may find this one?

The problem is, I love the outlet of writing and I don't want to have an entirely private blog because what's the point? I may as well talk to myself. More than I already do. I could talk to my cats, but they are singularly lacking in anything resembling empathy. Or the ability to talk back to me.

I have things I want to say and I don't want to let the fear of being found strangle my words.

Pringles

I bought a can of Pringles tonight. I don't usually buy chips, unless I'm having a party, but for some reason, when I went to the store, they sort of called my name.

When I popped open the can, this flood of memories came back. Maxine. Grandma. Indiana.

We used to visit my grandmother every summer in Indiana. She'd do all the grandmotherly things - buy us toys and ice cream and take us to parks and farms and let us play (read: bang) on her piano. She had a tiny garden in her back yard, where she grew all kinds of vegetables, including corn. I don't know that she ever harvested that corn - the birds seem to get more of it than she did, but I thought it was amazing that she grew all this stuff. Especially considering she couldn't cook worth a damn. She was the only person I knew who could burn water.

One day she decided to take us to visit her friend Maxine. Maxine was this older black woman, who always looked like a million bucks. She always wore a dress and stockings and fancy pumps and she never went anywhere without a hat. I'd met her before because she and my grandmother were good friends, but I'd never been to her place.

It was an apartment. I'd never met anyone who lived in an apartment, suburban kid that I was. And I'd certainly never seen an apartment like Maxine's. It was a townhouse and the entire house was carpeted in pure white shag carpeting. It was immaculate and full of knick knacks and it had a stairway that curved up to the second floor. The staircase freaked me out because it was one of those that didn't have risers, so it was open and I was terrified that I was going to slide thru and fall.

Photo: Spec-Net

I was very quiet and very afraid to touch anything, since the place had obviously never had kids in it, like, ever. I sat on the bottom step and read my book and took in as much of my surroundings as I could, while trying not to seem nosy. But then Maxine called me over to the table where she and my grandmother were having coffee and she offered me some chips. I'd never seen chips like this before in my life. They were all exactly the same size! And they stacked up, all nice and neat in the dish. My mother bought State Line potato chips - what were these identically-sized things? So I tried one. And man, they were good. Salty and they kind of melted in your mouth, but crunched, too. I think I would have eaten the entire dish if I weren't so afraid of putting a toe wrong. 

Every time I eat Pringles, I think about Maxine, and my grandmother, and that beautiful, white carpeting. It's like a memory in a can.

So, yeah

I have no idea what this blog will become, but right now, it's where I'm going to put my writing. Don't expect wonders just yet. I'm trying to get my writing mojo back.