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September 12, 2005

Gloomy Monday

I should go to the doctor. Both kinds of doctor, actually. I never followed up on the breast lump. I had vague intentions of calling for an appointment this morning and going for a sonogram, but I didn't. That would require me to actually go ahead and file my health insurance forms. It would require me to call back the insurance rep. that has been harassing me about my last bill. It would require interacting with human beings and talking on the phone.

Since August, my mood, like the water table, has been dropping. Tess and Luke have had I don't know, maybe four movie nights, and I've yet to pull myself together enough to make it to a one. And they have a taxadermied moose head! And a projector that shines onto a large, large screen! And I love those things, but Tess & Co. are amiable, gregarious and kind, and sometimes, when I feel gloomy and jittery and low like this, that is more than I can take. I shrink from their invitations like a snail grazed by salt retracts into a shell. I am dark and formless and responsible for nothing.

I should have been seeing Dr. R regularly this summer, but I didn't want to. I did so much therapy this past school year, and then, I thought I'd be getting a new psychaitrist, one in the city, after June. Then, with this job back in Palo Alto, it seemed silly and exhausting looking for someone new, so I called Dr. R to let her know that, after spending the last three sessions exploring what it is like and will be like to stop seeing her after nearly four years, I would be back the following week after all. But we've just done med checks. I feel like I've closed out that account, if that makes any sense.

The last time I saw her was a few weeks ago and I told her my mood was slipping but that I wasn't wholly depressed. Even now, this is by no means a full-blown depression for me. I feel awful. But I have been much, much worse.

It seemed like it was going to be a productive depression a few weeks ago. Though unhappy, I was rattling off schemes of a quite soon writing career. And I was following through with the worldly parts, usually my downfall: writing letters and reaching out for advice and corresponding with people I don't even know. Granted, I should not have been doing all this on the company clock, and I did little to nothing about all the work I actually get paid for. So that. By the end of last week, I'd become a mess about it: so far behind, so twisted with guilt, begging for extensions I had no business asking for. I am constantly resolving to buckle down-- no blogging, no reading, no radio-- but I can't make myself do what I mean to be doing. Days slide by like this. I fail at being a person.

Wednesday and Thursday nights I stayed up very, very late, trying to do the work I didn't do at work. Of course, I accomplished very little, but sucking down cigarettes and Diet Red Bulls and being at a desk late after everyone in the world had settled into sleeping reminded me of being a student and the association lent me a feeling of productivity. I miss being a student, and writing papers that interest me. It is September now, and I would give up my toes to be tossing off a dreary summer job and starting a new school year fresh-faced and focused and resolved. I wish I were writing my thesis again. I miss having a good reason for not leaving the inside of my head.

On Friday I was blinking back insanity. I drugged myself to keep from nodding off on the drive home and even then it was only by the good grace of the Monsoon sound system and sheer will that I managed to curb the swirving. Friday night was spent at home, with a bottle of vodka, a copy of Midnight's Children, and the cat. It was worse than it sounds. I wanted and knew to go to sleep, but I was too miserable and frantic and stubborn to give in, and someone who should have called me that day had yet to phone and I had to stay awake in order to be more deeply wronged. I had to leave a lot of desperate messages, too. So I propped myself up in bed, the tray table over me holding my computer, a notebook, a bottle of orangina, the vodka. I do drink alone a lot, it's true, but it is not usually the case that if were to put the glass down and screw the top back on the bottle that would heave with the sobs. I had to drink to calm me down and to diffuse the heavy sadness.

Saturday I wallowed in my own filth until someone got home from his camping trip and came over to my apartment and made me take a shower for the first time in a week. It was eleven by the time I was clothed. We went out for a dinner that wasn't very good but at least got me out of the house. He was calming at least, and I felt safe if not happy. I felt bad on Sunday but behaved better. When Brett sent a text message cheering me on to clean my room (Clean your room! You can do it, baby!), I actually did. And I met Alex at La Onda. Our fingers scuttled over the keyboards and, occupied and in some sense productive, I felt ok for a few hours. I even did some work work, and then the darkness came back. When I was at Brett and Zuzka and (temporarily) Alex's apartment, I knew I was being wrong but I couldn't help it. Like, I wasn't interacting wholly appropriately. Responses came late and out of tune.

Yes, this post (well, this blog-- nay, website) is the hight of self-involvment, a regular pity-party. Well, ok. Now you know to skip entries that begin like this. Blogging, you know, is the new vanity publishing, and it's not like anyone is asking you to pay. Or, for that matter, to read.

Posted by hissycat at September 12, 2005 10:51 PM

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Comments

You do not fail as a person. It's twice you said that and I just had to jump in here. You feel like a failure in these times, but that is a feeling, not objective reality. OK, bless you for sharing your story, it's a decent narrative.

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