Depression Talk

Today was moving day for me, a day that I have been looking forward to since about six months after I moved to the Big City. I chose University on a whim: I ran into an old high school teacher in the grocery store, and when he asked what I was doing with myself, I told him a combination of this and that. He smiled warmly and mentioned that he had always assumed I would go on to University.

And thus, I packed up my mother’s Saturn Vue, my little Cavalier, and drove away to study Sociology. I had with me an assortment of unfashionable clothing, a picture of Elvis Presley, my late Grandmother’s Venetian glass geese, and pictures of family members and pets from home.

I know that material possessions are not supposed to matter to us as humans; that our family, friends, and spirituality should feed us all we need in order for our souls to be full.

That is a very nice, romantic notion and all but personally, I think the person who came up with that line of thinking was on crack. And perhaps large doses of Valium.

I’m not sure if there is something extra special about my experience away at school or if I just over-react to everything that could go on in my life. I suspect that it is a combination of both. I could re-hash everything that’s gone on in the last three years, but instead I’ll sum it up with this: Brother overseas twice; living conditions that dyed my hair orange; dealing with an institution I would grow to hate; dates with individuals who not only fog your house with foul odors but who bring knitting apparel with them in case they get bored; some major health issues within the family; and of course, my personal favorite: I’m a freakin’ lunatic.

Being a lunatic is hard work, but I comfort myself with the thought that somebody needs to do it. The cosmic forces, the powers that be, God, Mother Nature, faulty brain chemicals: Blame who you will, but I have been one of the chosen many who gets to be insane. I can deal with that.

Dealing with that, however, gets tricky when it feels like all the duct tape in the world will not keep your brain properly located within your skull and like there is a snake-like creature wrapping it’s way around your intestines trying to suck the oxygen right out of your body by contracting itself around your ribcage.

The things that I moved with me in my little car, with the help of my parents that day three years ago are what brought me back to my sanity on many occasions. I make it a point to keep my home as my haven, where no bad can happen to me and where nothing icky gets in. I keep beautiful candles on the shelves, I surround myself with pictures of the people I love, I generally try to ensure that it smells nice, and I keep everything arranged in such a fashion that if a strong wind blows and something shifts out of place, I have a sixth sense that can feel it the minute I walk in.

I was discussing with a friend the fact that your whole life can be packed up into boxes and shipped from one location to another. It is odd how family members can show up at your door at nine a.m. on a Sunday bearing coffee and muscle power, and suddenly you are transformed from a city-living university student to an aspiring fruit farmer living with her parents.

My mother and I spent the whole day today creating me a new haven in a new bedroom in our family home. I lovingly unpacked and hung up my – still completely unfashionable – wardrobe. I unwrapped pictures and candles, made up my bed with my comforter and freshly washed flannel sheets. I may be one of the chosen many who has to be insane, but I am also one of the chosen few who gets to live with the luxuries I do: I now have a completely re-designed bedroom housing my clothes, my knick-knacks, my candles and pictures. I can arrange them how I want whenever I want to arrange them; the room smells fresh and warm when you walk in and the divine thickness of the blankets on the bed feel like they are calling your name and reaching longingly for you when you walk by.

I have to say that I should not really re-enforce this kind of obsessive behavior because obsessing over things is a dangerous and slippery slope. At the same time, however, I feel a strong desire to urge every person I know to make themselves their own haven where they can be safe from the world and where no evil can happen; where they are secure and surrounded by things that remind them of happiness, warmth, and shelter.

“The type you put stuff in for travel…”

“Not following…”

“Like, it folds up and you keep stuff in it.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, like your toothpaste and your drugs.”

“I didn’t know they made a receptacle strictly for toothpaste and drugs!”

“Oh. Well, right. Really, they don’t. This thing is meant for holding all your bathroom stuff in travel size jars. But if you’re like me, all you can really fit is toothpaste. And the drugs.”

“Right. So a toothpaste and drug holder.”

“Exactly. So, anyhow… What were we talking about?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m still dumbfounded that you need a special piece of luggage for your drugs.”

I’m moving back home in three short days. I’m slightly terrified, not because I’ll be living back under the same roof as my parents, but because before I move there I need to put all the things I own into receptacles for ease of transport.

Other people refer to this phenomenon as packing.

I had to move last year as well, and while it wasn’t as stressful as I thought it would be, it was certainly an eye opening experience. During this experience known as packing, I found out that I hoard things, which I wasn’t aware that I did until then.

That’s the funny thing about Insanity. New Crazies keep popping up at you from out of the woodwork. Or, in this case, from the recesses of your shelves and drawers and closets.

I found out last year that I purchase things in mass quantities and then put them away for later. I found what should have been a lifetime supply of pens and hair barrettes, underneath winter sweaters and below my microwave, stuck into drawers that I never used because they were too full of other junk.

I made it my goal this year to only purchase and go through one twelve pack of Bic pens. It was a very difficult year that was full of anxiousness and hysteria because DEAR GOD, WHAT IF I LOST A PEN BEFORE IT HAD BEEN USED TO THE POINT OF BEING DRY? And so this year, rather than focusing on the quantity of pens I own, I focused on using each and every pen down to the point that it had no more ink to write with, nothing more in the depths of its soul to give to me.

My brother noticed this one day when I was working on an essay. For some reason he was looking at my pen and noticed that the ink was at the point where you could no longer see it. As an expert, however, I was well aware that I could get another four or five pages out of it. He examined it and looked at me.

“Hey! Don’t throw that pen out!”

“Why not? There’s no more ink left in it.”

“Yes there is! I can get like, another hour’s worth of writing out of that!”

“Why the Hell do you know how many hours you can get out of a pen?”

“Look, you just can’t throw out a pen before it’s completely done, ok?”

“Why?”

“Because then you wouldn’t get all the ink out of it AND THAT WOULD MAKE THE WORLD STOP SPINNING. Now, give me back my pen.”

“Wow, you really are kinda crazy.” *Tosses pen back in my direction.*

Yes. I have to say that yes I am. But at least this year I won’t be surprised by finding three hundred and twenty seven pens stored about in an odd conglomoration of places about my house.

Amanda

I managed to make it out of grade school without an official diagnosis of anything, and sometimes I wonder if my life would have turned out differently had I not been so stuck on denying completely that I had anything wrong with me.

Before the end of the eighth grade, I had been interviewed by a counsellor at school who I smiled brightly to and told her that I never had any thoughts that might be out of the ordinary. No, Ma’am! Not me! I’m not crazy! I was scared for a variety of reasons from a young age. Mostly I was scared of being teased by my peers further than I was already. Mostly I was scared of facing something I couldn’t understand.

I made it out of public school and on into high school relatively unscathed. I started dating, I started skipping class, talking on the phone, occasionally flipping through a text book, and going to school dances when I could. It was ok, I suppose, although looking bac I have to say that high school was terrible, and who doesn’t hate high school?

Sane people, I think.

The first time I actually really and truly feared for my mind was when I was seventeen. The exact circumstances, in retrospect are entirely unimportant. What is important is that I HAD LOST MY MIND.

It was at this point that I gave up sleeping and all my life I had been a fantastic sleeper. I also gave up on most of my social activities in order to stay at home and laze about in my pajamas. I love pajamas to this day. I rarely actually wear real pajamas and instead I choose to steal oversized T-shirts from people I love and pair them up with jogging pants. I always wear something that belongs to someone else when I feel down because it’s like having a piece of them right there with you. Or it’s not at all like having someone right there with you, and there is just something comforting in swimming about on the couch in a shirt that is large enough to hold you and three of your closest friends.

I think the thing that scared me the most was that people would think I was crazy. I didn’t want to be like someone out of a movie. I thought for sure that the minute I was diagnosed with something, anything, that I would turn into a raving, screaming lunatic being carried about by large men in white jackets and into an institution.

I don’t know why I had this fear. I had never witnessed an even like that in my life, but it was a paralyzing fear that led me to stay away from discussing the thoughts that went through my head all the time with anyone.

As a result of my inability to sleep, I also encountered an inability to eat and I lost copious amounts of weight during the first months.

I suppose that it is time, once again, to give praise to good medical attention because a person really can’t do without it. I was so sure that my doctor would initially hear my complaints, leave the room, and come back followed by the people who were to carry me out. Instead, my doctor nodded. He listened to me. He wrote down what I was saying in my chart. He asked me questions. I was sitting curled up in a ball on the seat in his office, my fists wound up into the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt, staring down at the ground with tears streaming down my cheeks. And rather than getting up and injecting me with some kind of sedative before tying me to a stretcher?

He listened. He listened and later that night as I sat in my giant clothing on the couch beside my mother, this overwhelming feeling of Dear God, I’m in my own house and not locked up somewhere and not being sedated by strangers who think I’m not fit to be in with the rest of society.

I have to say that my initial appointment with the doctor was one of the most relieving things I’ve ever done in my life.

Amanda

I have no idea when my journey with mental health issues started. I know that I have always been a counter. It is because of this love for all things counting that I am amazed that I once got a pity 50% in math class because I was just THAT BAD at all things mathematical. I suppose I can blame this ineptitude for sending me into the field of Sociology.

I had lots of social issues in public school, and really, I’m sure this surprises no one because who was teased in public school and ended up normal in real life? Not too many, that’s who. I suppose the first time I thought that something might be wrong with me was at the end of grade school, when I spent hours upon hours plugged in to my walkman, drowning out everything else that was around me.

I discovered real writing at this time: Pouring out my heart and soul into notebooks, on the backs of quizzes, on industrial strength paper towels in the barn. I had always been a writer, and until this point my writing had all been fluff. It was the eighth grade that really got to me, really made me wonder about the shallowness of people. Everyone was obsessed with Adidas, Nike, Tommy Jeans, Gap, and so forth.

I guess part of what made me different from other people was my desire to question that. I didn’t understand why people thought that a T-shirt or sweater with one word or another would be any different than any other T-shirt you could buy. To this day, I’m incredibly fashion-unconscious, and I frequently wear a plaid jacket out in the streets when it’s chilly. Because it’s chilly. I do insist that certain things I own are of certain brands, like my car, which is a Chevrolet, and I will never buy a product that is non-GM.

One thing that has stuck with me for years was a dear friend telling me that all the really brilliant people are crazy. Like Van Gough cutting off his own ear. Like the number of rock stars on drugs. Like Kurt Cobain taking his own life. All the really brilliant people are crazy.

Teachers used to really take note of my creative writing topics, and would sometimes criticize me for choosing topics that were too deep and sad. You’re so young, they’d chide me. You should be writing about happy things.

I would share my poetry with some teachers who would ask and who I liked enough. The first time that I thought I might be crazy was when a teacher actually referred to one of my poems as brilliant and deep. She said it really brought imagery to her mind and made her think. Then she told me that I should focus on being a little more happy, she said that I seemed depressed.

The thought of being someone who could be labelled depressed scared the crap out of me at the time. It funny how now I’ve learned to embrace it as an integral part of who I am. I don’t think I would be the same sarcastic person, the same girl with the same outlooks on this life and this world without being crazy. It has added a new perspective to things, allowed me to understand parts of why people do what they do from an angle that I don’t think people can have without that added dimension of being insane themselves.

That is not, of course, to say that I recommend insanity to people as a way to broaden their minds because, Dear God, I really don’t know that it would be worth it.

Amanda

This week is looking like it’s going to be a long one. I’m starting out with two final exams and finishing it off by moving back home to the country.

My feelings regarding the fact that I’m leaving are incredibly mixed. I had a real blast while I was here. It’s been a long three years, and I’ve made some great friends and some great memories.

At the same time, going back and leaving behind what I thought was to be a permanent change in how my life is to turn out is kind of hard. I had this wonderful vision of me becoming this sophisticated cosmopolitan type of girl, and while I embrace everything there is to embrace about my plaid jacket… well, sometimes I wonder what it could have been like if I’d not become so hell-bent on going back home.

What I want to do with my life now involves copious amounts of writing and fruit farming. My parents are retired diary farmers and they have a perfect little plot of land across the gravel road from their house. It’s river front and tile drained. The soil might be a little heavy to support strawberry root systems, but there are ways to get around almost every variety of farming problem these days.

I was outside having a cigarette at a bar the other night and I ended up talking to two boys who were from the same general region as I’m from. I was discussing with them the fact that I have a degree in sociology and will now be heading back to the farm.

“You’re taking over the dairy farm? That’s kind of exciting.”

“Oh, no, I’m not taking over the dairy farm. The cows are long gone.”

“Oh, Ok. So you’re just gonna live there and work at whatever sociologists do?”

“Oh, no, I’m going to transform it into a fruit farm.”

“So, wait. You got a degree in sociology. You came to the city to do that and get a job. But now you don’t like sociology and you want to live in the country.”

“Yeppers…”

“So now you finished your degree and you’re moving home to take over a dairy farm, but instead you’re going to turn it into a fruit farm? And write on the side?”

“Yep! You got it!”

“Are you crazy?”

“Oh, Honey. You have no idea…..”

Hokie Spirit Memorial Fund

April 16, 2007, will be remembered as one of the darkest days in the history of the Virginia Tech community and the world beyond.

To remember and honor the victims of those tragic events, the university has established the Hokie Spirit Memorial Fund to aid in the healing process and generate financial support.

The fund will be used to cover expenses including but not limited to:

• Grief counseling
• Memorials
• Communication expenses
• Comfort expenses
• Incidental needs

If you plan to give, please click the link below:

At this point in writing here, I’m not really sure where to go. My head is overflown with topic matter, but I’m just not sure as to how I should proceed to make it the most effective for those who are interested.

I’ve decided not to make this site about depression in and of itself. For one thing, I tend to think that things like “Some signs of depression are….” I mean, yes, we all need to know about signs and symptoms, but its’ already been done. Further, the signs and symptoms are so individual to the person that I really don’t want to have to make generalizations, lest someone take my word as gospel.

Further, I’d like to make this site about my own journey, with looking back type insights and so forth along the way. I’d like to share the story of a person who came out of a wonderfully loving, happy, stable family ended up so crazed and maniacal. I really don’t think it makes any sense. But then, so much in this life doesn’t make sense at all. The problem here is, do I really want the internet to know about my life? Do I care? Does it bother me to think that someone could potentially search ‘Depression’ and end up knowing the intimate details of me and who I am?

Which leads me to another part of me: Does my depression and anxiety define me? Have I created a definition of myself based on being crazed and maniacal? Is it wrong for me to identify myself publicly and online as someone who’s got some issues with her sanity? Should I be ashamed, or at least less vocal?

I’m hoping that the content doesn’t seem too dry or lacking in the coming days as I formulate a plan as to how I want to convey the information I have. At any rate, please know that I’m working my hardest to make sure that the place stays interesting and that the information is posted in some sort of logical fashion.

Amanda

Today was my last shift ever at a dead-end job that I loved. Really, words are not enough to describe how many times this job actually tore me up from the depths of despair, how many times the people I worked with lent me a hand and dragged my sorry ass out to where it belonged.

I had originally planned to have a party with my co-workers, but time, exams, and life in general seem to have gotten in the way of that. And so, I invited no less than everyone I know to come and see me sing my farewell to the Big City.

I was on stage and I totally blanked out on the lyrics to my absolute favorite song. Completely. As in, standing on stage like a deer in the headlights, like a mouse eyeing a cat’s teeth, and I simply lost my ability to sing the song.

And as nonchallantly as ever, I started talking. First I played through the chord run and said “A little help here?” But the problem with being on stage is that you can’t really hear anything anyone else ever says.

And so then, still managing to play my guitar, I started talking about how absolutely sucky it is to forget your lyrics on stage.

I got the biggest round of applause ever.

So I began to sing an original. And during that song, I started to shake.

This was not the type os shaking that has happened since last fall, when that infamous doctor tried to kill me. It was a full-body kind of shaking. It was a legs-shaking, Honey, you’re about to collapse kind of shaking. I’ve never had such shakiness in all my life. It was terrifying.

As a result of this shakiness, I lost my breath, and as anyone who’s ever spoken and breathed at the same time, breathing is a fairly pertinent action in terms of maintaining an ability to speak. In singing, it is even more pertnent.

At this point I lost my breath completely and the Serpent that is mine had wrapped itself around me entirely. It tried its best to strangle me on stage in front of all of my favorite friends. My legs were shaking to the point where I was sure I would collapse entirely, and I started having such panic about what might happen to my guitar that I lost the words again.

This time, however, I regained the words, and while the shaking continued…. So did I.

I think that I played the best set I’ve ever played before in my life tonight. I am ever so proud of myself for coming out and for singing my heart out. At the same time, I’m so proud of having overcome something that is strong enough to take me out any old time it wants. But I stood up in its face.

And I returned victorious.

Amanda

The problem with mental health issues is that a lot of the time, you can’t just turn it off. You can’t choose when to be crazy.

I would be entirely comfortable in my Insanity if I could choose when to be so. Like signing up for shifts at work. I’d have no trouble signing up for split shifts of Insanity every Tuesday, Friday, and Wednesday from seven a.m. to ten a.m., and then again from eleven p.m. until one a.m. I’d be perfectly willing to give in to the Insanity during those hours, because I’d still be free to watch ER on Thursdays and Degrassi on Mondays.

One of the things that acompanies my Insanity is an almost complete inability to sleep.

The longest I went without sleep, without even an hour of shut-eye, was four days. Previous to that, I had been unable to sleep but could still find some comfort in the odd afternoon nap or treat myself to a little pre-sunrise dozing.

It was the hours between one and five in the morning that really did me in because all I wanted to do was to take something and shut off the things that were running through my mind. I would spend hours lying in my bed, staring at complete darkness, with anxiety coming over me in such a fashion that it felt like a serpent. It would begin at my legs, completely coiled around them. And then it would work its way up to my abdomen, where it would begin in a pulsating motion that made me feel nauseous. Eventually it would work its way around my ribcage and my shoulders, making it difficult to breath and impossible to relax. I could not take a deep cleansing breath, I could not recite relaxation poems, I could not take a walk.

I would simply lay in the darkness night after night with This Thing That Makes My Brain Hurt and wish that there was some sort of off switch.

I was running the tap tonight to wash my hands — yes, I really am that hygenic. I wash my hands and sometimes I perform this action so frequently that I could bathe the entire army of homeless men who live on my street if I gave it up for a week — and I turned off the tap. And that’s when it hit me that there really is a way to turn off this thing called Insanity.

I can’t really say what the best thing for everyone who suffers from mental health issues should do. Some people firmly believe that a total lifestyle makeover will do it, and other believe that the perfect combination of herbal teas can make it better. Some people believe in holistic medicine, or faith, or traditional remedies, or modern medicine.

But I eventually was able to turn off the Insanity. It took some time and it took some doing, but I did it.

And now I’m a free person, and I’m not even working split shifts with Insanity three days per week. I’m just me, and it feels really good right now to be me.

I look at each episode of mental health issues as a stepping stone: After each one, I realize something really good, like the fact that I’ve now proven to myself several times that I can control it (with the right help). Hopefully the next time my mind decides to take leave of its position in the deep recesses of my brain, I can manage to remember this wonderful little tidbit.

Amanda

Dear Doctor,

Last fall, you tried to kill me. Perhaps it wasn’t on purpose, but nonetheless, I almost ended up dead.

Your error was grave, and the fact that you are a human being excludes you from perfection. I know that.

I went to you because nothing was right. I didn’t feel right. I couldn’t sleep or eat, I couldn’t think, and I couldn’t get my sorry self out of bed. Nothing was right and no matter what I did, said, prayed, or drank, it wouldn’t go away. So, you prescribed me some pills. And I took them and nothing got better.

I went back to you a number of times, and rather than suggesting that we try a new medication, or that we do some tests to figure out what was going on with me, you simply said that I should take more of the same medication.

And then it still didn’t work and you told me to try more. And then more. And then some more again.

And I know, I’m a grown-up girl. I should know when something isn’t right, and I did know. But I didn’t have the sense to stand up and say something about it.

Eventually I was taking so much of this drug that my hair all fell out, I lost my mind completely, and I had every possible bad side effect the drug offers … and it all got worse from there.

I ended up in the hospital and was ordered to quit that medication immediately. I had to be sedated for a month so that the shakes and convulsions from being taken off the drug so suddenly wouldn’t kill me altogether.

My father and my best friend wanted to sue.

I just wanted to get better.

I was angry, Doctor, for a long time. I felt betrayed by the medical community entirely. I thought about suing, I thought about writing big, mean, nasty letters.

I don’t think about that any more. I’ve moved on. I’m sorry that it came down to me being put out of commission for a month. I’m sorry that we couldn’t have figured it out earlier. I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to stand up and demand a new doctor, or demand that someone do something to make it better.

But I don’t have the energy to be bitter any more. So, Dear Doctor, I think you would best be suited to treating things like Athlete’s foot and broken legs on the football team. Clearly you don’t know what treating mental health issues entails.

But I don’t hate you.

Sincerely,
Amanda

I took this picture last fall, after an incompetent doctor tried to kill me with ultra high doses of anti-depressants. It’s unfortunate that it has to happen, but some medical professionals are just not that adept when it comes to dealing with medical issues that aren’t black and white. As I’ve learned, very little in this world is black and white. Very little actually makes sense, and when you’re little and your parents tell you that life isn’t fair?

They weren’t lying.

I’m not sure why I did take this photo. I think it says a lot about my mood at the time: All I wanted to do was to make the anxiety that was coursing up and down the length of my body go away. Sometimes when I’ve had a bad day, deep inhalation on a cigarette can make it stop. Other times a beer or two can make it stop.

But when your anxiety gets out of control, beyond the point where deep breathing is going to do any good, relying on your favorite vices isn’t going to help, either. It’s a cold hard fact, and one that’s hard to accept a lot of the time.

Most of all, though, this picture makes me think that there is so much more that you don’t see. You don’t see that these objects, these things that I rely on to link me back to sanity, are sitting on my mother’s kitchen table. You don’t see that the room is sunny and bright, and that my mother and I are laughing about how ridiculous it is to photograph one’s drugs before washing them down with beer. (Which is not something you should do. Just, you know, as an FYI).

Does it make you think anything in particular?

Or rather, things that make your heart stop, your palms sweat, and your head feel like it is going to roll right off your shoulders and into oncoming traffic.

Anxiety, my friends. We’ve all had it. We’ve all stood on stage and felt those feelings that we have no control over. Oh, sure, you can try to deep breathe, you can try to say your Hail Marys.

It won’t help.

The things that make me tick the most:

Smelling odors emitted from other people’s bodies: When this happens, I hold my breath. If I feel like I’m going to come across someone who looks like they might smell, or if someone belches, coughs, sneezes, or exhales loudly in my presence? I have to hold my breath.

Socks: If your socks are gross, have holes in them, or emit an odor? I’m going to have to hold my breath and look away. Things with holes in them remind me of animal carcasses that have been outside in the sun with maggots chewing through it for a long time. (Read: Don’t ever buy me a cheese basket with Swiss or any other holey cheese in it.)

Dishes on top of one another: Leftover food on people’s plates reminds me of vomit. Hence, if you stack one plate on top of another that has what looks like vomit on it, not only do you have to deal with the vomit-y looking things on the original plate? But you have to deal with it on the bottom of another plate as well. I’ve been known to scream, throw myself across a room like a cannon ball through a warzone, and threaten certain death to all those around me when it comes to people stacking plates in my presence.

Other things that make me feel like it isn’t humanly possible for me to get myself out of the fetal position and out from under the covers: The thought of people touching my things; not having access to Q-tips so I can clean my ears before the day starts; the possibility that I may be out of clean socks AND DEAR GOD HOW WOULD I EVER SOLVE THAT PROBLEM; and the thought pf anything piercing my body. I’ve been known to dry heave for hours on end at the mention of a piercing, the taking of my blood, or the injecting of any substance into my veins.

I’m not sure what good any of this does me except to determine with absolute certainty that I will never be an injectable drug user.

What give you that heart-stopping feeling of palm-sweating goodness? Any one thing or group of things in particular?

And even better, how do you avoid situations that make you want to yak all over everything in your presence?

“Dad! I got a job writing!”

“Really? Oh, that’s great, Dear!”

“Yeah, I’m so excited!”

“What are you writing about?”

“My Insanity!”

“Uh…”

“Isn’t it great?”

“Oh, yes! That sounds like it’s … Uh.. Right up your alley!”

Not in that sense, no. (Although if you ask my Mom, my dog, my Dad, or my favorite uncle? Yes. Yes, I actually am that great.)

What’s great about my life right now is that I’m free from signs and symptoms of anxiety and depression. I’ve been getting out of bed in the morning, I’ve been doing productive things with my life. I haven’t been chain smoking in a dark room for hours on end, I haven’t been hiding in the comfort of my down duvet without seeing the light of day for days.

I’ve been just great. I haven’t even been having insane emotional reactions that involves threats of homicide, high pitched shrieking into the phone at my mother, or the impaling of myself upon large, sharp farm implements (Ok, Ok, I’ve never actually impaled myself on any large, sharp farm implements. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to impale the people who piss me off on those same implements.)

Sometimes I’d like to take all the credit for this incredible amount of normalcy that I feel each day. I’d like to tell myself, YES! You did it! You got happy again! You’ve finished school, you’re moving back Home, you’ve been productive at work, you’ve managed to not get fired, and clearly? This is ALL YOUR DOING!

I’d love to say that to myself every single day. The problem is, though, that I really can’t. There are others around me who helped tremendously the last time I felt that I was in my darkest hours: And of course, there are the drugs.

As someone with Insanity facing her on a regular basis, there is a lot more credit to go around than a pat on my own back can give. I’m one of the very, very lucky people in this world who has a whole network of friends and loving family members to count on when times get tough.

This is a main staple in the life of a crazy person: A Network. I have a built-in Network in my family and extended family. I also have a wonderful Network of friends. On top of that, I have on my side the man who is quite possibly The Best Doctor In The World. He is helpful, attentive, aware, concerned, and most of all, he makes fun of my Insanity with the same quirky sense of humor that I do.

And so, lately I have been giving myself pats on the back for doing so great. I celebrate my accomplishments and occaisonally, when no one is looking, I beam at myself in the mirror for doing so well.

But I also have to give credit where credit is due: To my Network. Without myself, I am nothing, and without my Network, I am lost.

Amanda