Depression Talk

Five years ago, my family set out on a trek to find the perfect dog. We managed to find a breeder who deals with the perfect breed (that being German Shorthaired Pointers) but instead of giving us the perfect dog, he gave us Kami.

Now, before I go on, I have to say that Kami really is a wonderful dog. I love her to death, and she is sweet and generally well-behaved. She doesn’t pee on the floor and deals well with children. Mostly. He exhuberance typically leaves them laying on the floor shrieking while she wiggles and leaps and jumps and looks confused as to why her thirty-eight foot long legs have sent them sprawled across the floor.

I now work at a group home, and the owner encourages staff to bring their pets to work. Kami is a dog who is desperate for any and all human contact; she has a need to be physically on top of people whenever possible. Spending ten minutes brushing her sends her into spasms of bliss that most heroin addicts would kill for.

I was thrilled with how affectionate each of the kids was with Kami. They were all patient and kind as she wandered around the house sniffing them out. A couple of them played fetch with her for a good hour or so; she got to come to the park with us; and at the end of the night, one of the boys convinced her to climb on the couch and cuddle while watching TV.

Yesterday I was getting ready to go to work and Kami was acting odd. She followed me around the house wagging her tail and cocking her ears at me expectantly. She tried to scoot out the door with me and glared at me with sadness that would make the Taliban wince as I left without her.

By the time I got home, Kami was in a state. She followed me about the house, stared at me all night long, and laid with her head in my lap whining while I watched TV.

And now I feel a little bit guilty because I see how good her time with the kids really was. I see how much she loved going, how wonderful she was with the kids.

And I’m thinking, do I want to bring her back again because it is good for the kids, or because it is good for the dog?

And in the end, should I even care? That the kids get an afternoon of excitement or that the dog gets an afternoon of attention and happiness? Its kind of a win-win situation no matter how you look at it.

Oh, how I love a win-win situation.

I accomplished one of my major goals for the summer today, which you can read about here and here

I have to say that making concrete goals and setting out to achieve them leaves me feeling very satisfied. The whole day I worked side by side with my mother, and all day I felt nothing but thrill and happiness. Oh, and sore muscles because I did all of the cieling and high-up places.

I almost wish that every day could be a day like today, despite the fact that it took a LOT of work to get there and even more work to get to where I want to be. It actually took about twenty-five bags of garbage, fifteen wheelbarrow loads of various debris, a nasty lung infection from the dust and mildew, and hours upon hours of backbreaking labor.

I feel satiated on days like today. I know that I can go to bed and sleep well. I know that I have accomplished great things. I know that this is all part of working my way to the life that I want to have.

But days like this, where everything goes right also make me sad. Because I know that not every night will be an easy night for sleeping, and not every night will leave me feeling like that day was worth the while because so much got done.

At any rate, I am enjoying the rush right now from achieving my goals, despite the fact that I’m not celebrating with a beer. Hell, a caffiene-free, carb-free, calorie free cola beverage beats a cold beer any day!

Hurrah!

I’ve recently joined the world of those who work for a living after a three month hiatus. Of course, I did do the whole Berry Farm Management thing, but that was only for thirteen hours a day for twenty-eight consecutive days. Some mammals go through menstrual cycles in shorter periods than that.

Since I’ve been working, I’ve noticed a rather large shortage of time to… I dunno, laze about on my ass and ponder how many hours my next nap should take up.

However, I’m busy again. I have a million things on the go at all times and in all places. I have plans for each of the kids I work with and what I want to see in the next few months. I have plans for things around The Ranch and how I want them to come together. I have plans for the near future and the further away future.

However, I do not yet have a plan as to how I should go about finding out WHY the check engine light is still on in my Little Chevy.

Overall, I have to say that it feels good to be busy again. It feels good on the days that I’ve worked like a madwoman when I fall into bed exhausted. It feels good when I wake up with a concrete task to complete during the day. It feels good to drive home knowing that a pay check with my name on it is on its way. (Despite the fact that ALL of it will have to go to the vet, my parents, the car insurance people, and the damn gas companies. Bastards.)

The good thing about being busy, though, is that my mind is less free to wander about to those topics that can bring a Crazy Person down.

Three cheers for never-ending, back-breaking, mind-numbing labor!

Its not just an expression… Oh, no. Its reality. Except in this case, we’re dealing with straw.

The sun is shining.

The dew is off.

And the fucking wagons have seized.

Oh, happy, happy day.

I’ve been going through a breakup lately, one of those breakups where what you’ve broken up with is constantly on your mind.

I am a woman of many addictions and I worry about that aspect of my personality from time to time. That’s the reason I’ve never experimented with drugs, because I’m so sure that I would fall in love with the sensation and promptly find myself living under a bridge with nothing. I love food and cigarettes; I’ve been a caffeine feind since I was old enough to bike to the store and buy a bottle of Coke. The first time I smoked a cigarette I loved it so much that I never really looked back.

Beer and I have been close since my second year of university. I love nothing more than sitting down at the end of the day with an ice cold beer.

I don’t like to face reality very often, because typically reality is a very scary thing. This world is full of things like responsiblity and heartache and loved ones and life drama.

I’ve decided to face this life without my trusty, buzz-inducing companion for a period of time. I’ve arbitrarily chosen the number sixty-five, and so my grand plan as of now is to go sixty five days without consuming any form of alcoholic beverage.

Today is day twenty-one. I’m clear-headed and I’ve lost five pounds. My pants are looser and my bank account is happier. I’m not going to say that I don’t want an ice cold bottle in my hand right now, because I frequently do. But I feel like it is an important part of my journey through this life to deal with this love I have now, before it becomes something more. Addiction to dangerous substances scares me, which is part of the ongoing trouble I have accepting that I need medication daily. I’m scared of becoming addicted.

And so because I have a choice in the matter, because the beer is something that I don’t need and that isn’t good for me, I’ve decided to do away with the possibility of it becoming troublesome altogether.

And so my journey continues.

I spent today with my two favorite women, driving around the countryside on errands and discussing the world’s problems. Of course, in discussing the world’s problems, we started with our own, because really, the world actually DOES start with us. Its just that most of the people in it don’t realize that yet.

I’m forever confused because of my history with mental health specialists. (Not just the part of the psych consult where they ask you if you’ve ever seen or heard things that other people may not see or hear.)

Granted, some of the time that I’ve been involved with mental health people hasn’t been that successful. (I’m sure some of you recall that time where I was almost killed by a doctor who just didn’t get why my medicine wasn’t working… so she prescribed enough to send most creatures with ‘equine’ in their Latin names through the moon.)

But by and large, I’ve had success. Its a matter of the proper people in place to take care of you; the right professionals at your disposal.

I just find it incredibly upsetting that everyone doesn’t have those things in place, that I can get the proper care for me, yet other people can’t get the proper care for them.

I woke up in a cuccoon of my blankets last night unable to breathe. At first, I thought that perhaps my trusty blankets had turned on me and decided I must die.

But, no.

It was my hair.

Wrapped around my neck.

I didn’t know that was even possible. If you see any headlines in the next month of a girl being killed by her own hair?

Yep, its me.

I’ve embarked on a task for this week, a task that is so gargantuan that I don’t think God would undertake it without consulting the Pope. I’ve decided to meander about the farm looking for suitable horse blankets for my pony.

Unfortunately, this journey has led me to cross paths with only one blanket that looks like it might cover even a portion of his body. It is an old blanket from my mother’s favorite horse, a Hanoverian named Martin who was even bigger than Zydo.

I’m a sucker for the big boys, and I typically am only attracted to guys who are much, much larger than me. Its just one of those things; like, if I were to fall down the stairs on top of a boy I’m dating? I totally don’t want my heft to break both his legs. The same is true of my horses. I’ve always loved horses who are bigger, who are sturdy and sound. I feel less guilty hiking my big ol’ butt on to their backs if they look like they have what it takes to support me.

So far in my travels on the farm I’ve found six blankets, a wasp nest, the remains of what looks like a family of mice, and several spiders (All of which were as large as one of my hands AND which looked like they had teeth. Fangs, even. Fortunately, I’m on a farm. Spider-killing implements are always at the ready.)

ONE blanket looks like it will fit my pony, and only if I give it a good makeover with a needle and thread. Oddly enough? It was the first blanket I found.

All that spider killing, wasted.

I’ve been working full time for the last three weeks, and I have to say that thus far I’m loving it. Breaking up the routine with getting out of the house and making some money is a nice thing to do from time to time.

I have an income now, and this is something I haven’t had regularly since April. The thing that kills me about having income is that as soon as you have money, it needs to go back out on things you didn’t really want the money to go out on. Thus far:

- The Little Chevy needed a new gas tank
- The pony needs a vet check on his leg
- The pony needs two blankets that actually fit him
- My neck has two swollen bumps on it and the Doc recommended I see a dentist.

I see this eating up the entirety of my first pay check. Sigh.

1 new message.

From Him.

And I could just delete and continue on with my day. I could ignore the fact that this has been going on for years now, for far too long. I could pretend like it doesn’t break my heart to know that he’s on the other side of the world with someone who isn’t me.

But I don’t, and I read it, and hey! The wedding is coming up next year, and of course he wants me to come. Because what would a wedding be without the broken hearted ex-… Ex what?

And of course he had to go and ask about my damn dog, Dixie who I love and who I couldn’t live without. And I just want to giggle and gush and go on about the ridiculous adventures she’s gone on of late.

But I’m just sitting here looking at the message instead, wondering why someone I’m so done with can still have this power over me.

I write here often about my sleeping habits; how once I deem that I’m tired I can lapse into unconsciousness on command. Hell, if I wanted to, I could nap while riding my horse and eating sushi at the same time. Only if I did that, I worry about who would put my saddle away.

Sometimes, however, sleep becomes an issue for me. I crawl into my luxurious warm bed, with its flannel-y soft sheets that smell of fabric softener. I cuccoon myself into my blankets, and shut my eyes. And then I don’t sleep.

Over the years, I’ve developed a number of unhealthy ways to deal with this. A drink or two has always made me drowsy. Simply not sleeping until the following night sometimes works. (But the last time I tried that, it kind of backfired when I ended up going four days consecutively without a wink of sleep. I’m sure the hospital kept good documentation of it.)

I battle with the issue I have when I can’t sleep; that issue being, Dammit, Girl. Why don’t you just take the medecines that were prescribed to you to make you sleep?

I have a lot of fears surrounding my meds. I’m scared that they’re unproven and will make me die of brain cancer. (Because, Hell, I’m a smoker. I only want to die of lung cancer, dammit!) I’m afraid that I will sleep too deeply and miss out on some sort of emergency. (Because my normal a-heard-of-elephants-can’t-wake-me sleep doesn’t make me have that fear. Right.)

I’m forever choosing a part of myself to work on. I know where my problem areas lie and I know what my strengths and weaknesses are. This past week, I’ve been battling with my inability to sleep and my need to accept that I’ve been prescribed medecine to help me with that problem.

And I know it makes sense to take medecine for a sickness (And I strongly believe that an inability to sleep when needed falls into the realm of sickness.)

I think it just drives me batty that I need to convince myself to take the necessary steps to help me stay healthy.

I’ve been pondering this issue of perpetual alone-ness. For months, or Hell, even years, I’ve put on this bravado of not needing or wanting anyone in my life in the romantic sense. And that is true, to a point. (See: My last post.)

I think the reason it has been weighing on my mind so heavily is that now I’m living in CowTown. There simply is no one for me to meet and fall in love with. (Aside from my horse, that is. My heart would be firmly planted in the palm of his hand. If he had a hand. I suppose that as it stands, my heart is firmly planted in the frog of his hoof.)

So for years I’ve been telling myself, HEY! YOU DON’T ACTUALLY WANT ANYONE IN YOUR LIFE! And to a certain extent, that is still very, very true. But now I’m living in CowTown, and its like this life is saying “You can talk the talk, Sweetheart, but are you gonna walk the walk?” I dunno. I guess time will tell.

At any rate, for the time being? At least some guy doesn’t have to deal with the copious amounts of my hair being found in his apartment. Because Lord knows, the amount of my hair that there is to contend with? Makes me a no-brainer “Sorry, I’m seeing someone else” case until at least September fifteenth.

Phew. Safe for another month. But when this hair comes off? LOOK OUT, single men of CowTown!

A dear friend and I have recently been discussing our single status. We were trying to think up a plan of action last night so that we could avoid having the same conversation over again five years from now. (Or even on a weekly basis from now until five years from now.)

My friend is always quick to point out that I don’t actually want to date, or so I claim, so I don’t really get to complain. I have to say, for all my talk of man-hating, she sort of has a point.

The problem with me lamenting my single status is that I absolutely adore this glorious single-dom. I’m not sure if its the overwhelming number of duds I’ve gone out with or what, but I hate all the to-do that comes with dating someone.

This is not to say that the opportunity to date has not come my way from time to time. I’ve been told what an asshat I am for dumping a number of very suitable suitors for ridiculous reasons. In fact, I get told that regularly.

I suppose the problem is that in being alone, you know what you are going to get. I know that after work, I’m probably going to ride my horse, hang out with my family, maybe play some tunes on the guitar and make some plans around the Ranch. I know that at no point will I sit staring expectantly at the phone, willing the person I love to make it ring. I’ll never have to stand around, all dolled up and with freshly waxed legs, knowing that I’m being stood up. I can pass out in front of all the lame movies that I want, and I never have to wake up in a puddle of anyone’s drool but my own.

Like I said, glorious. This single life is simply glorious.

But then why do I go through a phase every now and then thinking, Man, it sure as hell would be nice to have someone to call on the phone, to cuddle up next to while I watch Degrassi re-runs?

Despite the fact that this goes against everything I believe in, I must move past the fact that my hair is weighing heavily on my mind. There are bigger fish to fry.

Well, I suppose that there aren’t, actually, bigger fish to fry. But people are getting sick of hearing about it.

I managed to go back to school shopping today, and I was very proud of myself indeed. I managed to go to Wal-Mart and NOT buy myself numerous packages of white sports socks.

I’ve decided to do the mature and responsible thing: Sort through my other sports socks and toss the ones that I don’t like any more. You know the type: The ones that while there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with them, they just don’t do it for you any more. They aren’t as stretchy or soft as they once were. They aren’t that pretty gleaming white any more. Your black boots have rubbed off on them, leaving dark spots on all your pressure points.

I suppose most people don’t devote as much time to thinking about their socks as I do, but I’m just a special type of sock-pondering person. I need to put a great deal of effort into maintaining my sock collection as a source of pride: I’m the only person I know with over forty pairs of socks in all the same style and in good working condition.

And sometimes I look upon my sock collection and I beam and I smile and all seems right with the world.

And other times I think about the fact that I even have a sock collection, and I think, Dear God. This is what its come down to.

I’ve recently had to have my mother fix my hair for riding. I think it has been about ten or twelve years since I needed my mother on a routine basis to fix my hair. And now, here I am.

The problem is that with my helmet on, my hair must be braided. And with it being as long as it is, I can’t possibly braid it all the way down. I JUST CAN’T.

September the fifteenth can not come fast enough for me.