Depression Talk

As most of you readers know, I’m trying to think about coming up with a theme for my blog entries. A method to my madness, if you will.

Well, On this Thursday, the only thing that I can really think about is Thursday itself. I love Thursdays. Thursday is, and always has been, my favorite day. Thursdays make me think about wonderful and happy things; about puppies and kittens and butterflies — I mean, anything other than butterflies. When you have a horse who is scared of butterflies, you DO NOT THINK ABOUT BUTTERFLIES.

At any rate, all the things I think to make me happy are rolled into one big, happy ball of loveliness when Thursday pops into my mind.

And now, I must admit why.

Thursday is the day that my ass gets firmly implanted on my couch, a tub of ice cream gets firmly entrenched in my sweaty palms, and I WATCH TELEVISION.

Hours, and hours, upon hours, and more hours of mindless television.

On Thursdays, I have been known to put children in my charge to bed early so that I can make sure the junk food is in order for Survivor. I’ve been known to take the phone off the hook altogether starting when the clock nears eight. I’ve been known to lie, feign illness, switch shifts, and contemplate quitting jobs because Thursday nights are just that important to me.

And while some of this behaviour may seem a little over the top, a little intense or strange or Hell, even bordering on psychotic?

It doesn’t matter one bit.

Because I’ll be sitting with my ass firmly implanted in the couch, a tub of Haagen Daazs in one hand, remote control in the other, and I won’t have a care in the world.

I decided to give up drinking this summer because after a not-to-be-disclosed number of months, this is a portion of what came out of my bedroom last spring.

I posted here about my optimism about my break with beer, and here about my failure. I don’t think it was an utter and complete failure, but I failed in this goal nonetheless.

I decided not to go further in my quest for sixty five days of alcohol free goodness, because the pressure it put on me was just too much. I was completely restricting any contact with alcohol, and I think it was a bit like being on a diet. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and the fact that it was on my mind worried me all the time.

I’ve since had beer on three occasions: twice after work, I had one, and last night I went out with friends on a social galavant around the city.

At this point, I have to say that I am completely up in the air with regards to my feelings on this subject. I was so certain that after I had gone a length of time without drinking, I would be positive as to whether or not I should quit permanently.

It is a bad habit, of course, and so obviously it would be a good bad habit to give up altogether. But at the same time, it is something I enjoy, a social habit that I partake in.

I suppose that at this point, I’m monitoring my behavior: I don’t want my bedroom to have a grocery cart full of bottles in it by the time New Years’ rolls around. But at the same time, I don’t think I’m going to consider myself the biggest loser on the planet if I indulge in a wakness now and then.

This weekend was one of those weekends that goes about testing every bit of your mental and emotional strength. I’ve started working in a group home for boys aged 12-15, and I can’t get past how up and down, up and down, every single shift is.

Hardship is a regular part of every person’s life. You just can’t get around it in this world, be it personal issues, family issues, health issues, relationship issues… Issues abound and no matter what you do, you can’t avoid them. Unless you curl up in your bed with a magnum bottle of wine and refuse to come out until springtime.

Which I’ve only done once.

That I’m willing to admit.

At any rate, I’m on this roller coaster now, learning about myself and my abilities. The thing that I like most about hardships is that once they’re said and done, you know that much more about yourself, about who you are and what you stand for.

And I like it.

I have an intense fear of rejection. I’m cool with that.

I think one of the main reasons I’ve never tried to go anywhere with my music is a fear of rejection. My family and friends tell me I’m wonderful, and I’m glad because if they didn’t I would pack it in for good and never play again. The problem is that everyone’s family and friends have to tell them they’re wonderful. That’s just the rule.

My uncle in particular is very fond of my music, and frequently tells me to make more and more demo tapes to send to more and more companies. While it is nice that he has such faith in me, I just don’t think I can handle being told “Sorry, but you suck donkey balls and that screechy thing you’re doing to the microphone? STOP IT” at this point in my life. It would surely send me running for my oversized sweats (Not that there is much that doesn’t send me running for them) and weeping into my pillows for days.

In an attempt to preserve my mental health? I don’t take a lot of risks.

Well, the other day I got a package in the mail and at first I was sure it was a bomb from one of the dates I had last year who ended up being blog fodder. (Sorry, but if you bring your knitting on a date with me? You are blog fodder for YEARS. Suck it up.)

But, no. It was a package from a recording company sending me back the tape of mine that they didn’t want.

And you know, its one thing to be rejected when you ASK FOR IT. It is another matter entirely to be skipping merrily through life and then find out that you’ve been rejected without your knowledge.

Fortunately, since I had no time to prepare for this surprise rejection, I am simply making up my mind to ignore it altogether. THe power of denial is strong, and when my mind is made up to deny? The CIA would have trouble making me see eye to eye with the truth.

I was at the park last night, fishing with the kids from work. There was a couple there, looking oh-so-uncomfortable. The girl was trying desperately to look interested in what the nincompoop guy was blathering about. Every time I walked by her to search out a child or fetch more worms from the car, she gave me a desperate smile.

“Aw, a couple on a date…” I said to my co-worker.

He chuckled and said “Yeah…”

“I came on a date in this park once. It was nice.”

“Did you?”

“Yep. He gets married in February.”

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 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.

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’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?

Apologies for the no post yesterday: My internet was not co-operating with me. I have to say that the one major drawback of living in the middle of nowhere is the wonky dial-up internet connection.

Anyhow.

My hair.

When I went to university, I had this goal to not cut, color, perm, streak, or mess with my hair in any way for the duration.

I don’t know why I wanted to do this, other than to see what my natural hair is like, sans additives.

Last January, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. So I decided to donate all my hair to Locks of Love.

But, my best friend got engaged and begged me not to cut my hair until after her September wedding. I figured that would just mean more hair for Locks of Love.

Well, I measured my hair the other day (Because that’s just how cool I am) and I have over fifteen inches of long, straight, brown hair to donate.

And now I have to live with all fifteen inches of it (More than that, because I measured it in a pony tail) until September AND IT IS DRIVING ME CRAZY.

This hair is ON MY PERSON at all times. If I wear a tank-top, it tickles the backs of my arms. When I ride, it is sticking to the back of my neck. It gets tangled in things (Like my cat. Nothing worse than having your hair tangled in a cat) and when the wind blows it stands on end and attacks my face like a rabid squirrel.

It does these things even if it is tied up.

The dogs chase it, babies grab it; it grabs onto my horse’s halter and when all twelve hundred pounds of him walks away? It is very, very hurty.

I have approximately six weeks left of this insanity.

I’m going to need to buy stocks in mousse and many, many varieties of drugs.

I don’t know, sometimes you just have a series of bad days, those days that make you think that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t bother to get out of bed.

But then you start your day and the small child you made breakfast for shrieks in happiness instead of demanding something else; and then the small child wraps his arms around your neck four times and says “I love you, Auntie”; and your best friend comes over and you watch two horror movies and then you pick some beans from the garden for dinner; and you also get corn and peas; and you ride your horse and he is just so wonderful you could cry, and then after that you eat so much steak at dinner that you just may make yourself sick…

And you think, OK, maybe I can keep doing this whole ‘being upright and conscious’ thing.

I went away for the weekend to drink and be silly with some girlfriends for my best friend’s bachelorette weekend. It turns out that my sleeping habits were the highlight of everyone’s weekend.

I talk often of my desire to sleep, my need to nap, and the intenseness of my unconcsciousness, but I don’t think that people really get it until they’ve experienced it firsthand.

The first night all of us drunken girls returned to the camper to go to bed. So I announced that I would be having one more cigarette and then I was going to sleep. And then I had my ciggie, and then I laid down, shut my eyes, and was gone.

In the morning my bunkmate was astounded. Like, Dude, you were totally asleep two seconds after you said you were going to sleep! And my best friend was like, Yep, that’s what she does. She announces her need to be unconcsious and then she’s gone.

The following afternoon, I needed my required nap. I laid down on the couch, told the girls I would be going to sleep, and promptly did.

During this time, the other members of the campsite decided to come over and visit with us. At one point, they decided they should do something cruel to the unconscious girl, and they sent in a few people to investigate. I slept on. They decided against tormenting me.

Then one of the guys said that someone needs to do something to that girl. Well, the girls informed him of my hatred for feet. So he decided that he should come in and bother my feet. He reached right into the blanket, pinched my toes, and tickled my feet. I slept on.

He went back outside and announced to the rest of the people in the yard “THAT GIRL IS DEAD. WE NEED A CORONER.”

And while I’m mortified that someone had the gall to molest my poor, innocent little feet while I slept, I have to say that the ability to play dead at will came in very handy.

Because if he had come near my feet while I was awake, he probably would have lost a tooth, his left testicle, and a large portion of his kidneys.