Depression Talk

My dear friend Joomy is doing a bit on bad habits lately, and I’ve been reading on with glee. I’m full of bad habits. I’m surprised she hasn’t done an entire exposee on yours truly just yet. To be honest, I’m a little hurt. I partake in ALL the habits that are bad.

Of all the people I know who bite their nails, I probably take it to the extreme level. I’ve only met one or two people in this life who are worse nail biters than I am. I have a special gift for being able to chew my hands into bloody, scabby messes without noticing until the next time I deal with anything that might hurt when it is pressed into an open wound. You know, those things like air or water or milkhouse acid. Whatever you have handy.

This is not an image of my own nails, but quite often this is what my hands look like. Only, of course, my hands are freakishly huger and more manly. Because I have huge, giant man hands.

All the better to beat you to a pulp with if you make fun of them, my Dear.

At any rate, this is one of my quirks that people have a hard time dealing with, one of the outward signs of my insanity that is hard to cover up from people because, you know, my hands and my mouth are usually visible to the public when I’m being all upright and conscious and stuff like that.

I chew when things aren’t right. I chew when there is too much in my mind, when I’m concentrating on any sort of task, and when anxiety overtakes me so that I can no longer think without having brain matter start to pour out my ears.

I have other quirks that relate to socks and the arrangement of socks and how my candles are dealt with; oh, and of course there is how my beer is poured, how many steps there are from any one given location to another, and how many tiles are on the cielings of every room I have ever been in.

But we’re not focused on those habits right now. We’re focused on nail biting. I usually call it hand chewing, because with me it goes a little further than nail biting.

Right. Focus on the hand chewing.

I’m focused on NEVER GIVING IT UP because, for God’s sake, I need to have SOMETHING to do with my spare time.

All eighteen minutes a day of it.

Fall has hit us here in CowTown, and I’m feeling it pretty hard.

What’s that? The suckiest blogger in the world? Who? Me?

Yeah. I’m finding it hard to focus on this whole blogging thing what with the fifty million hours of doing stuff each week, and all.

Well, the thing is that this time of the year tends to hit everyone here at The Ranch pretty hard. I’m certainly no exception.

Every day, I come home from work and I hit the couch with the dogs. This is the end of me until supper time at around seven.

The amazing thing is that on days when I work two shifts, I manage to remain upright and conscious for that period of time. I feel like I deserve a big old pat on the back every time I do it.

Part of the problems I have include obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I chew on my hands or my lips or whatever I can bring to the vicinity of my mouth, and I go nuts.

I also tend to shake my legs, twitch, and generally be a big ol’ ball of energy compacted into one handy location (That location being the couch.)

The other night, I was sitting around twitching and being insane, admiring the handywork my teeth had done on my hands, and my mother asked me if everything is alright.

Well, of course everything is alright. I have a job (Two jobs, even) and I have a car and a horse and a relatively peaceful place to live.

The thing is, that I’m pretty sure I’m alright. Mostly sure, even.

The problem that remains is, what if I’m not alright? What do I do? I already take the maximum amount of the drugs I can take. So I’m not sure what else there is for me at this point.

Some sleep might be good.

Or maybe even some hope and faith, some knowledge that this is just the time of year that crazy people tend to go a little crazier. I know that everything is fine.

I just need to work on accepting it.

Well, I don’t really have the blues. But I have been staring at my computer screen for what feels like hours, searching out volunteer opportunities around Canada. Yep. I’m looking in to going away for the last semester of my college program, which is entirely work-based.

So far I’ve found a number of things that look interesting, but as per usual, the logistics are killing me. Its like getting married and having babies and living happily ever after: It all sounds well and good, but they always get you on the details.

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We did some chatting today in our family psychology class, and again I’ve been thinking about it ever since because, like, totally, what is wrong with me? (Look at the picture. That’s your hint. I don’t actually have any functional brain matter. Just strange little shapes and colors. From now on, every time someone pisses me off? The answer will have to do with strange little shapes and colors.)

Everyone else said that, in their ideal families, they would have some sort of love and intense emotional bond.

And I wanted a working functional relationship between two adults who act as leaders of the household, married or not, working together for common goals and caring for two to five children.

And I never mentioned love or mush of fluffy bunnies or any of that happy person-type crap, and now I’m thinking: Is it possible that I don’t want that?

Is it really possible that I could be happy with just me and my pony and my cranky, howling cat for the rest of forever?

And I’m thinking, HELLOOOO? Have you met that damn cat? Because, My God, it is one howly cat. And you know, having someone around to bitch about the howliness to would sure be handy sometimes.

And the rest of the time I’m just conflicted.

I blame the strange little shapes and colors.

Depression makes you feel like there is nothing you can do to make anything in your life better. I think that everyone goes through phases in their life when everything seems bland and hopeless, and most of the time, we don’t know what to do about those feelings.

My mother frequently feels that the way to feel better about yourself or your life is to clean something. A dear friend and I were discussing depression today and she’s received that advice from four or five people now. Just clean the sink, and your life will magically turn itself around.

I’ve been a firm believer of the clean sink philosophy since I was quite young. When I first moved away from home to go to school and live in Hell, I could lay happily in the depths of despair for days, content to know that my sink was clean and so clearly, all was not lost.

Of course, like so many things that we do in this life, it is not actually about the sink being clean. Its about having gotten up, having made yourself a goal, and having achieved that goal before collapsing back into bed.

So, clean the sink. Your life may be a shambles, you may have no clue as to what you are doing with yourself, and you might be fucking up royally at work every time you go there.

But hey! The sink will be clean when you get home.

I went to a walk-in clinic today about my wierd health ailments. I’m sure that the world is happy to know that FINALLY, someone is acting like they give a damn about me. Or, at least, she is doing a really good job of pretending. Either way, the doctor I saw today was concerned and has ordered a battery of tests, so I should know what is up with me within weeks.

I realized today as I sat in the walk-in clinic being totally calm and collect that I’ve never before been to a walk-in clinic for a medical ailment. Before, it has always been because I’m LOSING MY MIND and I fear that my brain is about to splatter all over the walls. Or perhaps because I fear that my small intestine is about to worm its way out my nose and strangle someone. Or, you know, the sleep button in my brain needed to be re-wired or because a roommate found me sobbing in a heap on the floor (Over socks. For the third time. That day. Oh, shut up.)

Today there was none of that fear. There was no rehearsing which drugs I’ve taken before and which just don’t work for me. There was no concern that someone would recommend some Haldol and ship me off to the loony bin. There was no worrying about pronouncing complicated medications. All I had to do was point at my neck and wait! Fabulous!

Just a regular person, with a regular doctor, having visible parts of her anatomy checked out.

Who would have thought this was even POSSIBLE?

Amazing.

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!

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 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.

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.

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.

On edge.

On the brink.

The horizon is looming over.

The straw that’s likely to break the camel’s back…

And I have to stop and wonder, just how much straw would it actually take to break a camel’s back? And how, exactly is that straw packaged? Like, is it pressure packed into little packages such that it will sit on the camel’s back? And just how would you put straw on a camel? I dunno, its just that I’ve worked with straw on numerous occasions and a camel doesn’t seem to be the handiest way to go about transporting it. I suppose its a regional thing, though.

At any rate, I’m ever amazed, because I feel utterly twitchy, like if one more thing were to happen, or if one more person were to open their mouth and make sound come out of it I might just explode.

And, as per usual, I don’t.

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.

I’ve been having anxiety and panic attacks the last number of days, and I have no idea why. They have lasted hours and at one point I was in my friend’s basement, clinging to the remote control, desperate to find some mindless television with sheer terror and adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Someone recently asked what it feels like to have a panic attack, and I suppose there is no real way to describe it. For me, it feels like no matter what amount of deep breathing exercises I do, I can’t get enough breath. My heart races, my palms sweat. My stomach feels like it is on a roller coaster, alternated with feelings of being squeezed by the Hand of God.

If I’m nervous about an upcoming event, I don’t mind a panic attack. I don’t mind pre-onstage anxiety, I don’t mind fleeting terror when I feel like my horse is about to toss me to kingdom come. I can deal with the heart-stopping anguish when I worry that I’ve lost my nephew while I’m caring for him (He can generally be found coaxing my neagle to love him with a box of Milk Bone).

What kills me about this is that I don’t know why I feel the way I do. I’m overcome with these horrid feelings, for two to five hours at a time, and I DON’T KNOW WHY. I’m a very compartmentalized person. I like everything to be defined, neat, tidy, and put away in a little box. I can deal with being a crazy person, because there are a plethora of reasons behind it.

I can not deal with anxiety coursing through my veins for no apparent reason at all.

I’ve had fits of anxiety and panic twice this week. I’m very irritated at them because for one thing, I can’t seem to pinpoint why I had them. And for another thing, I’m on enough drugs to sink the navy. I’m not supposed to have panic attacks any more.

At any rate, two of them in one week, and my word, feeling like your head is going to explode and that you’re going to suffocate in broad daylight for hours on end is exhausting. But no, I mean, like, its more than exhausting.

I suppose if I was to describe the way I feel after a good, long anxiety attack, it would be something like a deflated balloon. One that spent all day out in the sun at a carnival, in the hands of a hyperactive toddler. Only, half way through the day, it got deflated and left the hands of the toddler, to be picked up and dropped repeatedly by small birds. But the thing is, the last time it got dropped by a bird, it landed on the free way and spent a good three hours being smashed into the pavement by transports.

Yeah. That’s it. I think I’ve got down how it feels to have survived a panic attack. You’d think the feeling would be more virtuous, victorious… but no. I felt like someone in need of intensive care and a six week order for bedrest.