Depression Talk

My boss and I went on a beer run tonight, the type of run that is not uncommon for girls like us. We generally guise our beer runs under some other thing, like “Us leaving the farm right now will help the farm succeed through this season. As a result, it is pertinent that we leave. Now. Heading South. And I swear, its totally a coincidence that we must go South and the Beer store is South of us.”

We were on this run when my boss went on a diatribe about the people I date and I have to say, My God, is that really the impression people get? Because I swear, I’ve totally dated nice people. It just so happens that they’re generally terrified of a psycho like me, and head for the hills after my first outbreak of hives. If that’s not the case, I have to toss them soon, Very, Very Soon because what’s wrong with him if he’s sticking around? Clearly, a lot.

But, we happened across a handsome man this evening, one driving a minivan which either means he is so young he’s not legal for me to date, or he’s got seventeen kids and he’s met and needs to drive around at least five of them. I commented on his attractiveness and sighed. My boss could contain himself no more and shrieked “Amanda! He has only TWO LIMBS and they both come out of his NECK!”

“Wha-?”

“Amanda’s dream boyfriend: No speak English!”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that for the love of GOD, you need to date someone who doesn’t have an obvious deformity and who’s native tongue is compatible with yours!”

“But-”

“And he can’t be a chemist because that’s code for someone who WORKS IN A METH LAB!”

“They typically are more covert about their –”

“And just because he’s HIGH ALL THE TIME doesn’t mean he can call himself a pilot!”

“Well, now, I’ve never –”

“AND his native language needs to have developed a form of WRITING COMPATIBLE WITH WINDOWS XP!!”

And you know, I’ve never really thought about it like that before, but maybe she has a point. Maybe I should look for someone who’s limbs number more than two, that extend from a part of his body that is entirely separate from his neck.

And after that, there were people, and after the people came a desire to eat the fruit, and then all reason was lost.

I don’t know why it is so difficult, and you’d think that managing fruit and who picks where would be easy, but it is not so. It is difficult, it is trying, it is madness inducing and mostly the people doing the picking are mad themselves.

Its hard not to throw up my arms in disgust. Like, if you went to a fruit farm to pick fruit, and you saw a big white sign that read ‘Picking Here Today’ and then you saw a large number of little blaze yellow flags beyond that sign, wouldn’t you think that PERHAPS you should obtain fruit AT THAT LOCATION?

I need Xanax.

I am going to combust.

Seriously.

SO MANY PEOPLE have been doing revolting things while in my presence in the last week or so that sometimes I just want to scream for everyone in the free world to stay ten feet back at all times.

What makes things worse is that now I am sick. Clearly, there can be no other reason for my sickness than the disgusting things people have forced me to inhale over the last few days.

Some examples include, but are not limited to:
1) Burping so that I have to inhale the burp air.
2) Coughing without covering.
3) Not washing hands for thirty seconds with warm, soapy water before leaving the washroom.
4) Not even pretending to wash hands after using the restroom.
5) Breathing heavily where I have to breath.
6) Allowing their air to waft over to where my air is, so that I am FORCED AGAINST MY WILL to inhale the air of others.
7) Maintaining a level of stench upon their person such that I am sure that the air infected by said stench is full of harmful bugs.

These are only a FEW of the nasty things that people have done near me and if one more inhabitant of this world causes me to ingest the cast-off nastiness from their person, I will simply cease to exist.

The other day I was in Wal-Mart and I watched a woman come out of the stall from using the restroom, change her baby’s diaper, pack up her baby and its belongings, and leave the restroom without washing. She even had the nerve to leave through the door that I had to leave through, leaving her trail of germ-y goodness for me to be forced to put my hands in. Every time I’m in a line, it seems as though I’m standing behind or in front of a non-covering sneezer.

I blame these people, these diaper changing, non-handwashing, non-covering sneezers I run into in Wal-Mart and Tim Horton’s that I’m SICK. I’m stuffed up and sore-throated and I can’t breath and I haven’t slept and I’m just a big old barrel of sunshine really, really pissed.

GAH.

“Oh, crap. I forget that guy’s name…”

“Which one?”

“The one with the cars. What’s his name?”

“I dunno. What about the guy who gave me hives? Do any of us remember his name?”

“I thought he died?”

“No, no. That was the guy who called me Dumb as a Table. He died. Hives man is still alive and kicking.”

“And probably searching out fruit.”

“Have you bought yourself a new tube of itch cream?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Berry season is soon to be upon us. This year there is actually a part of me that doesn’t want to go to berry season because I just GOT A HORSE and I’m kind of sad to leave him behind.

At any rate, I get to spend three weeks consecutively managing the field, among other duties, at a friend’s fruit farm. This job is one of the most interesting I’ve had in my lifetime, probably because of the guy who called me dumb as a table and that other guy who made me break out in hives.

Its three days until we pack our bags and leave for the fruit farm. I’m going to need novels, batteries for my MP3, my laptop so I can sqitch up the music on my MP3, a case of beer and lots and lots of valium. Valium that I refuse to share with anyone.

Guilt has been a major issue within my Insanity throughout my life. When I had a relapse of Insanity last fall, after almost three years Insanity-free, I was plagued by guilt. At the time I was living in the Big City, studying Sociology. I had an apartment, a cat, a family who loves me. I had food, I had new shoes, I had comfy clothes to wear. I had a good job with a great boss, I had friends who would cook me dinner and not banish me from the house when I burned holes the circumference of pop cans in their couches.

And I was unhappy. I was so, so lost inside this feeling of being clouded in. I felt that nothing was possible in my life, that forever I would be living in a city I didn’t want to be in, pursuing an education that I wasn’t sure I wanted. My brother was overseas in Afghanistan, and I had just lost my grandfather. My student loans hadn’t come in, I was taking six full time courses, and working enough to try and make the rent. The very small, teeny tiny little part of me that is sane and rational knew that period in my life was temporary.

I felt like everything bad in this world was looming directly in front of me. The task of getting out of my bed was one so great that I attempted it only when absolutely necessary. I had a constant feeling that pure, unadulterated badness was approaching in my life, like nothing was ever ok, that nothing would ever be ok.

I felt guilty over all this because I knew that I had everythign I needed in my life to be perfectly content. And yet still, I wasn’t happy. And that made me feel bad.

Now I am back living at home, I’m officially a graduate from university. I have everything I need or want in this world, emotionally and physically, and what do I feel?

Guilty. I feel bad because I’m so happy and there are other people out there who aren’t nearly as happy as I am. There are still people out there fighting battles with depression and so many other issues.

I suppose that guilt is something I either need to do away with or accept as part of me. Regardless of what my situation is, I seem to be plagued by it.

Depression, Relapse of Depression, Guilt, Happiness, Hopelessness

I freely admit to people that I have a disgusting habit.

I chew.

As can be expected of a chewer, I do chew on my nails. Its gross, its unbecoming of a lady to have nails down to the quick. It is not particularly attractive; although it is handy in terms of playing the guitar.

I also chew on bubble gum. I can’t get enough of gum balls in my life; I buy them in bulk and hide them away. When it comes time for me to study, I sit down with my gumballs and I begin. I must take two at a time, two of the same color, and chew them for about five minutes. I always have a paper towel handy so that I can spit out the flavorless ones and repeat the process. The people who have been subjected to the sight of me, hair tied to the top of my head, wearing my favorite sweats with a stack of nasty old chewed up gum balls beside me have nothing to express but pure horror.

I also chew on my hands. It is quite revolting and from time to time the skin surrounding my fingernails is actually open. It hurts a lot when I do this, because you can’t really avoid getting things into the open wounds, and sometimes things like dirt or pickle juice will work its wiley way in and make me feel like I have stuck my hand into a tub full of milk house acid.

The desire to chew often sneaks up on me. I’ll be sitting about, minding my own business, and a twitchy feeling will come over my jaw. Its like I can feel that the muscles in there are getting bored, they need to be working out and DOING SOMETHING to keep from atrophy. If only the muscles in my ass were as motivated as the muscles in my jaw, I would be a perfect specimen.

The easiest and most accessible thing to chew on is a lip or a hand. (My own lips or hands: When I get to the point that I need someone else’s lips or hands to chew on, I promise, I’ll go into voluntary lockup.)

I was at a social event today, observing the events around me and chewing on my thumb. The fmaily friend sitting beside me was watching me, twitching because I knew that he wanted nothing more than to grab my hand out form my mouth, shake me by my shoulders until I had a head rush, and scream “FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH, STOP DOING THAT NOW.”

Instead he threatened me with gangrene, saying that I could actually lose a thumb to a ravenous infection of sorts.

“Hah,” I replied. “If you’re like me and you wash your hands thirty-two times a day, and you sing the entire alphabet song while you do it, your hands are home free from having infection ravage their open sores.”

Moral of the story: If you’re going to be a crazy person, you have to make sure that you have a touch of the OCD so that you can pre-empt any of the damage that might be done by your craziness.

Nail Biting, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Gum Balls, Gross Habits, Hand washing

My legs are itchy.

No good can come of my legs being itchy.

Every summer I act as field manager for a dear friend’s berry farm. It is a wonderful job that I love, and at the same time, it is an insidious job that no one in the free world should ever have to do. I go back every year because I love the owners and their beautiful, wonderful children, and the Berry Queen always keeps me well stocked in beer. Not to mention that her husband, the Berry King, makes the best Strawberry Daquiris on the planet, and the kids all make me beautiful cards for my birthday. Plus, they pay me money to do this job, and ninety five per cent of the time, I actually do love the job itself.

Last year I had one particularly stressful day that led to me having hives. I’d love to recount the entire incident, but it was long, involved, spanned over three days, and might make you want to shatter your screen so that you can poke your own eye out with a shard of glass.

The end result of the incident was a serious case of hives. It was so serious that I ended up buying out the entire pharmacy’s stock of anti-itch creams. I kept them with me all season long, and had to apply them multiple times each day. The Berry Queen eventually felt that if she saw me apply an itch cream to my red and swollen legs one more time, she would break my beer bottle over my head and proceed to poke her own eye out with its shards of glass. The hives were that irritating to those around me; use your imagination to determine how irritating they were to me.

I’m not exactly stressed at this point in my life, although I do have a fair amount of stuff going on. I can usually pinpoint exactly what it is that leads me to break out in hives. It usually has to do with a boyfriend or my need to be heavily sedated; this time, however, I can’t seem to figure out what it is.

The last few nights I have gone to bed with large, conspicuous itchy bumps on my legs. They haven’t been breaking out in droves like hives usually do. Instead, they have been breaking out one at a time, starting as a little pink itchy spot, growing to about the size of a nickel, itching like mad, and then disappearing before dawn.

Perhaps I am allergic to one of the new fabric softeners I’ve been using; perhaps I am allergic to working in the barn or digging about in my garden.

Either way, my legs have been itching like mad for the last several hours and I’m starting to think that the hives are imminent.

Bring on the anti-itch cream. It could be a long and scratchy summer.

My life is one that is very full of children, all of whom belong to other people. I make it a point to never mention my insanity to small children for a few reasons, one being that I’m not sure how to say “Sweetie, your Auntie is a fucking nutjob sometimes and during those times you are going to want to RUN. Fast. In another direction. For a long time.” I just don’t think the young ‘uns can handle that sort of information, and so I try not to give it out.

I do worry about the effect that having a crazy person near you can have while you’re growing and developing, but there will always be the nature/nurture debate and I don’t think any of us will ever have that one figured out.

Feet is one of my ‘things’ and I really detest feet. Sandal weather makes my skin crawl and if a person is going to put their feet anywhere near my person, it had better be to kick a rabid raccoon out of my vicinity and for no other reason than that. Sometimes feet make me want to vomit and other times I just want to put my hands over my ears and curl up into the fetal position. I once dated someone who thought this was funny and who would spend time putting his feet near my feet — which is the ultimate double-whammy — and you know what happened to him? I’d love to tell you but then several people might end up in jail and if they ever do find the body, I don’t want it to be because of a post on my blog.

My mother tends to like feet, particularly the type that are attached to rolly-polly babies who gigle when you tickle them. My mother and I were visiting my neice this weekend and at eighteen months old, she has already decided that no person shall ever come into contact with her feet. If you try to tickle her feet, or touch them in any way, she curls them up and hides them from your reach and I have to say WAY TO BE, BABY!

This discovery made me so deliriously happy over the weekend for a variety of reasons, the primary one being that at eighteen months of age, she can’t have already been influenced by my insane presence in her life.

Long live the feet-haters, I say. I’m sure this will be one more thing for my neice and I to bond over in years to come, and if insanity can bring about bonding, why the hell not?

I did laundry last night, a task that I have learned to love now that I am not required to traverse six floors that smell like drugs and stale beer; neither do I have to consider selling my organs on the black market in order to afford to complete this task, the washing of my clothes.

The first load I do is always socks. I make it no secret that I have a love affair going on with socks. There are days when I will switch socks sometimes four or five times because I just love having clean, fluffy socks on. I’ve been known to break up with people who have come to my house — or been in my vicinity — sporting socks that I find unappealing. I’ve also been known to stop being friends with people I don’t like using the fact that they have holes in their socks as a reason. There is nothing more detestable in this world than dirty, ill-fitting, or hole-ridden socks. They cost like fifty cents a pair. Invest, people.

There are very few other items that I would consider putting in the wash with my socks. Sometimes I will allow socks and a bath towel in the same load, and sometimes pale T-shirts if I can remember exactly where I wore them. I don’t want the wash water contaminated because that might interfere with the purity of my socks. The purity of my soul? Gets contaminated on a daily basis. But if my socks get fucked with, I get testy.

I was folding up all my socks last night which is not an easy task. I have a variety of styles of socks, six to be precise, and when you are dealing with over forty pairs of six different types of socks, things can get fairly hectic. When I completed my sock-folding mission, I had a laundry basket full of them and I was beaming at my collection the way mothers beam at new babies and my own mother was staring at me in horror. She asked me: “Does that make you feel happy?”

And I have to say that yes, yes it does make me happy. If I ever have a pair that gets dirty, I can toss them. If I ever go away on vacation, half of my bag is filled with socks because if one pair gets wet? I have six more right when I need them! If holes get ground into them, they can go.

Add to that the fact that if I go shopping and my heart soars for the next seven consecutive days?

And I’m sure it makes perfect sense to have that many socks.

I had a rather ridiculously busy weekend, one which involved a wedding, a night of drunken foolishness, and not sleeping at all Sunday night in order to arrive back home in time to sleep from six until noon.

Weekends like this often interfere with my drug regime, a regime that according to my doctor should never, ever be interfered with unless there is some kind of apocolypse that shuts down every pharmaceutical company on the planet Earth.

So I neglected to take my drugs two days in a row.

I typically keep my drugs in the pocket of my lumberjack jacket because I wear it every day and when I pick it up and hear that familiar rattle, I can just reach in and grab them. However, because I waxn’t sleeping at home and I have a friend who refuses to be seen in public with me while I wear it, the drugs were in my toothpaste and drug holder. Its the one that should be large enough to house every personal item I have use for, but instead holds only a few key items, my drugs, and my toothpaste. They were not conveniently located, and by conveniently located I mean in a place that I can get to without having to expend any energy whatsoever. If my drugs are upstairs, I don’t take them. If they are in the car, I don’t take them. If they are in a bathroom cabinet, I don’t take them.

So today I am suffering the consequences. My brain is gyrating about inside my skull; my hands feel shaky and I can’t do anything but sleep because of the way everything feels like it is moving as though it is a bad techno song on acid.

You’d think that after a while I would learn that putting the damn pills in my mouth and swallowing would be a happier alternative to these nasty side effects, but six drug-filled years later, I’m still sitting here shaking like its my job.

I wish there was a point to this entry, like I’m going to really, really learn to start taking my meds because messing around with my brain chemicals like this IS JUST NOT GOOD. Unfortunately, its been six years now and I tend to think that if I haven’t learned yet, I’m probably not going to learn any time soon.

So, I’m sure you gathered from yesterday’s entry that I talked to my doctor about changing my medications. The CrazyMeds.

When I mentioned the fact that I wanted to take less meds, the man actually gripped the wireless keyboard sitting in his lap, face blank and eyes wide, and flatly refused to consider me with fewer drugs running through my system.

I think there will always be a part of me that wants to try life unmedicated. Or at least less medicated.

Things are going well right now, though. I suppose that risking having another downward spiral at this point might not be worth it.

Surprisingly, I’m comfortable with it. I only ever sort of wanted to lower my doses, without any real reason for wanting to do so.

Living through chemistry is better than living with uncontrolled Insanity, anyhow.

Plus, I’m happy.

Why mess with a good thing?

5) My hands are always very clean.

4) People get to laugh at my quirks, and laughter is the best medicine.

3) It gives me an excuse to own hundreds of pairs of socks. And you can never have enough socks.

2) You find out really, really quickly who your true friends are: And I love nothing more than true friends.

And the number on reason I love being Crazed and Maniacal:

1) S~E~D~A~T~I~V~E~S

I’m not sure what the thing with me and cats is, but every time I get a cat, it ends up really neurotic. My last cat, Odysseus, died when I was in second year just after I got my current cat, Copernicus. I don’t really know what the deal is with my love for naming cats ridiculous names, except that it makes them unique. And its fun to watch the people at the vets’ office squirm when they don’t know how to spell the names. I’m thinking of throwing a silent H and a few Y’s just to muck things up a little bit.

The addition of Copernicus to my life has been… hectic. She has been a sickly kitten, a cranky kitty, a depressed and unhappy cat, a cat living with her owner’s parents; she has been thin, unhappy, growly, un-cuddly, and generally unpleasant.

Last year Copernicus had to come and live with my parents in the last month I lived in my first apartment. I called the place Hell for a reason, and the cat seemed to agree with my assessment of it. In the month she spent with my parents she became a glossy-coated, healthy looking cat.

She then lived with me for the following eleven months, and she didn’t seem to mind it too much. She was never exactly a happy little scampering about type of cat, but she was fine. She ate, she slept. I figured she was just an individual.

For the last month I lived in the Big City, Copernicus lived with my parents because it was just a hassle to have her while I was living it up.

The first thing I did when I got home was go to the stairs and call out for my little kitty. Then the strangest thing happened: She came to me. Not only did she come, but she allowed me to pet her, cuddle her, hold her briefly. And then an even stranger phenomena occured: She began to purr.

I have never seen Copernicus so happy. She is still very vocal, and for a nickname I occasionally call her Yowly Gonzales. Because she is very, very yowly. Her hair is shiny, she purrs regularly (Which, I swear? She totally did NOT do for the first year I owned her), she sleeps on my bed and plays with her blanky.

I have no idea what caused this change. Perhaps it was being away from me that allowed her to behave like a normal cat, but I tend to think that she is just not city cat material. She needs more space than an apartment can provide, she needs other animals about to torment (Or to torment her…).

I have to say that it is nice that I’m not the only one who feels like there is one, and only one, worthwhile place to live. I can really commiserate here, because I know what it is like to be unhappy in your living arrangements… And sometimes I feel guilty for subjecting her to the life that she led for her first year.

And then, I realize that I’m obsessing over a frickin CAT and that maybe, just MAYBE I should find something better to do with my time, like watch Degrassi: The Next Generation and listen to country music because even mindless television about teenagers who decide to become strippers has to be better than obsessing about what a terrible cat owner I am.

As I’ve mentioned a few times lately, I am in a really good place right now. I feel normal, I feel capable. Its been weeks, or even months, since I’ve lain in a heap on my bed weeping for reasons beyond my understanding. Its been weeks, or even months, since I’ve sat and stared off into nothing, only to realize on my next glance at the clock that four hours have gone by. I’ve been sleeping and eating like a normal person: food has taste and I can even consume it in normal quantities.

Every time I spend a few months feeling this way, I start to wonder if perhaps I’m cured. I’d love a cure for this thing that I deal with, I’d love to wake up one day and feel about it the way you feel about getting over the common cold: Thank the Lord that’s over!

And every time I start to wonder if I’m cured … I start to wonder if perhaps I should take another go at this life un-medicated. I start to wonder if perhaps my brain has re-wired itself and that I don’t need to take medications at all any more.

The reason I tend to think this way is because when I was initially diagnosed, it was with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and I was told that I may outgrow it. I was hopeful as a teenager because I never wanted to be crazy for the rest of my life.

But now I’m nearing 23, and I have to say that I think less and less that I may outgrow my issues.

My mother and I have taken up riding bicycles in an effort to pretend that we are fitness enthusiasts. We’ve been biking for a day or two now and I have to say that being out in the fresh air, with the sun beating down on my back has lifted my spirits substantially.

I’ve heard people say that it is possible to regulate some mild forms of depression with exercise and diet. I’m skeptical. However, considering I am on the highest dose alloweable of my medication, I have to say that I’m willing to try a continuation of exercise in hopes of lowering the amount of drugs coursing through my veins.

I’m only at the thinking about it stage right now. As I’ve said, I’m in a good place and I really don’t want anything to mess that up, but at the same time, I’m desperate to see if I can maybe change my lifestyle and see if it has an effect on my mental health.

Anyone here have any experiences with this?

There are a few people in this world who I allow to openly tease me about my insanity. My best friend often greets me in the morning shaking about any number of pill bottles, depending on my current regimen, singing “Take your meds, Crazy Girl!”

I love to laugh at the things that I do that are insane. I can’t stack dishes that haven’t been rinsed, and I can’t possibly have my socks arranged in a manner that is anything less than … military? Insane? Over the tops? Who knows.

I try not to take my issues with anxiety and depression too seriously. I think, though, that if the wrong person were to make some of the comments that my mother or best friend ever made, I’d be tempted to remove his or her teeth from his or her head. With my right fist.

The Internet provides me with a level of safety in discussing the things that are wrong with me. My Network allows me to discuss freely the things that are on my mind. I once admitted to my best friend that I lied to her: I refused to go to a social gathering of hers because I was too scared of interacting with other people to leave the house.

And like any best friend would, like every best friend should, she laughed at me in the end, asking why on Earth I thought she would want me to go to an event that would leave me dry heaving and erupting in hives in the restroom. And she looked at me, and she laughed. It was real laughter, the kind that erupts from deep within you and escapes like an oil spill, taking over everything it can, and leaving nothing untouched in its wake. She laughed for so long and so hard that I was concerned for her well-being and when she stopped, she put a hand on my knee and looked directly in my eyes.

She said:

“Amanda. My God. You are so fucking crazy! If you didn’t want to go, for God’s sake, just TELL me. Oh, my nutbar.” She stopped and chuckled here once more. “Oh, my lunatic, my crazy girl. You’re crazy but I love you.”

I’ve heard before that laughter is the best medicine. I think, though, that really, the most potent laughter is one shared with a close friend, and better than that is sharing it with a close friend who has seen me through every step of my insanity thus far in my life.

The Dixie Chicks once sang that Some days/ Ya gotta Dance. I love to take it one step further and state that some days, you gotta laugh. Laugh long and hard because really? What matters the most?

Is that you may be screwed up a little in the head, but if nothing else, you have a good friend to laugh with about your insanity.

Amanda