Depression Talk

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’m on vacation this week, a vacation that started out with my nephew howling at the train station “Please don’t move away forever, Auntie!!”. And for a moment, just one little moment, I thought of threatening to stay away FOREVER if he ever wanders right into the ring IN FRONT OF MY HORSE while I am riding him again. But then I figured, hey, the poor kid is probably still traumatized from the time I fed him hummingbird food in a bottle at three a.m. He likely doesn’t need any more tramautic experiences at the hands of his beloved Auntie.

My vacation was interrupted today by going on a date, and when I say that it was interrupted by a date I mean that it actually was. Dating for me is like a full time job; the stress and anxiety and amount of workplace-appropriate shoes I need is really that important. I went on a date and it was fun and he was nice and in the end, CAN I GO BACK TO BEING SINGLE NOW?

And PHEW, the answer to that one is always yes because every time I meet someone I fancy just a little bit, he turns out to be a stalker or insane or unemployed or the father of five children or a chronic back-waxer. And I just can’t put my poor mother through another of THOSE types of men.

If someone’s future mother-in-law whispers under her breath that she thinks you’re crazy, does that make you crazier than you really are?

I met someone this weekend, quite unexpectedly as it is Berry Season, after all, and how do you meet someone when you devote your life to fruit?

I got to leave the berry farm for a little over fourteen hours this weekend and it was a great relief to discover that the world is still turning beyond Field #7.

This individual I met wears cowboy boots and has a belt bucle and showed up tp the stag I was at in a PBR button-down shirt. For those of you not in the know, the Pro Bull Riding finals are the highlight of my year, and anyone who knows what they are — other than my parents — is really a special person in my eyes. Someone I’d consider offering my second last beer to, even.

He drives a tractor for a living and has a big ol’ pickup truck and wears a ball cap and I got to thinking about it, and who’s kidding who? I can’t date someone. I hate dating. When people breathe near me, I want to smack them. When people sit beside me, I feel claustrophobic. I detest the awkwardness of dating, the formality of it, the expectation that you should lean in for a kiss goodnight. And by the way, how are you supposed to know if you’re on a date with someone that the other party actually WANTS to be kissed goodnight?

But at the same time I’m thinking that it would be awfully nice to have my phone ring at some point. This is not typical of me at all.

I think the PBR shirt has clouded my judgement.

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.

I got up bright and early today, at seven thirty, and decided to run down and see my horse. I was planning on feeding him, watering him, and cleaning out his stall, but my father had beat me to it. So I stood, instead, and scratched his friendly little ears while my dad finished up the cleaning.

Later I was feeling a little bit bad that my poor father had to clean out two horse stalls instead of one, and I asked him if he would like to trade off days on stall cleaning, or work out some kind of deal.

My dad pondered for a little minute before he looked at me and said “Well, Dear, I just don’t think you could do it to my satisfaction.”

And a lot of people might be offended at a comment like that. Like, what, I can’t shovel shit good enough for you? Like, I might shovel shit the wrong way? Is there a wrong way to shovel shit? I’m sure that many people would be put off by such a statement.

But not me.

See, I accepted a long, long time ago that my parents are Farkin’ Insane. My mother has a thing about the pots in her kitchen: Each one has certain tasks, certain foods that can be cooked in it, and if you cook the wrong food in the wrong pot, heads just might start to explode.

My father is equally insane. The way that I garden maddens him to the point that this year, he banished my garden to behind the chicken coop. We’re talking a location that was once a rock pile. Yes. It was once a rock pile. Not a pile of, say, compost that might have desintegrated in the last thirty years. It was a rock pile. (On a brighter note, it was mentioned to me today that since I’m managing to actually grow things in this rock pile, I’m making quite a statement about my agricultural skills. Good point.)

I think I was eight or nine when I decided that since I probably can’t beat them, I might as well join them. And I then went on a campaign to end the improper stacking of coffee cups in our home.

Since then, every time I find an improperly stacked coffee cup, I fiercefully whip open the cupboard door, produce the cups from within it, smash them together with the right amount of force and care such that they don’t end up broken, and slam the cupboard door shut. Occasionally, an imbecile trundles through our kitchen and stacks the coffee cups the wrong way but I am generally quick to remind them of their errors. And then they promptly quit coming over altogether.

And so, the fact that I probably can’t clean out my horses’ stall to my father’s satisfaction doesn’t worry me one little bit. I know that I’m a good shit-shoveler. in fact, I’m probably one of the best shit shovelers. I even throw that little tidbit out in conversation whenever I get a chance!

Its just that skill can’t compete with Crazy, and so most of the time, I don’t even need to try.

I am that confident in my ability to shovel shit.

I met the Chestnut Thoroughbred Gelding on Wednesday. He nuzzled up to me in the pasture, he allowed me to lead him to and fro the barn. I stood with him in his stall, examined his feet, ran my hands down the length of his barrel and through his tail. I averted my eyes while my mother and father examined his physical condition, looked at his teeth and inspected his legs.

I was discussing the various breeds of horses with a good friend the other night. I was explaining that my dad’s horse, an Arabian, is quick on her feet, good for sporting, but with drawbacks like a load of energy that a rider like myself would want to avoid. I explained to her that I wanted a horse who was slow, bumbling, built thick and kind of boring.

“Oh, I get it!”

“Get what?”

“Your horse. You want a slow horse, one who’s big around and not quick on his feet!”

“Yeah, that’s it!”

“Just like the people you date!”

Sure. Slow, bumbling, thick. Just like the people I date.

I go to ride him this morning. I have decided to not fall head over heels with him just this minute; I want to walk him, trott him, wonder if he is too strong for me to pull up from a spook.

When I’ve dismounted, when I walk away with muscles screaming, walking like a cow-boy, bow-legged and in search of beer: Then I’ll know if I can take down the little wall that I’ve built up, put my face to his, and call him my very own.

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

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.

My best friend spent the day with me today, sitting on the couch in my new room, chain smoking and giving me Hell for becoming someone who I’m not.

I led another life a long time ago, and I don’t wish to divulge any information about that other life other than at this point, I had everything I ever wanted, every dream come true. Shortly thereafter it all blew up in my face, leaving me a steaming mess of debris that needed to be picked up and carted away.

I’m not sure how you go about getting over the past. Sometimes I’m not sure how to go about getting over the present.

My best friend is a wonderful friend in that when everything goes to Hell, she tells it exactly like it is, with whatever amount of harshness is required. She said today that I need to move on, I need to get over this person I’ve become and go back to being the old me. Its been a number of years now, and its time to move forward.

Surprisingly, the truth didn’t hurt too much today. I find that usually the truth stings as though you’ve just ground salt into an open wound, but today it all sank in and made perfect sense.

I suppose I’m just writing today to sing the praises of being surrounded by wonderful people. I really needed to hear what my best friend had to say, and I think I’m probably a better person for it.

Sometimes being beaten about the ears with a big old stick of truth turns out to be the best thing to happen to you since prescription sedatives and beer.

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

“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

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…..”

“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!”