Joomy did an interesting post on taking a break this week, one that I read with fervor, because man, I really know what its like to need a frickin’ break.

I don’t know why, but I never feel really, truly good about myself unless I’m busy, busy, busy. I like to have a goal for each day, and I like to achieve it, and if I don’t feel good about the day, I feel as though I haven’t reached my full potential for that day.

I have this terrible habit of finding something to do, and then adding to it, and then adding some more to it just for the hell of it. Good times, all round.

Last fall was perhaps certainly the worst episode with depression I’ve ever had. I spent months desperately trying to pretend like I was happy when I spoke with others or when I wrote on my blog. The guilt that accompanies serious depression is perhaps one of the worst parts of it, for me at least. I always feel that I have everything in my reach to have a complete, happy, and full life: yet, occasionally I fall into the depths of despair and there is nothing that can get me out of it. Nothing.

Perhaps it was the fact that I lost my Grandfather rather traumatically, in a drawn out illness that took him away from us but kept him alive for a long period of time. Perhaps it was that my brother was sent on his third tour of duty in Afghanistan, and that I couldn’t get him or his wife and child out of my mind. Perhaps it was that I lived with someone who I truly felt was going out of her way to make my life miserable, to make my home completely unsanitary and odiferous. Perhaps it was the fact that I was taking six university courses, working twenty hours, drinking alcohol in my spare time, and cut myself off from the world because I didn’t feel that I had the energy to cope with human interaction.

Believe it or not, I somehow managed to not be depressed through my father’s slew of medical tests after a couple scary episodes, through my mother’s diagnosis and treatment for breast cancer, my moving back home, one of my closest friends’ diagnosis with MS, and the final breakup with Dubai Guy. I blame that on drugs. Lots and lots of drugs, the good ones that keep the happiness in my brain floating around being happy.

But I digress. I think one of the most important ways to deal with depression is to recognize your own limits: You need to be able to find that perfect balance between busy enough to keep you from sitting on your couch thinking you’re useless, but not so busy that you lose sight of yourself, your goals, your life, and most importantly, your sanity.

I drove into the city on Saturday evening, a trip that was sort of spur of the moment, but one that I needed nonetheless. I drove down the main streets of the city, looking at all the sights there are to see in the fresh six o’clock darkness now that the time has changed.

And I was overcome by how absolutely awful I felt last year at this very time.

I spent most of my time last year sitting on my balcony, drinking whatever my drink of the week was. I spent that time praying to God and to Orion, who’s belt I could see clearly almost every night. I thought that if I sent enough thoughts up to the two of them, I might be saved eventually.

I stayed at my good friend Mal’s house this weekend, and we did one of our favorite types of nights: Fat Kids Night. We ate copious amounts of food, drank Cosmopolitans, and watched bad television.

Fat Kids Night is a tradition that Mal and I started when I couldn’t face leaving the house, when I couldn’t put on clothing or makeup or face people. We would gather up supplies and sit at her house or mine, chain smoking and watching horror movies. And I said to Mal, as we both looked up at the hunter, Dude, do you know what a place I was in last year?

And she said, Yeah, And it’s really good to see you eating and laughing and being normal. Because last year, there were a number of times when Mal would create these dishes of home cooked food that were just so wonderful, and I just stared at the plate and cried.

I don’t know what caused me to spiral into that dark place last year, I don’t know why all of a sudden, I became this desperately unhappy person who people mostly just wanted to run away from. It scares me, that I became that person, because nothing terrifies me more than that. Nothing is scarier than thinking I could go back to living that way again, to feeling those feelings again.

I spend a vast majority of my time when I’m thinking about being insane worrying that it will become me again. And recently, I’m taking steps to avoid it, because I don’t think I can take it again, and I don’t think the people around me can take it again, either.

Despite my insane working hours, I’ve been feeling great lately. I went through a period in mid-October hating my medication and the fact that I take it. As a result, my medication regime was sporadic at best. However, after a few days of brain shakes and queasiness, I straightened up and started back on my regular routine.

I don’t know why I struggle with medication like I do, but I do and I’m not sure what plan of action to make here. I’ve been toying, as usual, with the idea of living med-free again, but we all know where that leads: Sitting staring blankly at nothing, listening to bad country music and generally being a totally non-productive member of society.

I think that at this point, it is fair to say that I have done more than enough experimentation with a medication free lifestyle, and I know deep down that I need them to function like a sane and rational human being.

When I take my medication properly, everything is good but I spend my time despising the fact that I need pills to make the world go ’round. When I don’t take pills, I feel like ass, I look like ass, I act like ass, and everything is just generally a big old pile of ass.

So, I’m happy and doing well. Work is great, school is great, I’m being challenged in my professional and personal life just enough to keep me wanting more. But I’m doing it with the help of pharmaceuticals, and that is upsetting to me.

It is clearly time to put this issue to bed, to quit beating the dead horse, and to accept that I’m a better person when I deal with my medical issues the way they are supposed to be dealt with.

But how do I go about doing that?

I’ve kind of been working a lot.

For the next little while, I’ll be working seventeen days straight, actually, with at least half of those days being doubles. (Yes, doubles. You know, the types of days where you leave the house at seven a.m. and don’t come back until eleven p.m.)

A few weeks ago, Jooms warned me about this. Like, Dude, you should slow it down.

Today my mother warned me, too. You are the most important one here, she said, and if YOU aren’t ok, your work won’t be ok either.

And then there was my Lady T, the most wonderous friend who ever did live. And she said, You know, we don’t want a repeat of last fall.

Oh, last fall. I don’t really remember much of it, actually, because I was tanked on my balcony all the time. I spent most of that time praying to Orion, hoping and wishing that he and God could take care of everything that needed taking care of.

The great thing about this fall is that I have new meds. Hurrah! Yay for pharmaceuticals! I’m living in a place that I LOVE, I have a horse, my car is on the road again. I’m free to come and go as I wish, I can get out of the lease I have on my current living arrangements any old time I want.

I feel good about my life. I feel happy and satisfied and like I’m accomplishing the steps towards my goals every single day.

All because of the people who love me, who know enough to point out that I may be overdoing it.

And I am!

And this time? I’m strong enough to say, yes, I am overdoing it, and I’m strong enough to take my boss aside and DO something about it.

So, yay me!

The friends we have, who support us in times of need come through for us in all varieties. Joomy has to be one of my favorite friends, that wonderful woman who has all the answers to all of life’s issues.

Joomy and I rarely see each other in person; when we do see each other, we are typically at a social gathering that prevents us from getting around to discussing the really juicy material in our lives.

But the relationship we do have is a very strong one online. Jooms is typically online at the same time of night I am, blogging away in hopes of someday finding internet fame. I frequently sign on to my computer, and type JOOMS!!! I NEED YOU!! Followed by JOOMS!ARE YOU THERE?!?!

ANd you know, sometimes I can actually feel her hesitating through the computer screen. Like, My God, this girl has another random crisis going on that has nothing to do with me, and I have to deal with it AGAIN and I will never get a solid night’s rest ever again in my life because she just won’t go away.

Hey, I never said I was a bowl full of sunshine and cherries to deal with, and further more, I figured if she really couldn’t talk me through the crises that pop up in my life on a weekly basis, she would simply choose the block and delete function on her MSN.

Jooms has sat patiently in front of her computer for nearing two or three years now, quietly reading and wondering what will pop up on her screen next. She’s talked me through every boy issue you could ever imagine, and dealt with me when I’ve been at the lowest possible low I could have ever been at.

I think one of the trickiest things about having someone like Jooms in your network is wondering how to ever thank them. How do you ever impart on someone that they are so important in your life that if they ceased to exist, you might do the same? How do you ever impart on someone that you KNOW you may be a really crappy friend, and you may not be the best to come to yourself, but that you appreciate, love, and NEED them to continue to be in your life?

I guess you just feature them in your blog, and hope that they get the picture.

I have to start this week by saying that I am a pretty difficult person to get along with. I am rife with anxiety and stress. I shriek frequently, and when it comes to volume? Let me tell you, I’m not here to fuck around. I’m hyper sensitive to any remark that might remotely have anything to do with me, and I cry at the drop of a hat. Any hat. Hell, I even cry at the drop of protective headgear.

The people in my network have a hard and tiring job in being in that network. They need to console me when I’m sobbing; they have to pick up the pieces when I fall apart. They have to deal with me constantly bemoaning my hideous relationship mistakes. What’s worse, they have to deal with the fact that I can never let anything go.

My social network is fairly small: I have a very few people who I hold near and dear to me. That is not to say that I am a trusting person. I often trust people with my heart and soul; however, at the same time, I always expect to be disappointed. That is, if I tell someone something I’d rather other people not know, and I find out that they have told a number of people? I am rarely surprised. I think it is sad that I have such little faith in humanity as a whole. Unfortunately, life has shown me time and time again that the only person you can really trust is you.

However: My network, those people who I love and run to when I need them? These are the people who have shown themselves time and time again that they are trustworthy. These are people who have not let me down, who have stood by me through thick and thin, who have literally carried me to where I need to be when I can no longer make it there myself.

I firmly believe that a strong social network is one of the things that improves mental health issues the most. I firmly believe that everyone needs to find someone or something that can help them get through the tougher times.

This week will be devoted to those people in my life who make my getting out of bed in the morning possible.

I often think that if I’m alone for the rest of my life, I’ll be fine, and other times I think… I can’t do it. Most often it is not on my mind, but every now and then I can feel my singleness weighing on me, and I wonder if something must be hideously wrong.

I waffle in my desire to be single or not single. Sometimes I think that because I’m such a Crazy Person, I should just be alone so that no one else ever has to deal with my issues. (Except my mother.) (And my cat.)

I can’t decide right now why I’m single, and I don’t think that I could ever meet and date someone until I’m sure as to why my romantic life has been in the state it has for so long. Am I single because I actually don’t want anyone in my life? Or am I single because I’m such a liberated, free spirited woman that no one dares to try and put an end to my free-living ways?

Or am I just so damn beat up from all the crappy-assed experiences I’ve had that I can’t bear to face it all again?

I like to tell myself that I am a content, whole, and happy person. I even mostly believe that I am. But every now and then, I think about relationships and I shudder. I’m revolted by the thought of getting to know someone, of the risk of finding myself once more in a broken-hearted, drunken stupor on my mother’s living room floor. It has happened far, far too many times to count at this point, and I’m not sure I or the people around me could really handle it one more time.

At the same time, I would just be so desperately thrilled if the phone would ring, if it were someone who was genuinely interested in how my day went, someone who cared to hear me prattle on about my horse. It would be grand to cuddle up on the couch with bad horror movies and popcorn and have someone just enjoy the smell of my hair. I take great care in selecting hair-care products, and I know for a fact that MY HAIR SMELLS GREAT, DAMMIT.

But then why is it that every time I meet a person, I’m loud and obnoxious about my desire to not be in a relationship, about my hatred for dating and all things commitment-related, and my love for single life that does not include ringing telephones? Is is just a stupid act I put on to prove to myself that I’m happy alone?

Or is there actually something wrong with me?

Regardless, every time I meet someone, even someone wonderful and grand and everything I want that someone to be — driven, focused, goal oriented, hard working, with something to show for what he has worked for — I boot it out of there like he’s got some kind of plague. I make up some dumb reason, like “Well, I’d like to be friends”, which is such a load of bull I can’t even believe I’m writing about it on the Internet. Or I say that I can’t date, or that I don’t date, or that I’m so busy in my life that it would be a physical impossibility….

But when I’m saying those lame, pathetic things?

I just feels like they are so damn true.

And once those things are said?

All I want to do is run out and take them right back and jump right into all that relationship-py type stuff.

But then the thought alone makes me want to shudder and hide under the blankets until Mr. WhatsHisFace gives up and wanders away.

And then I just start being confused all over again.

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.

On Sunday I had another one of those days at work, a day that I simply didn’t know how to process or deal with, and so I did the only thing I could think of.

I started drinking beer and chain smoking.

It was a grand evening, in all, except for the unfortunate incident which involved me deciding to sober up and have a pop and some fudge. The fudge was stuck in the pan, and so in my infinate (slightly buzzed up) state, I decided to retrieve it from the pan with a steak knife. Of course, the steak knife ended up embedded in the palm of my hand, blood poured about the kitchen (Not on the fudge, fortunately) and things kind of dissolved into a messy situation with band-aids and tears abounding.

I ended up having a panic attack that night, sitting in the kitchen holding my head, trying to regain a part of me that would make things stop spinning and blurring in and out of focus.

Panic attacks are very scary things, things that I don’t know how to control.

That panic attack made up the third one of this week, a third episode IN ONE WEEK. I don’t know how I end up having panic attacks, or what causes them, or what makes them go away. My panic attacks have no particular rhyme or reason, they follow no orderly rhythm, and have no cycle. They don’t happen in conjunction with particularly stressful things in my life; unless of course you count the other night when I found a utensil firmly planted int he flesh of my hand.

I discussed it with my mother afterwards, the ever supportive woman who has helped me get through all of my insanity issues thus far in my life. She said that, of course, after the day I’d had and the drinks that I’d consumed, of course! Of course it makes sense to have a panic attack!

And she’s right. So that’s one that I’m not going to worry about, I’m not going to think about. It will not weigh on my mind or stay with me for any period of time.

Later in the night, while I was on my way to bed, my mother took my had and looked at me. And she said “Just, you know. If you think you’re totally losing it again, could I get a head’s up? Just some notice so that I can plan for it appropriately?”

And I said yes. Of course. If I’m going to go completely stark raving mad at any point in the near future?

She didn’t even need to ASK me to let her know. Trust me. She’d know.

YOU WILL ALL KNOW.

I told him a few times about my fear of losing it. Whatever it is, I’m scared of it going far away. I’m scared of going to that place where the crazy people go, lost deep inside themselves and unable to process anything else that is going on around them.

He was a very wise man, and he asked me one time, where I was scared of going. I told him that I didn’t know, that it was a place that doesn’t have a name or a location, but it is going crazy and it is a very, very scary place to go. Downright terrifying, even.

And he said, No. You’re not scared of going there. He said that I go there on purpose, I go to that place inside myself, away from everyone and everything on purpose. He said that people go there because they need to escape, and that if we didn’t like being there, we wouldn’t bother going.

I don’t even know that man’s name, and at the time I have to say that I thought there must be something about what he thought about going crazy. If you didn’t like going crazy, you just wouldn’t go there. How comforting is that?

But the thing is, sometimes I feel like there is really no other place to go. I have to wonder if, deep down, people really do have control over whether or not they get to be crazy. Like, imagine, after all these years feeling like I’ve been taken over by something beyond my control.

And then, poof. Its all my choice. I can choose to go crazy or I can choose to not go crazy, and it is all really up to me.

How wonderful is that? I have a choice! I can choose!

And then I wonder, can I really choose?