Last night, I sent an e-mail out to all my friends, anyone who I thought might care. Essentially, I ran up the bell tower and sounded the alarm: "Help!"
I told on myself. Despite my laughter and apparant "normalcy," I. am. not. okay.
I got an instantaneous response: "Failure Notice" - one of the e-mails failed to send, the reason for which was communicated in tongue-in-cheek technical jargon that I couldn't decipher. I find this incident highly amusing. Here I was, in emotional crisis, sending up a flare, and the immediate message I got back, however computer generated, was immediate and clear - "Failure! - You're a failure! Dummy! Idiot!" Ha. Since then, several friends have called or e-mailed (thank you, you're saving my life) but I'm really tickled over that very first "response," if you want to call it that. Sure, I know that the computer, or the internet, or whatever, wasn't really calling me an idiot, but if you want to interpret it that way, and I do, it's really funny, especially given my situation. I was tickled. Tickled in a way that only those with dark, depressed, twisted (sick?) senses of humor are. It was like something out of a movie (one that I would really, really like to see).
This morning I was still irritable. Irritability is definitly a huge part of depression. I hate everything. I find everything stupid, vapid, pointless. I'm like a grouchy, shrivled up old man. I was pissed off that the cashier at Wal-Mart tried to talk to me today, actually had the gall to try and joke around. (I was once a cashier at Wal-Mart - I didn't talk to anybody. I cursed them under my breath. I purposely didn't deactiviate the security sensors.) Anyway, I just wanted to pay for my fucking toilet paper like a good citizen and get the hell out of there.
Looking back at this theme of irritability, of hating everything, over the past few days and weeks I've been driven almost mad by the superficiality of nearly every aspect of modern-day society, which I seem to be confronted with on a minute-by-minute or second-by-second basis. For example, infomercials. Or entertainment news (which I used to adore, to my own chagrin). Or cars. The other day I was disgusted when CNN Headline News was discussing what two different selections Michelle Obama should wear to the inauguration and following ball. Here's what I think. I think she should go to K-mart and pick up a frock THERE and wear it to both the inauguration ceremony AND the ball. Now THAT would be real fucking change. That would turn the whole of Washington. damn. D.C. on their heads.
I get stuck in these ruminating thoughts of how everything just seems so meaningless and ultimately purposeless. Everything. Existence. It tried explaining this to my therapist a week or so ago, she says I'm existentialist.
I still don't know if yesterday's crescendo was mania or hormones or personality defect. Whatever.
I'm scrapeing by day to day on 25 mg of Seroquel, an anti-psychotic (ooooo! scary!)which basically helps me sleep. I'm grateful for that. Not too long ago I experienced a night of not sleeping, and it was hell. I just don't sleep without some form of chemical assistance. That's just the retarded truth.
I'm hoping to go back to my old new psychiatrist from a few months ago and see if we can pick up where we left off. My little trip down Prozac lane with new new psychiatrist was not helpful, except to reinforce the idea that anti-depressants may be a no-no for me, oddly enough, as I am very depressed.
I just wish I could find a compassionate psychiatrist (do those exist?) who can deal with all my shit, my fears, my medication issues, with patience and concern instead of irritation. New new psychiatrist said that I would "get all worked up and find an excuse not to take any medication" he prescribed; this after I gave him a very specific, though short, list of medications I was willing to try.
I'm sorry, but I've been on the medication train for a very long time now. As I've said before on this blog, I've had some pretty substantial side effects, including weight gain (100 lbs. of it) and loss of my period for months and months (to which the psychiatrist at the time responded by putting me on a diet and exercise program and asking me if I really needed to have a period). I've been up at 4:30 in the morning walking in circles (Prozac). I've been in a parking lot in the middle of the afternoon walking in circles (Lexapro). (Mania? Akathesia? I don't know.) I take this shit seriously, if I'm going to take it at all. Yes, I know I tend to freak out, but for good reason - history has taught me to be wary. Also, I have other conditions, other medications, that complicate the issue. I'm not just your average mental patient, Mr. Psychiatrist. (I don't think any of us are - we're all special in a million different ways, and can't be treated as walking DMV-IV criteria - neat and simple). So don't treat me like one.
Sometimes I feel like a failure even at mental illness, or at least treating it.
Where is my success story?
Paul Giamatti is accepting a Golden Globe. I liked him in Sideways.