If At First You Don’t Succeed…Quit

Today started off pretty well. Instead of jumping out of bed like I usually do, I took the time to pray. That simple act was enough to make me feel hopeful as if, by praying, God Himself was right there with me. Laying in bed, my thoughts were organizing the day’s necessary tasks and I was absolutely certain that every one of them would be accomplished. First on my list was doing the dirty dishes that had spent the night in the sink and cleaning up the kitchen. Did that.  Then I took a shower, changed clothes and put on make-up, even though I had no place to go. Next on my agenda was scouting online for jobs and sending out resumes.  Got that done.  Hell, I felt so good I actually cooked an entire meal. I was on a roll! The only thing left to do was make those follow-up calls I’d been putting off since December.

And that’s where I got stuck.

My initial game plan was to get on the phone and call when I knew no one would answer. After all, most teachers don’t leave their cell phones on during school hours. Yes, it’s the cowardly way out, but I never claimed to be a hero. Besides, as long as I made the calls I would be fulfilling the promise I had made to myself in my prayers. Now I ‘m not sure if it’s because I didn’t roll out of bed and get moving until damn near eleven o’clock  in the morning, but by the time I remembered about the calls it was three o’clock in the afternoon. And before I knew it the sinking feeling that I had failed, again, just came crashing down on me. But rather than picking up the phone (it’s a cell phone, it doesn’t weigh that much) and making the damn calls, I instead turned to my pacifiers: Facebook. And Twitter. And Google News.

And whining online…aka blogging.

There’s something comforting about just letting it all hang out in an anonymous way. And while I am cognizant of the fact that my blogging is really just another form of avoidance (I learned that from Google), I don’t give a shit right now. I’m too exhausted from thinking about all the stuff I didn’t accomplish today to try to do anything right now. At first I thought, oh well, at least I’m not getting high.

And then I came across this:

 

I’ll gladly take that as confirmation that today wasn’t a total bust.

 

Who The Fck Am I?

Years ago I dated a guy whose mother was bipolar. He would always talk about how she would ‘go off her meds’ when she felt like doing her own thing. He  told me about numerous occasions when his mom would do random shit like come home from shopping sprees with bags of clothes, none in her size with very little memory of where she’d been.  I remember thinking how little sense that made. After all, isn’t the purpose of medication to help you feel ‘normal’? And who among us doesn’t want to feel ‘normal’? Nobody, right? So then why on earth would someone purposely stop taking something to help them feel better? I admit that deep down, I always thought he might have been exaggerating.

Now I know better.

You see, back in August, when I had my little breakdown, I was put on anti-depressants. Oh it wasn’t a big deal, really. After breaking up with aforementioned boyfriend all those years past, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Oh stop smirking, there was no connection between the two events. No, really there wasn’t! Anyway, the preferred drug of choice for my malady was Paxil. At that time I was in my mid-30’s and ever since high school, had been seeing counselors and psychiatrists off and on, courtesy of my mother. But we won’t go into that right now. The point is that in spite of all my counseling sessions, ‘inability to play well with others’ and Rorschach tests, medication had never been prescribed or (to my knowledge), even considered. Truth is, I was kind of relieved at my diagnosis. After all, it was the first time my personality quirks and prolonged, inexplicable bouts of unhappiness had been given a name. Clinical depression you say?  I’ll take it. So there I was, chugging pills every day in anticipation of a long-overdue bout of euphoria that take hold of me and turn my life into something magical.

The magic never materialized.

Granted, the pills made it easier to get through the day without feeling like there was an 800-lb gorilla sitting on my chest. Yet I still found myself forcing smiles and worrying like mad over how to deal with my son. He was a great kid and I was a lousy mother, or so I felt. As parents I know we all worry about the effectiveness of our parenting skills. But as the child of a rather toxic parent (I admit I didn’t know the term back then) my worry at times turned to absolute fear. Especially when I would begin shrieking at him for no apparent reason. Bless his heart though, rather than fold and walk away defeated, his little ten year-old self would often look at me and say, “Mommy, you’re acting just like Grandma.” I loved my son dearly and really didn’t want to hurt him so those six words usually stopped me in my tracks. But there were many times when his childish bravado was simply no match for my emotional outbursts and I would feel like shit as I watched the pained, confused look on his face. Many years later I took myself off of Paxil with spectacularly disastrous consequences that very nearly ended me.

Fast forward to today and here I am, back on medication. I. Hate. It. There are days when I can’t stand the thought that it takes a pill to help me get through the day my without falling apart. And there are times when I do not want to chase another damn breakfast with Wellbutrin and, like my ex’s mother, will simply skip a dose or two. On those days, I think about whether or not I really need to be on medication and replay scenes from my life’s movie and wonder: Who am I really?

This is what I know about me: Mid-50’s and no place of my own. Unhappy with where I am but no idea where to go. People in my life who think they’re my friends, but I can’t confide in them about my REAL situation. Shy. Happy. Great cook. Former coke head. A terrible manager of both time and money. Wicked sense of humor. Easily agitated. A so-called entrepreneur who hates the business I’m in but too scared/lazy/stupid to do something else, even though I don’t make enough to support myself. Sarcastic. Poor self image. Outspoken. Over-eater. Awesome lover but a lousy girlfriend. Independent. Intelligent. Survivor of rape and domestic violence. Intelligent. (Yes I said it twice because contrary to my beliefs, apparently I am really smart). Needy. Sad. A perpetual dodger of bill collectors. A woman who others think of as strong but who has cried myself to sleep over men who are no good for me or to me. Overly critical.  Job-hopper. Lives in the past because I can’t seem to visualize a future. Ridiculously self-conscious. Someone who people come to for advice yet I can’t get my own shit together. A middle-aged grandmother who unfortunately still attracts 35 yr-old boys/men. Procrastinator. Forgetful. 

Even as I sit here writing this, I can’t help thinking there’s something more productive I’m supposed to be doing. But whatever it is won’t stay in my head long enough for me to focus on it

Did I take my meds this morning?

In The Beginning, There Was A Breakdown

Wow! Over a half century on this Earth, and I’m just now facing my past.

And it’s not pretty.

Oh don’t worry, I’m not about to get all ‘my life sucks so feel sorry for me”. But I am going to share some truths. Whether or not they are well-received is of no consequence to me. I know that may sound rude  but the whole idea of being true to myself is one of the many useful things my new psychiatrist and both my therapists are helping me to learn.

Oh, did I forget to mention I’m seeing a shrink? Well I am. “Why”, you ask?

Apparently a few months ago my life just became too much for me to handle and I had a breakdown. Not a big one. I mean I didn’t try to slit my wrist or jump in front of an 18-wheeler or anything. My breakdown came in the form of tears. A lot of them. Constantly. Imagine waking up one lovely August morning, looking in the mirror at yourself and bursting into tears. Can’t imagine it? Neither could I until it happened to me. Without any warning that I remember, there were suddenly thousands of teardrops flowing out of my eyes. And there seemed to be nothing I could do to stop them. Believe me, I did try. After all, I had a 17 year-old in the next room and the thought of him finding me with snot running down my face and red, puffy eyes was more than I could bear. So I tried to talk myself down off the ledge. To no avail.  It did not occur to me that, had the ability to stem the flow of tears been within my grasp, the crying wouldn’t have started in the first place. I once heard someone say that you can’t see the frame if you’re still in the picture. That’s very true. But hey, I’m supposed to be a strong woman. A fighter. A Scorpio. So I looked in the mirror and told myself to just STOP it! Stop the fuckery, I said to my reflection. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There’s nothing you can’t overcome.

Nothing that is, except the feeling of sadness and emptiness that was shaking me to my core.

A feeling that was so pervasive it momentarily took away my desire to live. At that time all I really wanted to do was go to sleep and not have to wake up again. So many random thoughts were swirling through my mind, it gave me a headache. All the while I kept wondering what was wrong with me. How the hell did I get to this place? I mean seriously, who just wakes up and starts bawling their eyes out for no apparent reason.

The thought of stuffing myself with painkillers and washing them down with rum briefly flitted across my mind.

Luckily, I’m too damn lazy to kill myself, so instead I picked up the phone, called the V.A. hospital and asked for the Mental Health department.

Who said serving in the military was a waste of time?