So when I remember my blog and get up the wherewithal to write in it, I always remember about a gajillion things that might be good to write about. So the lucky world gets about twenty entries at a time instead of just one.
It's like the cookies I bake. I never bake cookies. Except when I bake a thousand of them. Then I eat them all within a couple of days. But...well, that's a different point.
Anyway.
I'm going to talk about periods.
Because talking about not writing enough in my blog is a perfect segue into talking about bleeding from my crotch. Ahem. Might be a sign to stop reading if you don't want to get up close and personal with my vagina.
VAGINA!!!!!!!
Ahem.
I've been thinking about trying some of the non-disposable methods for dealing with good ol' Aunt Flow for a while now. It just kind of depresses me when I'm dealing with the crimson tide and our trashcans pile up with my neatly-wrapped bundles of gore, to be sent directly to the landfill where they will undoubtedly linger for millenia in their virgin state of non-biodegradble-ness.
Plus, five bucks a month to help destroy the environment adds up, particularly when you're trying to be frugal about it and all.
I read up on cloth pads-- making them myself, that is, not buying them-- and since my lack of finishing projects is pretty much a running theme in this blog, I'm sure we all know how that went. Actually, it went as far as me getting the materials and cutting them out before realizing that holy shit, I need a lot of material for even one measly pad and it's financially sounder (poor grammar, sorry) to just buy them.
Except they seem so expensive! Argh. It's hard to get past the whole "invest the money NOW and reap the benefits later" when the money NOW seems like such a lot, especially when I'd have to replace them regularly (like every six months or so) anyway.
Then I read about the DivaCup. I'd known about them for a while, known how they worked and how so many women raved about the Diva and other menstrual cups. They are made of silicon, which you can reuse and which is biodegradable, they last for-frickin'-ever apparently if you take proper care of them (like, years), and though they cost about $32 dollars or so, they'd pay for themselves within about six months.
Plus, you can wear them for much longer, over night even, you don't have to wear a bulky pad, you don't leak if they're inserted properly, and you don't have to carry around tons of supplies.
However, I'd never quite gotten reconciled to the idea of shoving a large object up my vagina multiple times a day, nor the idea of having to get up close and personal with my cooter to get the thing out again. I don't even like using tampons for that reason-- they're weird-feeling, and I'm kinda terrified of the idea of Toxic Shock Syndrome.
This last month, though, I leaked through my pad and onto my pajamas not once, but twice. It was as I was washing the blood out of my favorite jeans that I decided "Fuck it. I'll just have to get over the insertion fear, because this is honestly the best thing financially and environmentally. Plus the whole not-having-to-wash-blood-out-of-my-pants thing."
I bought it. I brought it home.
It was hard to insert. It's bigger and more solid than it looks, and it kept getting caught either on my pubic bone or in the mighty clench of my vaginal muscles. Finally it went in, though. It felt...mostly okay. A little...odd. My inside-y parts felt a little sore, much like there was a large foreign object inside me (imagine that!).
I don't know if anyone else experiences this, but when I have any sort of medical procedure on a body part, like I get a shot in my shoulder, I feel sort of intensely weird about using that body part afterward. I always made them give me my shots in my right arm, so if I had to write something I wouldn't have to worry, and I never wanted to eat anything after I'd gotten my teeth cleaned. I felt the same way about this; I was due to work out that day, but I felt strange about jostling about with a silicone cup inside my vagina. So I didn't.
Anyway, once I got the cup in, it immediately got, um, sucked up inside me. The instructions said to leave the stem (basically a silicone "tail" that lets you grab it) no more than half an inch inside, but obviously it didn't stay there. I kept the cup in for a while. It worked fine; I didn't leak once I'd gotten it properly adjusted, though I did wonder how it would work getting it out.
Oh my god. Getting it out. It was SO WEIRD. I squatted. I bore down like I was giving birth. I stuck my fingers WAY up inside myself (and I don't do that! Ever!) and waggled them around trying to get a finger-hold. Finally after about twenty minutes of doing my best not to panic, I grabbed what little I could grab of the tail, dug my fingernails in, and pulled for all I was worth. They said the suction was necessary to preventing leaks. They were not kidding about the thrice-damned suction. And if shoving a silicone cup inside you felt strange, the sensation of yanking it back out again, complete with the sensation of yanking your vagina along with it, is about ten times stranger!
I did NOT like that sensation. But I refused to give up. I'd invested my money and I'd be damned if I didn't get my money's worth. So after washing it out in the sink (really not that disgusting), I put it back in. It went a *little* easier this time, but not easier enough to make me really want to repeat the experience.
Later, rinse, repeat for my next time. Unpleasant.
Then I promptly went to the internet and looked up tips on making removal easier.
Good thing I did! I learned that peeing just before removal lowers it in my vaginal canal and makes it much easier. I also learned that for some women, later in their periods the Cup rides higher up, and this was probably my issue since I'd started using it on day 3 or so of my period.
So the next evening, dreading it, I went in, peed, and...voila! It was like a miracle! I got it out, washed, and back in within about five minutes. It was a HUGE relief, let me tell you, because it seriously was feeling like I was getting a pelvic exam every twelve hours, and that was not cool.
I was told by a girl I know that the first month is always awkward, but afterward you will never go back. I don't know if I can say "NEVER" with confidence, but I like to feel I've made a start.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Inn a Tight Spot (hyuk hyuk)
Last weekend the bed-and-breakfast I temp at occasionally had a full house due to a wedding, and since this was likely to be the last chance to work this season, I let them schedule me for all three days.
Let me tell you about my weekend. Worth it for the money, yeah, but OH MY GOD EXHAUSTING.
On Friday I worked the librarian gig from 8 to 2, then went home for an hour, then left to run around clearing tables and passing drinks to rowdy drunken wedding guests for seven hours.
Then I woke up on Saturday after five hours of sleep, and ran around taking orders and clearing tables for five more hours.
Then immediately after THAT, I met up with Husband and we promptly drove to Asheville to do errands, which involved (you guessed it) MORE running around, and driving, and standing, which are all very exhausting activities when you've been doing practically nothing but that for the last twenty-four hours. We got back around 8 pm, leaving me two hours before I had to go to sleep in order to:
Wake up at 6am again and run around taking orders and clearing tables for five MORE hours.
THEN I had to go home and cook. Slaving over a hot stove for hours. To make delicious and healthy food for my family (that is, me and Husband). BECAUSE I CARE. *sob*
Oh my god. I am too darn old for this shit. I felt like warmed-over, nauseous, achy-kneed HELL by Sunday morning, and I broke my long caffeine fast with about 2346238 cups of coffee, which were NECESSARY and MEDICINAL. I'm thankful to have the chance to earn extra money and all, but if there is a next time, you can bet two things will be happening:
1) We will NOT be going to Asheville, and
2) Husband will be doing the goddamn cooking.
That is all.
Let me tell you about my weekend. Worth it for the money, yeah, but OH MY GOD EXHAUSTING.
On Friday I worked the librarian gig from 8 to 2, then went home for an hour, then left to run around clearing tables and passing drinks to rowdy drunken wedding guests for seven hours.
Then I woke up on Saturday after five hours of sleep, and ran around taking orders and clearing tables for five more hours.
Then immediately after THAT, I met up with Husband and we promptly drove to Asheville to do errands, which involved (you guessed it) MORE running around, and driving, and standing, which are all very exhausting activities when you've been doing practically nothing but that for the last twenty-four hours. We got back around 8 pm, leaving me two hours before I had to go to sleep in order to:
Wake up at 6am again and run around taking orders and clearing tables for five MORE hours.
THEN I had to go home and cook. Slaving over a hot stove for hours. To make delicious and healthy food for my family (that is, me and Husband). BECAUSE I CARE. *sob*
Oh my god. I am too darn old for this shit. I felt like warmed-over, nauseous, achy-kneed HELL by Sunday morning, and I broke my long caffeine fast with about 2346238 cups of coffee, which were NECESSARY and MEDICINAL. I'm thankful to have the chance to earn extra money and all, but if there is a next time, you can bet two things will be happening:
1) We will NOT be going to Asheville, and
2) Husband will be doing the goddamn cooking.
That is all.
So tired.
Well, okay, my two-week project was a success for its duration, for the most part anyway.
I worked out more. Then I kind of got sick, and one day I think I just slept instead of exercising. But! Sleeping does burn calories, so, I dunno, maybe it counts?
I didn't eat any more sugar. Well, except for the ketchup. Then the instant the two weeks was over, I kinda went hog wild and ate soft-serve and M&Ms and cake and those mallow-creme pumpkins that you only get around Halloween and oh yeah, I failed.
No caffeine or alcohol. Not that this was so difficult.
Amazingly enough, I made it without pretzels. I had my raisins and my sunflower seeds, and honestly, I just didn't snack much. I ate ACTUAL food at meals instead. Astonishing!
Now the two weeks has been over for a while and I may as well not have bothered. We still walk to the mail sometimes, but it's been cold and rainy so as regular exercise it's a bust. I've eaten tons of sugar. I've had some caffeine because of massive amounts of inn-working, which I shall describe later, and even a touch of alcohol. The instant the two weeks was over, I went out and bought a bag of pretzels, though admittedly I didn't buy one this week and I might just keep up that pattern.
And I've been deeeeepressed again. Hurray!
They say the body remembers things long after our minds have forgotten them, gotten over them, simply not thought about them for ages.
Both my aunt and my mother feel inexplicably depressed in the spring, despite the fact that they both love the spring, the holidays and flowers and foods. This is because their mother passed away then, nearly forty years ago, suddenly and without closure. It took my aunt going to a therapist to figure out that's what it was.
My cousin always feels horrible to the day of her traumatic break-up with her ex-boyfriend several years ago. She never quite remembers it, always just wonders why she feels so crappy, until she goes back and re-reads her blog from years past.
I hate that my own traumatic experience with my job and my boss was happening last year this time. I love the fall. I mean, I hate it because it means the winter is right around the corner and I detest being cold, but I love it because it's beautiful. It's got my favorite seasonal foods and bright colors and wonderful smells everywhere.
But now I keep remembering how awful I was feeling last year at this time. I keep trying to remember that I should be jumping for joy that I'm NOT THERE ANYMORE. My body refuses to listen. I think that's really the only reason I'm feeling this right now. There's no other real reason.
I feel like I'm getting more paranoid, shutting myself in a lot more. I feel like my brain is refusing to let words out, and my face is showing everyone how scared I am, how needy, how desperate. I feel like living every-day life, which involves talking to people and being around people and having to measure up to what my job requires of me and the like, is almost intolerable sometimes. I feel like I will never be good enough, never be able to open up, never be wanted or cared about, never be worth anything, never be anything other than a trembling fetal ball of repressed fear.
I wonder if, when January rolls around, this will change any.
I worked out more. Then I kind of got sick, and one day I think I just slept instead of exercising. But! Sleeping does burn calories, so, I dunno, maybe it counts?
I didn't eat any more sugar. Well, except for the ketchup. Then the instant the two weeks was over, I kinda went hog wild and ate soft-serve and M&Ms and cake and those mallow-creme pumpkins that you only get around Halloween and oh yeah, I failed.
No caffeine or alcohol. Not that this was so difficult.
Amazingly enough, I made it without pretzels. I had my raisins and my sunflower seeds, and honestly, I just didn't snack much. I ate ACTUAL food at meals instead. Astonishing!
Now the two weeks has been over for a while and I may as well not have bothered. We still walk to the mail sometimes, but it's been cold and rainy so as regular exercise it's a bust. I've eaten tons of sugar. I've had some caffeine because of massive amounts of inn-working, which I shall describe later, and even a touch of alcohol. The instant the two weeks was over, I went out and bought a bag of pretzels, though admittedly I didn't buy one this week and I might just keep up that pattern.
And I've been deeeeepressed again. Hurray!
They say the body remembers things long after our minds have forgotten them, gotten over them, simply not thought about them for ages.
Both my aunt and my mother feel inexplicably depressed in the spring, despite the fact that they both love the spring, the holidays and flowers and foods. This is because their mother passed away then, nearly forty years ago, suddenly and without closure. It took my aunt going to a therapist to figure out that's what it was.
My cousin always feels horrible to the day of her traumatic break-up with her ex-boyfriend several years ago. She never quite remembers it, always just wonders why she feels so crappy, until she goes back and re-reads her blog from years past.
I hate that my own traumatic experience with my job and my boss was happening last year this time. I love the fall. I mean, I hate it because it means the winter is right around the corner and I detest being cold, but I love it because it's beautiful. It's got my favorite seasonal foods and bright colors and wonderful smells everywhere.
But now I keep remembering how awful I was feeling last year at this time. I keep trying to remember that I should be jumping for joy that I'm NOT THERE ANYMORE. My body refuses to listen. I think that's really the only reason I'm feeling this right now. There's no other real reason.
I feel like I'm getting more paranoid, shutting myself in a lot more. I feel like my brain is refusing to let words out, and my face is showing everyone how scared I am, how needy, how desperate. I feel like living every-day life, which involves talking to people and being around people and having to measure up to what my job requires of me and the like, is almost intolerable sometimes. I feel like I will never be good enough, never be able to open up, never be wanted or cared about, never be worth anything, never be anything other than a trembling fetal ball of repressed fear.
I wonder if, when January rolls around, this will change any.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Centrifugal Force
A couple of weeks ago I had a wake-up call regarding my depression. It made me realize that I wasn't taking care of myself enough, and that if I ever wanted to get to feeling better, I'd have to do something about that.
So what did I do?
I started YET ANOTHER PROJECT.
Relax, it's a small one. Another one of my "two weeks because that's all I can take" events.
I decided upon four goals:
1) I'd work out every day of those two weeks,
2) I'd avoid non-fruit sugar (meaning no white or brown sugar, no honey, no molasses, etc.),
3) I'd avoid caffeine and alcohol, and
4) I wouldn't buy any pretzels.
I'm about halfway through now, and my progress has been mixed.
Working out: The first week I worked out every day, Monday-Friday, and then on Saturday and Sunday I worked at the inn, which involves running around for 4.5 hours or so. I deemed that to be enough exercise because my feet were killing me and I was physically exhausted, but probably doesn't quite count. Then this past Monday I got my period, and I felt too horrible and dragged out to do anything. Yesterday "working out" was defined as "walking the 1.2 miles to the mailbox and back at a slow and easy pace," which...again, probably doesn't quite count.
So really I've been slacking a smidge. Gotta pick up the pace today.
Eating sugar: I've done fairly well with this one, having virtuously avoided the candy at work, buying any sweets, or even baking with any. Lately, though...again, I've slacked a little. Well, not "slacked" so much as "run on autopilot like the sugar junkie I am."
And I'm being serious on that last-- I'm totally a sugar junkie. I have to have something sweet every day, preferably multiple times. I find giving up sugar to be harder even than giving up cigarettes, which, y'know, is notoriously difficult.
Last Monday at work, I thought to myself, "Man, I just ate curry and my breath reeks. I'd better have a peppermint to freshen it." So I did, completely without the GOOD kind of thinking. The instant the last morsel had melted away, I went, "AW HELL."
Then I baked some carrots for a meal once, and my standard carrot recipe involves some spices and a small dash of honey or agave syrup.
...You see where this is going.
Then yesterday...oh lord. I tried to make a quick-bread recipe using no sugar and applesauce instead of the oil. But you know what? 1/4 cup of applesauce is not going to give quick bread much taste. So...I admit it. I cheated. Consciously, this time. I used maybe two table-spoons' worth of agave syrup. I may as well not have, though, because quite frankly the bread is still not sweet.
And...I had ketchup on the hamburgers we ate yesterday.
...Ah well.
Caffeine and alcohol: I am proud to announce that I've completely avoided these. I didn't have coffee or decaf at the inn. I haven't even had caffeinated tea! As for alcohol, my giving that up is more akin to a non-smoker giving up cigarettes for Lent. I drink so rarely I may as well not have bothered. But...in for a penny, in for a pound, right?
And the real klinker...
PRETZELS.
Ahhhh, my sweet salty love. How I dream of your crispy nothings in my mouth.
I am proud to say that I have not bought any pretzels. I can't say I haven't *eaten* any, since I had half a bag when I started my project, but once those were gone (in, oh, about two days) I never looked back.
I've been munching on raisins (good for the sweet cravings, too), sunflower seeds, and whatever random baked good I've made. It's good too, because I tend to munch on pretzels a lot, when I'm doing everything from reading to playing games to...eating meals...and the empty carbs were probably not so great.
My ultimate goals with this project?
I want to learn how to cook and bake with less sugar, and eat less in general, since just because it is available does not mean I should ingest it.
I want to not binge on anything, sweet or salty, liquid or solid, which is admittedly a problem of mine, especially when I'm feeling sad.
I'd love to break the haze of anhedonia, so I actually feel like I'm living my life instead of simply killing time.
I'd like to not rely solely on packaged foods to fulfill my snacky cravings.
I'd like to cut back my pretzel-eating to once every two weeks.
I'd like to limit coffee to once a week.
I'd like to cut back on non-fruit sugary things to twice a week.
I'd really like to get back into the habit of exercising 3-4 times a week.
Aaaaaand centrifugal force, GO.
So what did I do?
I started YET ANOTHER PROJECT.
Relax, it's a small one. Another one of my "two weeks because that's all I can take" events.
I decided upon four goals:
1) I'd work out every day of those two weeks,
2) I'd avoid non-fruit sugar (meaning no white or brown sugar, no honey, no molasses, etc.),
3) I'd avoid caffeine and alcohol, and
4) I wouldn't buy any pretzels.
I'm about halfway through now, and my progress has been mixed.
Working out: The first week I worked out every day, Monday-Friday, and then on Saturday and Sunday I worked at the inn, which involves running around for 4.5 hours or so. I deemed that to be enough exercise because my feet were killing me and I was physically exhausted, but probably doesn't quite count. Then this past Monday I got my period, and I felt too horrible and dragged out to do anything. Yesterday "working out" was defined as "walking the 1.2 miles to the mailbox and back at a slow and easy pace," which...again, probably doesn't quite count.
So really I've been slacking a smidge. Gotta pick up the pace today.
Eating sugar: I've done fairly well with this one, having virtuously avoided the candy at work, buying any sweets, or even baking with any. Lately, though...again, I've slacked a little. Well, not "slacked" so much as "run on autopilot like the sugar junkie I am."
And I'm being serious on that last-- I'm totally a sugar junkie. I have to have something sweet every day, preferably multiple times. I find giving up sugar to be harder even than giving up cigarettes, which, y'know, is notoriously difficult.
Last Monday at work, I thought to myself, "Man, I just ate curry and my breath reeks. I'd better have a peppermint to freshen it." So I did, completely without the GOOD kind of thinking. The instant the last morsel had melted away, I went, "AW HELL."
Then I baked some carrots for a meal once, and my standard carrot recipe involves some spices and a small dash of honey or agave syrup.
...You see where this is going.
Then yesterday...oh lord. I tried to make a quick-bread recipe using no sugar and applesauce instead of the oil. But you know what? 1/4 cup of applesauce is not going to give quick bread much taste. So...I admit it. I cheated. Consciously, this time. I used maybe two table-spoons' worth of agave syrup. I may as well not have, though, because quite frankly the bread is still not sweet.
And...I had ketchup on the hamburgers we ate yesterday.
...Ah well.
Caffeine and alcohol: I am proud to announce that I've completely avoided these. I didn't have coffee or decaf at the inn. I haven't even had caffeinated tea! As for alcohol, my giving that up is more akin to a non-smoker giving up cigarettes for Lent. I drink so rarely I may as well not have bothered. But...in for a penny, in for a pound, right?
And the real klinker...
PRETZELS.
Ahhhh, my sweet salty love. How I dream of your crispy nothings in my mouth.
I am proud to say that I have not bought any pretzels. I can't say I haven't *eaten* any, since I had half a bag when I started my project, but once those were gone (in, oh, about two days) I never looked back.
I've been munching on raisins (good for the sweet cravings, too), sunflower seeds, and whatever random baked good I've made. It's good too, because I tend to munch on pretzels a lot, when I'm doing everything from reading to playing games to...eating meals...and the empty carbs were probably not so great.
My ultimate goals with this project?
I want to learn how to cook and bake with less sugar, and eat less in general, since just because it is available does not mean I should ingest it.
I want to not binge on anything, sweet or salty, liquid or solid, which is admittedly a problem of mine, especially when I'm feeling sad.
I'd love to break the haze of anhedonia, so I actually feel like I'm living my life instead of simply killing time.
I'd like to not rely solely on packaged foods to fulfill my snacky cravings.
I'd like to cut back my pretzel-eating to once every two weeks.
I'd like to limit coffee to once a week.
I'd like to cut back on non-fruit sugary things to twice a week.
I'd really like to get back into the habit of exercising 3-4 times a week.
Aaaaaand centrifugal force, GO.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
This is ridiculous.
Let me tell you about my depression.
I'm dysthymic, which means I have chronic low-level depression, which occasionally descends into periods of major depression. A major contributing factor to this is the fact that I also have rather severe social anxiety disorder.
It's a ten-year-old topic with a life-long basis and I think I've begun blog entries on it so many times it all starts to sound both melodramatic, whiny, and like I've simply given up trying to do anything about it.
Why do I feel this way this, and Why can't I do this that, and the like. I'm starting to sound like a broken record, or at least an emo-kid.
In college, when it was first diagnosed, I went to counseling, and tried anti-depressants, specifically Paxil. While the drugs did work to some extent-- I lost my social phobia or at least my inhibitions enough to make some friends-- they messed me up in other ways. I...lost my inhibitions. It was a bad scene. I also lost a lot of the creativity that had been such a major part of my life until then. I don't think I drew or wrote anything for years. Plus, I lost my appetite (in defiance of the normal "weight gain" people experience on SSRIs), my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, I was twitching at night in my sleep, aaaaand my libido was pretty much completely destroyed. Because you needed to know that.
So I eventually stopped the Paxil. I figured I was cured enough that I could manage, now that I knew the symptoms and what worked for me to nip them in the bud. That did work for a while, actually. Exercise always has helped me, and for a while after college I was working out every day. I was beginning my aforementioned run of starting projects (and not finishing most of them), which was fun, and I wrote my first novels during National Novel Writing Month. I felt down plenty, but it was different, less intense. I found ways to distract myself and not think about it so bloody much.
Still...it crept back in. It was like a house you think is sealed up nice and tight, but somehow the rain creeps into the cracks, and mold starts to grow, and sooner or later it pops up on your ceiling where you can see it (speaking of which, our ceiling is showing water damage, arrrgh!). Unfortunately by then, it's too late to do any "nipping in the bud."
When I started grad school, it had gotten bad enough that I knew it was going to become a problem again. My social anxiety was back in full force, due to the new surroundings, new community, the career pressure...Not too pleasant.
Probably contributing to this was the fact that the hormonal birth control I was taking was affecting my mood. I got PMS, like most women do, of course, but mine was...rough. I would cry at the drop of a hat, I would get angry at the smallest provocation, I would have these horrible dark, desperate thoughts in my head that frightened me.
I did go to a counselor about this. She recommended that I get a full physical work-up, to check my hormone levels and explore alternative means of birth control. That, by the way, was the end of hormonal BC for me-- the Pill made me nauseous, I was not into...inserting...anything like the NuvaRing, the patch was what was causing the whole mess, and I had no desire to risk getting the shot and feeling that way for months.
She also suggested I go back on antidepressants, and I seriously considered it for a while, since there were other kinds than the one I'd taken before that had messed me up so badly. I eventually decided not to, because I didn't want to be dependent on a pill for happiness.
I DID, however, find out that I had borderline hypothyroidism, which can contribute to depression, but not enough to take medicine for. I was told to just keep an eye on my levels.
After grad school we moved back to our current location, and it all sunk gradually downward. The stress of finding a job, adjusting to life outside of a city, adjusting to the jobs I did find, realizing I had little in common with the people I came into contact with but too scared to try looking elsewhere...I had a brief slide into major depression, I think. I managed to pull myself out of it I don't even know how.
Then I had a wedding to plan. Then I got married. Then I was laid off from my job. Then we had to move to a place I HATE (called "Salisbury, North Carolina") for a job that ended up being one of the most traumatic events of my life.
That was another period of major depression. I went as far as getting my thyroid levels checked because I was afraid the sheer, unbridled misery I felt couldn't possibly be so severe without hormonal dissonance. Turns out they were normal, and again I had to seriously consider going back on anti-depressants.
The only thing that pulled me out of THAT depression was leaving the job, moving back to our home, and starting a better job at the very place I'd gotten laid off from. Imagine moving from a cold, dark, ugly town where you know no one, your boss is psychologically torturing you, you hate your job, and you have to drive to Charlotte to go anywhere you might actually want to go...to your beautiful family land in the mountains, surrounded by a loving family and community, to a job where they are laid-back and nice to you, where you don't have to wear a suit, where you can work part-time and still make enough to live on, where you can relax...
I think I was nearly euphoric for a month or two. I staved off any depression simply by telling myself, "IT COULD BE SO MUCH WORSE, HOLY CRAP."
But, again, like that insidious mold, it crept back in.
That job really did a number on me. I let it, of course, but when all's said and done it's still true. I never feel good enough, I never feel like I'm completely capable and confident. I am afraid to go downstairs sometimes, for fear my boss will see me and want to talk to me, which is ridiculous because she's a very nice woman who understands that mistakes are made, and knows the ambiguous nature of research might involve a few crossed wires here and there. It's definitely changed my ambition for the worse; I don't even want to be a professional librarian anymore because I'm so afraid I wouldn't be able to take the pressure or deliver when I need to.
And personality-wise? Creative-wise? I feel...flat. I feel like I don't really want to do anything anymore. I feel like whatever I do, it's all just killing time until I can die. I feel like I can't talk to anyone. I marvel at the many people I see who pop out jokes at the spur of the moment, who effortlessly deliver monologues seemingly without any thought beforehand. I feel like my interests are mostly antiquated (who embroiders except for old ladies?) or too trendy to be of any use. I feel like though I may have some measure of skill in many areas, I never seem to be better at any of them than anybody else. My mind goes blank in front of people. I can't even be arsed to do the things I know, I KNOW help me, like exercise. I don't even embroider because I'm afraid my skill is so far outweighed by my vision that I'll just fuck it all up (like everything else) and end up with a mess.
And to top it all off, I DON'T want to go back on anti-depressants and I DON'T want to go to counseling because I'm both too cheap and too poor to do so, even with a sliding-scale mental health center, even if my aunt who's a psychiatrist gives me free sample packs of the pills like she did when I was on Paxil.
I've felt this way for a good ten years now. It's getting ridiculous. I can't even wail "I don't know what to do!" anymore because, well, I know damn well what to do.
I just won't DO it. So what do I expect?
I'm dysthymic, which means I have chronic low-level depression, which occasionally descends into periods of major depression. A major contributing factor to this is the fact that I also have rather severe social anxiety disorder.
It's a ten-year-old topic with a life-long basis and I think I've begun blog entries on it so many times it all starts to sound both melodramatic, whiny, and like I've simply given up trying to do anything about it.
Why do I feel this way this, and Why can't I do this that, and the like. I'm starting to sound like a broken record, or at least an emo-kid.
In college, when it was first diagnosed, I went to counseling, and tried anti-depressants, specifically Paxil. While the drugs did work to some extent-- I lost my social phobia or at least my inhibitions enough to make some friends-- they messed me up in other ways. I...lost my inhibitions. It was a bad scene. I also lost a lot of the creativity that had been such a major part of my life until then. I don't think I drew or wrote anything for years. Plus, I lost my appetite (in defiance of the normal "weight gain" people experience on SSRIs), my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, I was twitching at night in my sleep, aaaaand my libido was pretty much completely destroyed. Because you needed to know that.
So I eventually stopped the Paxil. I figured I was cured enough that I could manage, now that I knew the symptoms and what worked for me to nip them in the bud. That did work for a while, actually. Exercise always has helped me, and for a while after college I was working out every day. I was beginning my aforementioned run of starting projects (and not finishing most of them), which was fun, and I wrote my first novels during National Novel Writing Month. I felt down plenty, but it was different, less intense. I found ways to distract myself and not think about it so bloody much.
Still...it crept back in. It was like a house you think is sealed up nice and tight, but somehow the rain creeps into the cracks, and mold starts to grow, and sooner or later it pops up on your ceiling where you can see it (speaking of which, our ceiling is showing water damage, arrrgh!). Unfortunately by then, it's too late to do any "nipping in the bud."
When I started grad school, it had gotten bad enough that I knew it was going to become a problem again. My social anxiety was back in full force, due to the new surroundings, new community, the career pressure...Not too pleasant.
Probably contributing to this was the fact that the hormonal birth control I was taking was affecting my mood. I got PMS, like most women do, of course, but mine was...rough. I would cry at the drop of a hat, I would get angry at the smallest provocation, I would have these horrible dark, desperate thoughts in my head that frightened me.
I did go to a counselor about this. She recommended that I get a full physical work-up, to check my hormone levels and explore alternative means of birth control. That, by the way, was the end of hormonal BC for me-- the Pill made me nauseous, I was not into...inserting...anything like the NuvaRing, the patch was what was causing the whole mess, and I had no desire to risk getting the shot and feeling that way for months.
She also suggested I go back on antidepressants, and I seriously considered it for a while, since there were other kinds than the one I'd taken before that had messed me up so badly. I eventually decided not to, because I didn't want to be dependent on a pill for happiness.
I DID, however, find out that I had borderline hypothyroidism, which can contribute to depression, but not enough to take medicine for. I was told to just keep an eye on my levels.
After grad school we moved back to our current location, and it all sunk gradually downward. The stress of finding a job, adjusting to life outside of a city, adjusting to the jobs I did find, realizing I had little in common with the people I came into contact with but too scared to try looking elsewhere...I had a brief slide into major depression, I think. I managed to pull myself out of it I don't even know how.
Then I had a wedding to plan. Then I got married. Then I was laid off from my job. Then we had to move to a place I HATE (called "Salisbury, North Carolina") for a job that ended up being one of the most traumatic events of my life.
That was another period of major depression. I went as far as getting my thyroid levels checked because I was afraid the sheer, unbridled misery I felt couldn't possibly be so severe without hormonal dissonance. Turns out they were normal, and again I had to seriously consider going back on anti-depressants.
The only thing that pulled me out of THAT depression was leaving the job, moving back to our home, and starting a better job at the very place I'd gotten laid off from. Imagine moving from a cold, dark, ugly town where you know no one, your boss is psychologically torturing you, you hate your job, and you have to drive to Charlotte to go anywhere you might actually want to go...to your beautiful family land in the mountains, surrounded by a loving family and community, to a job where they are laid-back and nice to you, where you don't have to wear a suit, where you can work part-time and still make enough to live on, where you can relax...
I think I was nearly euphoric for a month or two. I staved off any depression simply by telling myself, "IT COULD BE SO MUCH WORSE, HOLY CRAP."
But, again, like that insidious mold, it crept back in.
That job really did a number on me. I let it, of course, but when all's said and done it's still true. I never feel good enough, I never feel like I'm completely capable and confident. I am afraid to go downstairs sometimes, for fear my boss will see me and want to talk to me, which is ridiculous because she's a very nice woman who understands that mistakes are made, and knows the ambiguous nature of research might involve a few crossed wires here and there. It's definitely changed my ambition for the worse; I don't even want to be a professional librarian anymore because I'm so afraid I wouldn't be able to take the pressure or deliver when I need to.
And personality-wise? Creative-wise? I feel...flat. I feel like I don't really want to do anything anymore. I feel like whatever I do, it's all just killing time until I can die. I feel like I can't talk to anyone. I marvel at the many people I see who pop out jokes at the spur of the moment, who effortlessly deliver monologues seemingly without any thought beforehand. I feel like my interests are mostly antiquated (who embroiders except for old ladies?) or too trendy to be of any use. I feel like though I may have some measure of skill in many areas, I never seem to be better at any of them than anybody else. My mind goes blank in front of people. I can't even be arsed to do the things I know, I KNOW help me, like exercise. I don't even embroider because I'm afraid my skill is so far outweighed by my vision that I'll just fuck it all up (like everything else) and end up with a mess.
And to top it all off, I DON'T want to go back on anti-depressants and I DON'T want to go to counseling because I'm both too cheap and too poor to do so, even with a sliding-scale mental health center, even if my aunt who's a psychiatrist gives me free sample packs of the pills like she did when I was on Paxil.
I've felt this way for a good ten years now. It's getting ridiculous. I can't even wail "I don't know what to do!" anymore because, well, I know damn well what to do.
I just won't DO it. So what do I expect?
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