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7:38 p.m. - 09/20/03
alexander &...
It's a horrible, horrible, horrible day.

I made a mistake last night, one so easy I can't believe I've never done it before, and so costly I would have done a great many things to take it back. I went to take my night meds (desipramine and flurazepam) and took my morning meds (desipramine and effexor) instead. I didn't know what to do after that. I couldn't make myself take the flurazepam, even though I probably always have effexor in my system when I take it; I was scared of how they'd interact. I couldn't take my effexor this morning, so soon after having taken it last night, and so I had a horrible, horrible night followed by a horrible, horrible day...and I thought, "so that's all it takes? one mismatch of pills?" but it's not true, it takes more than that, and I know what the other things are.

I fell asleep early, between nine and ten, was up by one, and didn't sleep again until ten or so. The worst insomnia I can remember having. I woke up and things grew worse. I tried to read, but I picked a memoir of a horrific childhood, where the mom is gone all the time and the dad is only sort of around. My mom was at work, and reading, I forgot that it isn't five years ago, and that isn't the case. I kept expecting my dad to be the one to come home, but no, my mom did, and then I had trouble talking and trouble sitting and trouble being awake. I thought I'd shower because depression hates that, just like I'd eaten lunch - to spite it, and after the shower I slept some more. Mom slept, too, and I kept reading until the book came to a part that wasn't supposed to be in there, the type of part you're supposed to be warned about before you start reading, and again, I wondered if it wasn't really five years ago, and I wasn't really just like this girl, trapped without any safety, waiting for one kind person to come and save me from all the subtle hell. I thought of how I read books like this constantly then and watched movies of them, and I started to think how the-same everything was, but before I knew it, I had put the book down, and was two rooms away from it, in my bedroom, trying to decide what to do. I couldn't get the book out of my mind without finishing it; if I read that section, I might never get it out of my mind. I could just rush through it; the only way out is through, and I could just read quickly and get on with life...or I could pick up a different book, an easy book, and try to forget I'd ever gotten two hundred pages into this one. No. I went back, picked it up, scanned all it took - not much, two lines - to know that the bad thing happened and she didn't get away, and then I kept reading. I thought, maybe that's ok. That the author needed to write those two pages, and I needed to not read them. Maybe that's ok.

Mom made dinner and didn't ask if I wanted any, so I stayed and read some more, waiting for the day to be over. I took the keys and went downstairs to check the mail; all I had was a change of address letter for Mary Lastname - days longer in coming than the one for Mary Brave. Through the front door of the apartment building I could see the flowers and the almost-night outside and the streets with cars and sounds and cool air. When I went back up, I made myself a sandwich (to spite the day), and the creamy peanut butter made me think of Rogers. My mom never buys creamy. I put jelly on (or actually, jam) for Tracy and for Stacy, I bit into the sandwich instead of ripping off individual bites and popping them back into my mouth. I went out on the deck to eat, and Mom came along, and we didn't say much of anything, just felt the air and watched the city.

Going outside was like putting my head in cool water, trying to wash off the sleep-that-isn't-sleep, the bad feelings, the numbness, and the inability to speak. It helped some, like eating helped some, and showering, and putting on clothes I didn't own until recently, clothes that I never could have worn five years ago. It didn't make the bad day go away, but I'd done my best to know that things have changed.

Except then, there are all those things that changed without my wanting them to. And I know that's hurting just as much as the wrong meds in my system at the wrong times. I think about the doctor, and the end of our last phone call, and I say aloud, "This sucks" and try to smile, try to let admitting that be enough to be ok. Still horrible, still Dad gone, still Grandma, still sick and not ok, but I've looked at the day from back and front and sides, and the only way out is more distraction, more sleep, more pushing.

I'm glad that the twice-a-week appointments fell on Friday and Monday again. Glad for only one day in between now and when I next see him because he's the one who knows how to make me know that things really are different and I really will get out of the life that's way too much like the one in the book I didn't know to leave up on its shelf. He's the one who says things are different and will be different, and I have choices and a life so different, so much like what I want ahead of me. And Friday when he said he'd be leaving Monday night and not coming back until Friday, when my head bent to the ground, scared and small - even though he'd make both of my appointments - and I said, "Ok. Just promise... You can go. Just promise you'll come back." He said, "I'll come back. I promise." He said, "I promise" twice, and when I said thanks and shook his hand, he cradled it in two, like he used to do, like I told him my grandma did when she last spoke to me.

And tomorrow or the next day the meds will be straightened out and the book will be over, and I'll have a day that isn't horrible, when I can call people and write and do what I keep intending to do that I can't. I have to take it slowly, he says. I'm on vacation.

And as usual, vacation's overrated, and I want to go home.

chord

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