10:10 a.m. - 09/03/02
[[crazy// for feeling: so lonely...:|:
For no reason whatsoever, I've decided to be terrified of my physics class. I really enjoy this class, and now I'm too scared to open the book. I need to do some more work in it before the teacher comes (it's the only class I don't have something finished for) but I'm here instead. Writing. Because despite the fact that I don't have anything to say, it's easier to write. The depression has lifted, if the pain has not, and so I'm back in the little white box, awaiting my own ramble.
It occurred to me last night that the depression is often a way to shut off anxiety and that even though I had no ability to *feel* anything yesterday (except foggy and depressed) I was experiencing *physical* anxiety symptoms that might be significant. I decided to try something a little too close to self-medication (but not really because I'm completely allowed to do this when I'm anxious, and I far from abuse that right) and take my as-needed anxiety meds to see if that would curb the anxiety and thereby convince the depression it could go away. I popped the pills, went upstairs, turned on Silje's mix tape, drew a little, and wrote a letter. Somewhere in that oh-so-exciting string of events, it disipated. It went away. And even though I felt shitty and my self-esteem was still low, I was not completely out of it anymore. I don't care what I said yesterday morning. I would rather feel like shit than not be able to feel. Emotions always taper out eventually; mood disorders only get worse. Depression is evil, and I would rather feel.
So thank God for Alprazolam, Propranolol, Silje, and Shannon. I make it through.
My parents know I'm struggling, and that is for some reason, driving me even more crazy. I don't want them to be all worried and coddle-ish. My mom has an overnight business deal coming up this week, and my dad will be in Narnia (his job has officially started; most of his things are gone) and they're completely terrified that I won't survive the night. I keep explaining to them that I've done this at least a million times and I'll be ok, but they're still worried. It's completely bizarre because 1) I can go with my dad if I decide I don't want to deal with being alone, 2) I'll have just seen the doctor, and probably feel a little better that way, and 3) there's no rule stating that I feel worse when I'm alone. For all we know, I'll spend the night doing whatever I want to without the added bonus of my parent's observation, and that will be *good.* So why can't they just face the fact that even though my life is shit sometimes, I continue to live it? I know how to reach out when I need to. I know how to call the superdoc even if I've just seen him. I will deal.
I think they think the problem is them. It isn't really. Granted, if home life were wonderful, I might not miss Utopia so much, but then, I'd feel weird not missing it. I prefer missing it. It deserves to be missed, et cetera. My mom has been crocheting a scarf, and I flipped out about it a little. I asked her if she was *trying* to upset me, and she asked why that was upseting, and I was like, "Hmm...that's *so* tough to figure out." Unfortunately, she *did.* She said, "Because it reminds you of a place you'd rather be?" and I went silent. ...Among other things, yes. Because it reminds me of a place I'd rather be, but can't be, because the people there don't want me either.
Dr. R said something to the effect of they might want me very much, but it's hard to believe. Why didn't they keep me if they wanted me? Why didn't they listen when I said I loved them and I'd give up everything to be with them (without it even feeling like a sacrifice)? I don't understand these things.
The Person Who Slept On Our Couch for a week left me a really sweet letter which made the not-so-helpful point of saying that my progress this past year evidenced how good my support at home is. I didn't take the time to burst her bubble (I felt weird about it; she's a friend of my mom's, and I didn't want to be like "actually they're really horrible to live with in some ways") but it was really painful. I haven't the slightest idea why I've survived as well as I have this past year, but I know with my whole heart it isn't because of what I have at home. What I have at home is a large part of why I got sick to begin with (or did she miss that part?) and granted, I'm really grateful for the progress my parents have made, but it still eats at me to hear someone credit them for something they make that much harder. Mostly, she was impressed by how respectful my mom is toward me, how she treats me like an equal, and that's true, and it's something I love, but it does not make for a supportive home life. Having someone treat you like an adult when you're seven doesn't leave you feeling supported. Even if you wouldn't go back in time and give it up. I feel selfish, but I still want more.
Still want them. I have a one-track mind, and it annoys me...
chord
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