6:39 p.m. - 06/04/02
it's all in your mind// she said// the darkness and the light
Where am I? If I went inside myself, could I find me? Isn't that what I've been trying to do? Maybe this is just a sign that I need to come out of my hiding place; maybe this isn't depression after all. So would I feel better if I swallowed those little greenish cylinders, if I could keenly fuel focus into all activities? Or would I become instantly dependent on them, abusing them to achieve an edge in the ever-detrimental competition of my academic world? Will I be happy if I open up this journal again, if I take the right pills and read the right books? Will I be happy for an extended period of time - ever?
I wonder if it's impossible to be peaceful long enough to take it for granted.
I feel my head swirling out of focus. Maybe those pills are meant for me. Maybe it was just active adolescent rebellion that led to my refusing them. They've sat on the windowsill beside the Buspar, the Effexor, and the Whatever Else, for a week now, and I've never taken one. I mean to tell him that tomorrow; I mean to tell him why. I need him to know that I didn't take them because I didn't feel the short explanation I received justified them, and because this pattern of "try this, withdraw from this, try that!" has started to wear me thin. Because I'm afraid it's neverending, because I don't trust myself to know what's working and what isn't, because I wonder if happiness is truly so attainable as everyone wants me to believe.
Lately I say things that sound optimistic. Like: "Hamsphire is going to give me a full scholarship." The truth is I'm nearly tearing off my skin writing crappy papers and putting together my portfolio (half of which my oh-so-compassionate computer magically deleted this morning.) The truth is my cup is empty, the water in my house isn't running, and the only liquid in the fridge is that strange drip coming from the forgotten can at the back of the refrigerator. Somewhere in me, I sense that there used to be a happiness; somewhere in me I have the strength to pull myself out of this- but everything is so *the same*...it's nearly two years later, and I'm still sitting at a keyboard typing in an on-line journal. Only, fewer people read now, and the house has changed.
I meant to call Sara yesterday and didn't; I need to write Brooke and I haven't. I think I'm afraid to get involved in anyone else's life when we could seep into each other. I don't want them to soak up my unhappiness; I can't bear to be helpless yet again.
I had an awful day yesterday, based largely on my feelings of powerlessness. Powerlessness to help Lindsey, powerlessness to stop eating disorders, powerlessness to help Scott- if he even needs help, powerlessness to help Sara, powerlessness to get back in touch with any of my RED friends, powerlessness against my own disorders, powerlessness against every awful thing in the world. I'm so overwhelmed with awfulness right now; my saving grace is Joe.
Joe, my middle-child brother, is home for a week before visiting my eldest brother, before moving to L.A. (You may recall the boy just graduated college with oh-so-many honors.) He's a very active person, and so he keeps convincing my parents to do things, and the odd part is, he's also convincing me. In the past three days, I've been to a baseball game, a mall, a restaurant, another restaurant, and some random strip-mall shops. This is more activity than I usually have in a month. It's been good for me, I think; it's shown me that I can actually get out in the world, even if sometimes it feels horrible, and Sunday was actually fun. Yesterday, as I mentioned, was awful. I just can't get past feeling so useless and abused.
I don't understand how a pill for ADHD is going to help with my depression, but then I don't understand much about neuroscience, now do I?
Then again, he never said it would help with the depression. And shouldn't the 225 mg of Effexor I take every morning be doing *something* for the depression?
My current really scary thought: maybe they are. Maybe this is *better* than what I would be experiencing off meds. It's not as if it isn't possible. It's not as if I haven't been worse, seen worse, or known worse. It's not as if my mind game isn't currently sporting on the amateur level...
Oh, glargle.
So Andrew added surveys. Because Andrew secretly created diaryland solely for the purpose of furthering all my addictions. He's also trying to convert me to gold membership. (Hello! I created surveys for d-land people before there was an easy way to do it! And I can't do so because I'm copper or silver or some other lesser metal! That's *fine*...) Actually I don't really mind. How could I get actively angry with the man who found a way for me to actually journal somewhat regularly, the man who even changed the site to a decent purple color from that awful tanpeach?
Anyway...I'm alive...I think that's worth something. If I weren't alive, I really wouldn't know where I am, so I'm glad I'm here. Besides, Sara is already having to grieve two lost residents (a patient at her hospital prior to Rogers also lost the battle; she just found out recently) and I swear to God I will not put anyone through that. If I die, it will be some freak accident or impossibly terminal illness. Because honestly, I'm not capable of putting anyone through the pain of grief. I'm barely capable of surviving that pain myself...
One thing I do want to do, and would be looking forward to if, I weren't so completely sure that it's going to fall apart before I even start it - I want to volunteer at this psych center I discovered is in the city. It's an inpatient unit that works with substance abusers and people with acute mental illnesses and maybe some other stuff; I'm not exactly sure. Anyway, they need volunteers to help people find new ways to express themselves and their feelings (anyone want to learn how to crochet?!), to help with arts and crafts, etc. I think I'd be good at it, and what's more, I think it'd be good for me. I'm in so much pain thinking about all the people who aren't doing so "well" as me (and in so much pain over how skewed that is, when I'm in so much pain, too) and I think helping others, in some very small way, to come back into their lives would help me survive not being able to help so many others.
I need to be useful. Right now I'm being "productive." I'm working on college, I'm making blankets, I'm keeping up correspondence with friends...but I'm not doing anything slightly superheroine-ish. And I need that. I need something to exhaust me, something that I can go to bed crying over, and still feeling good about. I know I'm young and slightly unstable, but they accept seventeen-year-olds and I think my having been through what I have could be an asset in being chosen (if I even get to apply.) Having *been* in a basically inpatient unit (residential is technically different, but they're both live-in facilities) and having recovered (quite a bit) from an addiction/ mental illness, might explain to them why I want to be a part of this so badly. And I think it would help me relate to the people there, like the residents- maybe they would trust me a little bit more readily. I'd try so hard to be deserving of that trust.
On top of which, work is my own real failing in terms of a college profile, and volunteering in the field I want to pursue certainly wouldn't hurt me. But seriously, that's such an afterthought in only comes to mind with coaxing.
I just have to convince Dr. R that this is good, and then ask his help in convincing my parents. It could be *so* wonderful, and is there any harm in trying? It's not as if I can't stop if it's too stressful or triggering. It's not as if I don't need the experience. It's not as if I wouldn't drive myself if I could.
(For the record, even if I *had* my license, I wouldn't have a car to take myself, so it really matters little. But I'm so set on this that I actually pretended I was driving in the car yesterday, trying to feel if I would panic should I do this again. I felt okay, but once I was home, I was really wary of the whole idea. I wish someone other than my parents could teach me to drive. I should check the laws and see if my brother could. He'd be a lot less awful,- i.e. more affirming- and he drives really well.)
So much to think about. You see why the idea that tomorrow might not go well gnaws at me? I've already crocheted my daydreams to baby-blanket size, and tomorrow's conversation could be a dropped stitch in the second row.
Craft metaphors. I *am* ill...
chord
I am truly passionate.
Find your soul type at kelly.moranweb.com.
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