8:35 p.m. - 08/03/03
when life sucks like a vacuum cleaner...
I cycle through the same challenges and feelings over and over again, and the challenge is finding some unique way to explain how I am. Something colorful but not overly dramatic; something with edges that won't unnecessarily scare those people who care about me. Today it goes, "I'm not sure if I've been this low for weeks or if it's only days, but thedepression has hit new heights, and that sort of contradiction of terms is what's passing for a joke today."
No, not new heights, not really. Just old lows. Feeling unenthusiastic about activities I usually enjoy, or better yet, thinking the only activity worth the effort would be finding a non-habit-forming sedative or one of those cartoon hammers that could knock me out temporarily. Maybe for a few days. And then I have one brother who decides to stop by and talk with my mom and me about how Christmas is going to be absolutely unredeemably awful, until I have to go upstairs and put myself to sleep. I guess he doesn't know how thoroughly steeped in denial I am. I keep waiting for Mom to revoke the announcement, and I hate how many reasons I have to keep believing in that impossibility. I hate how many times they've given me to look back on, point out, say, "See, it's always just a false alarm." The way things look, I will choke on thick black smoke before I admit this is an actual fire. Meanwhile, I have another brother calling, kindly, even though we have nothing to say and talking me into feeling terrified and rushed about college all over again (because that obsession should be at the top of my list right now, all things considered) so that I don't even realize until I'm back upstairs, in my room, with my cards and posters and animals and songs to remind me: I have a pretty good idea what I'm doing, and I don't need to jump on someone else's track. I don't need to freak out again, either. And though the conversation did make me want to jump back into college planning, I'm pretty sure the doctor would shake me if I decided to add that challenge to the current list. If you haven't been keeping track, the adversaries have grown and grown ... and grown. I have quite the list now, quite the combination of obstacles, quite the plot complication to plow my way through. And the only way I could find feeling today (other than the depressive apathetic numbness) was to silently challenge my parents again and again. How dare you, who are supposed to be my guardians, look at this pile of pain I have to face and willingly add to it? The pain I had at Rogers wasn't enough, so I had to leave, and that pain wasn't enough, so Tracy died, and that pain wasn't enough so Dixie had a stroke, and Sara got sick again, and I got kicked out of the outpatient program, and rejected from Hampshire, and my parents decided to divorce. So tell me why. Tell me why this time is different, why this time you can't go back and keep working on it. No, don't. Because you could. You could go back. You made the decision to give in, to quit fighting; you made that choice. And all I want to say, then, is not why - it's when exactly do I get to do that, hey? When do *I* get to say, "you know what, this hurts too much, and is exceedingly difficult, and I just don't feel up to it anymore - it's been so long - I think...yes, I've decided I'll stop fighting." When do I get to say that? Oh, wait. I don't. Ever. I don't ever get to quit fighting or I don't get to be alive. So tell me, Mom and Dad; this is the one thing I want to know: Why do I always have to be stronger than you do?
Surprisingly, after that, I felt a little better (emotionally), though I've eaten like shit all day and therefore feel physically unwell. (Way too much sugar.) I have to decide if I want to go to my brother Joe's this approaching weekend and what I'm going to do about the fact that tomorrow is my father's birthday. I feel quite a bit like I did at the beginning of Father's Day; I'm really not in the mood to play the role of doting daughter. And that's the same reason I don't want to go to my brother's this weekend, though I haven't really made the choice. Normally, I push myself into these visits to avoid the depression that comes with isolation, but lately, I'm constantly depressed, and I'm growing weary with having to try and work around it for the sake of other people. The first good I've felt in days was drawing today in my sketchy-journal; you know, when I have the strength to remember, it's my favorite thing to do. And I kind of just want some alone time, but then I kind of want new seratonin receptors, too...
Something tells me I'm not going to get away with blaming this dimness on biology during tomorrow's session. I'm sure the neuroscience isn't helping, but there's way too much circumstancial shit to manage a guilty verdict against my neurotransmitters. What I don't know is how I'm going to get myself there, what I'm going to say, or how it's going to make any difference. Definitely depression. Damnit.
I know this has been a seriously lame entry, but the effort behind words cannot be explained through them. For the record, I am trying. Yesterday, I went out for lunch and got thoroughly smacked in the face by the fucked-up-surbanite-culture about twenty minutes from the black hole where I bed. And I saw "Bend It Like Beckham." I suggested this plan, and I engaged in it. I didn't even have the energy to be proud. I managed two hours distraction from hating everything and then returned to the sick setting where most of my misadventures unfold.
I'll be more articulate and interesting and optimistic once the grayscale in my head goes back to full-color view. And I'm fine, in terms of "I'm safe." This is the mental illness equivalent of a nasty flu. It's not going to hurt me in the long run, but Godd, does it suck ass for the present.
chord
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