7:57 a.m. - 05/17/03
.the best psychiatrist (excluding superdoc) is the one inside you.
[as written last night, after a long day of depression, while I was obsessing about the fact that the doctor was going to call my mom and not me (because she had left him a message)]
What would you say if you could talk to him?
I don't know. That's why I haven't asked to. I don't feel like there's anything to say. I don't know why this is happening.
What would you want him to ask me? [That's the way I typed it, so that's the way I've left it.]
What's wrong.
What could you answer?
Beyond I don't know? I don't know. I'm just off. I feel shut down. Useless. I wander from room to room; I don't see the point in it- I don't see the point in moving. I'm bored. Everything seems uninteresting. I don't have the energy for any activities, but it doesn't matter because I don't want to do anything anyway.
That all sounds like depression.
I know. So get off my back.
Just because it's possibly chemical doesn't mean there's nothing you can do. It's still your job to take care of yourself, and it's still highly likely that environmental issues are playing in. So don't act like you're helpless here.
I don't know what's wrong, ok? I don't.
Why don't you?
Because. I keep asking myself what's gone on, and there's no reason. So obviously I don't know.
You usually know. You're usually willing to dig and find it.
Maybe I'm tired of that.
Bored with that, too?
Yeah, maybe. Maybe I'm sick of having to do this just for a fucking day or two that's livable.
That's understandable. It's easy to be sick of disease. And you've been sick for a long time.
I don't see the point in anything.
And yesterday, you were shouting about how good you felt. And that's hard.
It's not fair. I work like crazy. I do everything I can all the time, and then I slip up once, or maybe I don't even slip up, and I start to feel awful. And *then* I slip up and get all pissed at myself for what. For actually showing some sign of all the hell that's still in me.
For showing it in a way that keeps it there.
Whatever.
Or maybe ... for doing something destructive even though you know better now. Even though you know that you'll feel better sooner if you don't. You feel self-defeating.
I don't feel anything.
No? You aren't angry? You aren't angry that another day of your *life* is almost tapped out with hiding in the dark, playing music, drawing, sleeping, watching bad tv? You aren't angry that after almost two years of working your ass off, the best you can do is still not enough to be entirely done with this disease? That even though you do everything you can think of, you still have days where you don't see the point in opening your eyes? That doesn't seem to suck, even a little?
Fine. I'm angry. But it won't do any good to say so. And now you're going to jump on that, too, saying I know better. I know it's better to voice my feelings. Well, fuck it. I have to take some stupid pill to fall asleep at night. I have to take a pill to keep from feeling like my skull's worn down and my stomach's going to explode with queasiness. I have to take a pill so I don't start shaking and sweating and gasping for air. I have to take a pill so I don't feel like the life has been sucked out of me, oh, and guess what- I do anyway. I work so hard, and then something like this happens, for no fucking reason, and then I screw up and am upset with myself. That's fair?! "Mary's a fuck-up because she didn't eat right one fucking day in almost two years" when it's really not even my fault. It's not my fault. I could have done better. I should have done better. I've done better so many fucking times. But I'm tired. I'm tired of having to try. I'm tired of having to put all this effort into being alive and reaping so little harvest. I'm tired of living in D!@#$%^, talking to no one, feeling trapped in a sensory deprivation tank, and then stepped on when my mom comes home, startled when the phone rings. I'm tired of being jealous that the doctor is supposed to call her just because she'll have someone ask her how she is, what she needs, how it's going, and I never do. I hold up so much of the world, and who says to me, "hey, sweetie, is there anything I can do for you?"
...and you know what? this is bullshit. because I asked my friends for help, and within a day fifteen people gave it to me. when I call someone to see how they are, they ask me how I am. I don't have friends who don't want to know that I'm ok, who don't ask if there isn't something they can do whenever we talk. and if they don't ask it's because for the first time in so many years, people are treating me like a human being, capable of taking care of herself. and for the first time, I *am* capable of that. except when this disease starts up for no reason, and takes away everything I've learned.
hides everything you've learned. you still have it in you.
I don't have it! I don't! I don't have what matters. I didn't bring it with me. I didn't pack it. I didn't hang onto it. I don't still have it because all that was good was them, and I've lost that. Brea doesn't write. Stacy doesn't write. Dave and Steph and everyone...they're just gone. And there are all these questions without answers and all this bullshit without justification.
It is justified. You know how much it sucks, Mary. Why kid yourself? If it's about Rogers, even if it's been about Rogers a million times before, it still sucks. It still sucks that you can't go back, have it be different, change the way things are. It still sucks that you feel so helpless about something you love so much. It still *sucks* that your friends are sick, that Tracy's physically gone, that life is so much less rewarding than it was there. that pain makes sense.
well? what about me? what am I supposed to do? just keep being the perfect little recovery girl occasionally starring as the perfect little fuck-up? am I supposed to just live with this? you can't live with depression. I've tried. I've tried to live the days when this is rearing its head, and it doesn't work. am I supposed to live without home, without family, without any interaction?
you're working on that.
yeah! I am! I'm working on that. I'm putting all this effort into that. I'm about to face some of my worst fears, and what will I get for it? tell me how things will be better when we live in the city and I'm no longer afraid to interact with people, but just the same, my head's decided it's overdue for a black hole, so I'm in my bedroom with the shades drawn and the lights off. or alternately, I'm in my bedroom with every light on, and I'm staring straight at them, and I'm smiling a full smile because I know that's supposed to help...that's supposed to help, and it doesn't. I can't fix it; it's just there. It's just stupid and endless and here. I can't get anything good to stay, but this will stay and never give me peace.
you have good things.
I want more. I want Mandy to have time for me. I want to see Chas. I want to not feel like I can't ever talk to any of my friends again just because I'm not going to college next fall. I want to hug people while I'm awake, see them when I'm not dreaming. I don't want the best moment in my day to be the one where I dream I see Mandy, or when I finally start crying about whatever the hell has been wrong. I want better than this, but I don't know if I believe in it anymore.
it's already better. it's been getting better this whole time. it will get better yet.
yeah? it doesn't look better. it looks to me like I went from being really sick and without help, to really sick, without help, and grieving where I had it. that looks worse.
you're forgetting that you've made a lot of progress in that sickness, and that you've learned so so so so so much about how to meet your needs and take care of yourself.
but I didn't do that! [take care of myself]
so what?
so!
so now you're obviously as bad as you were? oh, that's logical. let's go with that. you felt shitty, you didn't eat, so now, guess what? you're a horrible person. and since you think that, maybe you'll do a few other things that don't take care of you. and maybe this day will simply begin a vicious cycle, and the depression will win. don't you see? it's just trying to win; you can't listen to it.
but it's true. I didn't eat.
you ate a good, good dinner. you ate a good snack. you'll eat tomorrow. you were exhausted all day. you were depressed and fatigued and worried about migraine. you don't live this way anymore. you didn't plan this. you weren't thinking about food or weight or not feeling through it all.
but I wasn't thinking when I started either.
Mary. there has to be some line between self-watch and self-attack doesn't there? certainly it isn't a choice between being too lax and too severe?
but I used to tell myself it was ok, and I'd do better tomorrow.
and you used to not have any means to make that possible. you used to try without any clue how to do what you were doing. you might as well have been trying to cure your own heart disease every morning, and then beating yourself up for not doing it. it's not like that now. a bad day can just be a bad day. and the promises you make mean a lot because you know how to keep them. you know why you need to. ...what's wrong?
I don't want to get sick again.
I know. I wish we could worry about that. but the truth is, you never stopped being sick. you just got closer to well. it's difficult. you don't want to go back into old patterns, but sweetie, hitting yourself over the head with everything you've done wrong *is* an old pattern. it doesn't work. and if you think the problem with your pre-Rogers recovery was that you went too easy on yourself...it's just not true. I've never known you to be any more strict or hard-working or angry at yourself. you didn't get better before because you didn't have the resources. you weren't learning how. you were trying to stop behaviors and cure an illness without any idea of what you needed to start doing. it was impossible. it wasn't your fault.
I don't want to disappoint them. Rogers. I don't want to be anything less than well.
you call this less than well? you're somehow inferior to people who don't fight everyday, who don't ever have to show the strength you show every *moment?* you're less than people who have never had to try?
I just want them to be proud of me. to love me.
I know, and the doctor said you can talk about that. You know he understands. And you can keep talking about it, too. It hasn't gone away, and that isn't your fault. If it could go away just by effort, you'd long since be "well" from that, too.
how does it go away, then, if not through effort?
I'm not sure. maybe it doesn't. you've said yourself you don't always want it to. maybe it just changes into something that serves you.
how can I be served by loving something I can't have and hanging onto what won't come back?
I don't know. but it's not about letting go yet. obviously. because the thing that feels the most painful *is not* the answer. you aren't ready to let go, and I don't think you ever should be.
it's never going to be like that...with my parents...
they're not your only alternative. it just seems that way. he's sure you'll find it, Mary, and you know how rarely he's wrong. when he is, you're usually the first to know it, and you haven't felt that surge of pain around this. the one that says he's going about it all the wrong way.
no. but I don't have any sign it's the right way either.
are you still alive?
yes.
are you still feeling?
yes. now.
are you still trying?
yes.
do you still want the best thing you've ever had more than you want anything else?
...yes...
then it's the right path.
I want to win.
you will, baby, you will.
how?
one pick-yourself-up, dust-yourself-off at a time. he's watching, too, so don't be so worried about your own eyes. he told you, you can do this with a little help. you have help now, and you have your own resources. inside of you.
...and I have this disorder. this disease that doesn't go away with medication or battle or time.
that hasn't yet. but you're right. you have this disease. and you've got to understand that. it isn't you making this a problem. it isn't you giving into depression. it's an illness. you fight hard. no matter what, you've kept fighting. you know firsthand how few people are willing to go at it like you do. it takes a lot.
I just want to be better.
than what?
I want to feel better.
you deserve that.
I want to go home.
I know, Dorothy. it doesn't matter if Oz is the most wonderful place in the world, all you can say is I want to go home.
what now?
take the pills, grab an animal, get some sleep.
then?
face then tomorrow.
I feel bad about not doing any school.
this was enough for today. you know you're going to graduate with honors. you know it doesn't even matter, that you've already proven what you never had to prove. school will always be there, your energy will come back, and you are not less than *anyone* just because you didn't work today. or because you're going to work so hard all summer that you don't know who you'll be in the fall. no one's ahead of you because of that.
I think I want to pray. in the quiet way that makes sense right now.
then to bed with you. find that re-connection; get some rest.
...thank you.
it's all you, baby. it's all *your work.*
*
chord
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