Friday, January 12, 2018

But the Drugs Like Me...

National Institute of Mental Health - Curious Alice (1971) - The March HareRemember my last post, when I complained that my antidepressants didn't work? I wrote that (while on them):
...mostly I just feel like I'm in a fog. I'm cloudy-headed, numb, anxious, despairing. I think of death and mortality every day. I'm the living dead. I'm not suicidal--I'm far too Catholic and, frankly, cowardly for that. Besides, I seem to prefer a slow death by tobacco, sugar, and hope. 
I should note that I've been off work for the past week and off my routine; I've forgotten to take my antidepressants more often than not...And skipping the meds, though inadvertent, doesn't really seem to have made things any worse so I may just go off the stuff. I mean, maybe.
Yeah, about that...

I forgot to mention a pertinent fact--I had actually called in a refill at my local mom'n'pop pharmacy. I don't normally get my prescriptions filled there but back in November I was a day away from a business trip and needed my two happy-pill 'scripts pronto. My normal chain pharmacy didn't have one of them, another chain didn't have the other. I was desperate and short on time. (Story of my life.) While I like supporting local businesses, I don't like their store hours, which don't jive with my commute into/out of Manhattan (there's a Rite Aid in Grand Central, my usual joint because it's pretty damned convenient but it didn't work out for me that time around).


The local pharmacy's supposed to be open on Saturdays. I went to pick up my meds December 30--closed. With a fucking sign taped to the door saying they were closed for the weekend and thanking customers for their "anticipation." How the hell could I have anticipated that?

Tried again the following Saturday--also closed! No reason given! What the fuck?!

So I'd been rationing the few pills remaining from each prescription but was done with them a few days into the new year. "OK, then, motherfuckers." I thought to myself. "I'll just go commando." So to speak.

I started getting headaches. I think had headaches maybe 4 or 5 days in a row. Sleeping was bad. Had a few nightmares. Didn't snap out of my fog, in fact, things worsened--by Wednesday of this past week I felt confused, I couldn't concentrate at work, a sort of hysteria seemed to rise around and within me. I'd been feeling stressed anyway, from my day job, but that day was...well, I was frightened. Close to 5 I went to my boss' office and closed the door, gave her an abbreviated version of the above, and asked if I could go in later on Thursday to see if I could catch the fucking pharmacy open on my way into work. I'd never wanted to talk to her about this, and not because she's a horrible person or anything--this shit's just do I explain it...raw, personal. Painful. I protect my pain. Does that make sense? Writing about it here is different, somehow. Apart from the safety of being behind a screen...

Well, she was perfectly decent about it, as I had every reason to expect, and so I was able to pick up my stuff the next morning. Both remaining refills, as it happened, so I don't have to worry about dealing with these folks again. Funk them and their anticipating asses.

Meanwhile, I'll not go off a regular pill regimen on my own again, not if I can help it. If coming off the stuff's the right move, I'll do it under the doc's orders. For now I'll just keep doping myself up and I guess just try to be more patient...(?)

Sunday, December 31, 2017

The State of Me

This is the combo vanity/writing desk I bought from Ikea earlier this year. It amuses me that a Swedish company made it in Portugal and that it was ultimately assembled (poorly) in the U.S. by a chick of Portuguese decent (moi). Gave it a brisk neatening just a little while ago, as a hot mess of crap and dust and whatnot littered it. In addition to the requisite lamp and writing utensils I've plopped down some items meant to inspire me (star-shaped clock for a wanna-be superstar; a framed note from a fan--which does touch me every time I see it; a pic of me as a little girl before I'd learned to fear life).

I've been mainly using the vanity aspect of this thing, to help me ready my carcass for my day job and because I'm vain. Maybe I'll use it for writing in 2018. I'm using it right now to tap out this post so that's a good sign...?

Getting up in the mornings is harder and harder. I'm angry all the time; like, I simmer and surge with the slightest provocation but internalize everything because I don't want to hurt anyone though I don't seem to mind destroying myself. So many times I've bit my metaphorical tongue to keep from ranting out a blog post on stupid shit--though I am pretty fucking tired of people and their "I was laying down" bullshit. Unless you were setting a motherfucking table for dinner you were not laying down, you were in fact LYING down, God damn it. See what I mean? It's stupid shit and I get riled up by it and who knows if ranting out a blog post on the reg wouldn't be better than nuking my innards by holding back but I'm embarrassed to reveal my ick so I simmer.

I know what it means, that stupid shit's getting my goat--it means I feel that life is completely beyond my control. It means I feel I'm battering my head against an impenetrable wall of NO and that I'll never reach my full potential as a human and will never, ever know true comfort or joy, because I'm simply not meant to.

The drugs don't work. Or if they do, they just keep me from a final slide down to God knows what, because mostly I just feel like I'm in a fog. I'm cloudy-headed, numb, anxious, despairing. I think of death and mortality every day. I'm the living dead. I'm not suicidal--I'm far too Catholic and, frankly, cowardly for that. Besides, I seem to prefer a slow death by tobacco, sugar, and hope.

I should note that I've been off work for the past week and off my routine; I've forgotten to take my antidepressants more often than not and, moreover, am getting my period, so I'm feeling especially dark today. But all of this is still perfectly true. And skipping the meds, though inadvertent, doesn't really seem to have made things any worse so I may just go off the stuff. I mean, maybe.

This year I hid my birthday on Facebook and no one there hailed me on my so-called special day. That was the desired outcome--dozens of people wishing me hyperbolic happiness is a burden that has made me break down in tears in recent years. You'd think I'd be cheered but each wish weighs on me more heavily than the last because I can't live up to any of them. A few folks reached out to me in other ways, and that I could take. But nothing more. I'm even disabling comments for this post because I can't bear anyone's hopes/wishes/expectations. Emotionally I'm a 3rd degree burn victim and the slightest brush, of anything, feels awful. I'm just posting because the lid on my seething pot of angst finally shifted a little--the words needed to go out but I don't need or want any in return.

So that's the state of me as the last grains of 2017 scurry down the hourglass. May 2018 be better, God willing.

Monday, July 31, 2017

Balthy Does Gotham

When my son Balthazar* was 8 years old I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Because, you know, nothing like planning ahead. He answered, "A stand-up comedian." Which tickled me pink and sent me to the Interwebs to research opportunities for him. I discovered that NYC's Gotham Comedy Club offered a Kids 'N Comedy Workshop. The workshop culminated in a public performance that was just a few weeks away. On the appointed day, off we went.

The performers (mostly teens) were great and Balthy and I laughed a lot. At the end of the show the MC invited kids in the audience to go to the stage and tell a joke. Balthy and I exchanged looks--he'd recently learned a joke from a family friend and, after a nod from me, bravely made for the stage. Here's the joke he told:

A woman boards the bus with her baby. As she pays the fare the bus driver looks at the infant in her arms and says, "Lady, that is one ugly baby." She walks to the back of the bus, sits, and starts crying. A man a few seats over asks her what's wrong and she says the bus driver insulted her. The man says, "Well, you shouldn't have to take that, no one should! Go back up there and give that bus driver a piece of your mind! And don't worry, I'll hold your monkey for you."

The audience predictably groaned but Balthy told the shit out of that joke and I was hella proud (because "hella" was exactly the kind of proud you had to be in 2003). Afterward I asked if he'd like to enroll in a workshop like that but he declined, surprisingly. Still, I didn't (and don't) agree with forcing kids' interests, so I left the matter there.

Fast forward to fourteen years later and Balthy appeared on the Gotham stage once again, in last week's New Talent Showcase! Performances were recorded so comics would have demos to send out to agents and clubs and whatnot; Balthy's follows below.

*Balthazar is my son's Confirmation name, which I used when I began blogging because he was a minor and I feared online predators. The video reveals his identity and, since he's an adult pursuing a public career, I reckon it's all right to share it here. But he'll always be Balthy to me. Except when he's Seby.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Stick a fork in me...

Fourchette dans le Léman
By Muriel from Lyon, France
(Fourchette dans le Léman), that's not the prelude to a steamy session of kink. (More's the pity.)

I'm done with NaNo. I'm calling it a little early, but call it I must. I managed two chapters but didn't clear even 10K words, much less near 50K.

C'est finis.

I dunno. Something, she ne marche pas bien, in my head. Something's not working.

I'm not raking myself over the coals for it, though. Even though I do have this honking huge fork, which'd likely be great for raking...

I'll figure this out.

In an unrelated story, here's a groovy, though NSFW (and/or children), tune that dropped, as the youths say, a few months ago. Have you heard it? Go on, give it a listen. It's damnably catchy.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Am I Really Doing This?

National Novel Writing Month
November 1-30
The world needs your novel.

I've just signed up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).

I'm out of my damned mind.

If you're doing NaNo, you're basically making a commitment to yourself to write a 50K word novel in the month of November. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

No. No, it's not.

It's SO not easy. I did NaNo back in 2008 and I didn't make the 50K word mark. But I did build a little story I want to get back to someday.

This is not that day.

I've been in a major depressive slump and haven't done any writing since last fall. Well, that's bullshit.

A friend of mind at work keeps asking me if I've been writing (she's read my first book and claims to love it, bless her) and I keep telling her no. But now she's holding me accountable, largely because I told her to. Just before a recent business trip, I told her to check in with me when I was back in the office, and to ask me if I'd made a fucking writing plan already.

She did. And I had.

It's NaNo. Because of course it has to be.

I broke out my monthly planner and penned (not penciled!) in when, and for how long, I'll write in November. I'll be working on the story I abandoned last fall, which has two chapters (that need revision, which I'll work on during the rest of October, as well as finishing up my research for the project).

Whether good, bad, or indifferent, I will bloody well finish this draft in November 2016. You know, barring Act of God or hangnail, or whatnot.

Who's with me???

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