This is the part of the day where I start to cry for no reason.
Just wait, it’ll pass.
It happens a lot these days. Well basically ever since moving to New York.
Sometimes it’s because of something good (like being loved). Sometimes it’s because the world is so much sadness that I can’t stand to think of it.
It doesn’t really matter. It’ll pass.
Crying is to my eyes what vomiting is to my stomach. I can’t seem to control it, so I just wait it out.
I’ll just sit here alone and wait it out.
Seriously. I’m sure it’s gorgeous outside and I have no motivation to go see it because my day is bisected by therapy, with a new therapist who is remarkably close to my age. And wears stupid clothing. Whatever, I’m being judgmental because I hate getting to know a new therapist. And I miss my old therapist.
I never got my cry before leaving Philly, and I wanted that. Desperately. My thought was that if I had the freak out during the stress of packing I could avoid all this moodiness when I got up here.
Everyone has been brilliant and helpful and sweet and friendly and I couldn’t want a better welcome or a nicer living situation.
But my meds are going through an adjustment, by which I mean I am not on any psych meds and that’s not really what this is, so much as the natural low that follows the manic like high of moving and packing and all that.
So this is normal.
But to a huge extent depression is pointless when you aren’t suicidal. If I’m not going to kill myself, then I’m just going to be depressed until I’m not anymore. So why not try to speed this whole thing along as much as possible.
I have gone back to writing every morning which will help in the long run. Right now I’m only doing prompts and exercises, but I can’t go online until I’ve hit 1,000 words, which takes me about an hour and I’m hoping by next week I will have gotten into the habit of writing enough that I’ll be able to go and work on actual stories. Currently I’m just expelling a lot of the crap that comes from not writing enough. There are a few pieces that need rewrites and that might be a good project for next week.
Oh and last night was the first night of class. I found the class and made it through. It’s 18th Century and it’s drenched in history so it’ll be a different thing for me, which can be a very good thing if I let it be.
Okay I’m feeling better, partially due to the mainlining of caffeine. Now to plan my day.
My new plan:
To walk up to strangers on the street and punch them, and when they whine and ask why, I’ll tell them, “because depression hurts.”
And I swear I’ll hurt every person on the planet until I feel better.
Or not.
Not that sunday night’s aren’t depressing enough, but on top of that, I’m definitely in a full swing depression. I can’t think straight. My head is clouded and I’m needy and pissy and lonely and angry and oh god, it’s so awful. But instead of being able to get it out, I find myself getting more and more quiet.
I’ve been listening almost exclusively to Next to Normal this weekend. And it’s like poking a bruise.
I was going to post a long entry, but the apathy is setting in.
Sometimes I just want to curl into someone and be absorbed.
I know that in a few weeks I’ll cycle and I’ll be the laughing girl again. I know that in a few weeks the words will come quickly and I’ll forget how much this hurts.
But for now, I just feel raw and alone.
It takes a special kind of crazy to notice the azaleas are in bloom and then begin to cry. And not eyes watering a little, full on wracking, silent sobs, with big fat tears streaming down the face and mouth agape like a fish trying to breathe out of water. It takes an even more special kind of crazy to not even stop walking while crying like this. Not even a stutter in the step because this kind of crazy is more normal than anything else and the 10% of the brain that remains ration at all times says, “it’s still 1.6 miles uphill till your crappy apartment. stopping isn’t going to change that.”
I wish I had some great story about how my grandmother had prize-winning azaleas, and she taught me everything I know about life out in her garden, and then passed away a few years ago. I don’t. I’m not that person who has touching memories about dead people. My brain doesn’t work like that (and no one in my family ever liked me enough to teach me anything).
Nope, it’s not that straight forward and thus most people would stare at me blankly as I tried to explain how flowers make me depressed. How they represent the failings of my family, and of every dream that never came true. How seeing flowers wilting is enough to cause a full blown fit of hysteria on the wrong day. And azaleas and gladiolas are the worst.
Gladiolas are my mother’s favorite flower. They make her happy, no matter how temporary that happiness always is.
She also loves azaleas, but there is more to it that that. They were the bushes that we had at my childhood house. They don’t grow in this apartment complex. They grow at my father’s house, his wife loves them too. Azaleas are the shrub of the suburbs, of the promised life. of the life I couldn’t give my mother.
So fuck flowers. they don’t make me fucking happy. they remind me that we all die alone.
In all fairness, hormones are making this mood 45% worse. I am totally going to be one of those women who kills her kids because of postpartum depression. Please remember this and stop me from procreating.
40 minutes till Lost. It is the only reason I’m still awake now.
I will not be moving to Indiana. the letter came Sunday night. I’m not upset about Purdue, which by the time I finished their grueling application, I truly felt like wasn’t going to be interested in the type of writer I am. But 2/6 have come back to the negative. Although it should be a big deal, I’m fairly certain almost everyone gets reject from more programs than they get accepted to, and that all it takes is one acceptance, I’m still disheartened.
So I’m grumpy. And it’s frakking cold as a cylons tit up in here. (How’s that for an odd not tricia sentence?)
the internet has been almost entirely down at work. It is never until the internet goes down that everyone realizes 1) how much time they waste online and 2) how much more productive they are with the internet.
Without I find myself leaving my office and going to people cubicle with my coffee and trying to hold conversations. No good can come of this. I will revolt soon if they do not fix it.
Also explains why you haven’t gotten the Nashville hypothetical living budget. All my online stuff at work has been through my iphone. I’m thankful to have the iphone, but it’s not the most efficient way to do most things you would normally do on a computer.
I made hot cocoa for lost so I don’t fall sleep during it this week.
Why does the first week of March feel like the death throes of February?
Why can I hear the house phone ring in my neighbor’s apartment? This place is a shit hole.
I keep trying to figure out what I’m going to do with my life if I don’t become a grad student and bum around and write seems to be the only thing I can think of. I miss working in restaurants but am terrified of this economy.
Guy outside my apartment door just keeps saying over and over again for a minute and a half “It’s the boogie-man”. It takes me 45 seconds of panicking to realize he’s talking to his kids. This place is a shit hole.
Older
