Back in Black

I haven’t written in a long time and a million times I’ve wanted to. Every time I’ve started to though, I’ve been overcome by this overwhelming sense of ennui. This is really unfortunate since so many things, most of them dramatic, have happened to me in the past few months. Most of them have been shitty, but some of them have been okay to good:

-- I protested at the Republican National Convention, which was kind of cool and interesting until the end of the night.
-- I moved out of my posh East Village apartment with two lovebird roommates into a shithole up up Uptown apartment in Manhattan and so, went from having just barely enough money to being fucking frighteningly broke all the time and becoming very familiar with cereal as a meal.
-- I got digital cable and a cable modem internet hook-up (*CHEER!*) and then my laptop broke down, once and for all. (*SOB*). It looks like I won't be able to think about buying a new computer 'til January which means now I'm fucked since my phone service is connected to my cable modem hook-up. So, if I get rid of my cable modem (which I should), I'll have no phone service which I've already paid all the expensive start-up fees for.
-- I was a part of a crazy medical experiment which tests brainwaves and was filmed by ABC for a piece on it. The cap I had to wear with electrodes all over my head and face was something I’m sure any of my friends would have paid to see.
-- I’ve became overly-medicated like my grandfather once was.
-- I have developed an unusually close relationship to a urologist due to a medical problem that seems to completely flabbergast him and completely piss (ha ha) me off.
-- My genial ex-husband suddenly turned into a typical asshole one.
-- Just when I thought maybe I was going to get myself fired at work I got one of the most glowing reviews of my life.
-- I briefly dated some guy from the internet who started off great and ended up being a damn disappointment.
-- I was bumped from the Jon Stewart show (*angry scream*) and was shepherded off to the Collin Quinn show which was a fun experience, though missing J.S. after not only waiting several months, but also taking off early from work and standing in line for an hour and a half and HAVING TICKETS as well. Jon Stewart, you’re show is great, but that really sucks.

It is my goal to write about all these things, but I don’t know if it will happen. I’ve been feeling pretty depressed. Let me rephrase that, I’ve been Depressed. Notice the capital “D.” I know the signs. It happened once before when I was in grad school – my “forever” marriage had ended by my own doing, the reigning love of my life (different person) had moved in with me, treated me like dogshit, and them moved out all within the space of a year, I wasn’t doing as well in grad school as I thought I would (I started off behind), and I was broke (familiar theme). I spent about a full year praying to the non-existent god to catapult me in front of a fast-moving SUV and end my fucking miserable life since I lacked the courage to do it myself. After an initial visit to the counseling service with the intention of getting help with my already documented memory problems (in grad school you have to memorize GOBS of material), I ended up seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist respectively twice a week, medicated, and six months later, I was noticing the blooming flowers and the blue of the sky.

This is one reason that every time I’ve started writing in this blog again I’ve stopped. 1) I hate spilling my private personal stuff all over the page like some kind of morbid road kill. 2) I hate writing stuff that makes me seem whiny, complaining, DEPRESSED! Nobody likes that. I’ve had enough friends who needed professional and pharmaceutical help to know that they’re not fun to be around after awhile. It’s like someone slowly drowning you in black water.

Anyway, not wanting to get to the point I was nine years ago where death seemed sweet and seductive, I wanted to get help. I have health insurance this time, but apparently its mental health component is pretty lacking. Not to mention that everything needs a referral and it takes six weeks to get in to see my regular physician. In one of the local papers I noticed an advertisement from Columbia University for people who thought they may be depressed and wanted to be a part of free services. To make a long story short, I was all over that. Here’s the catch: no talk therapy. Just medication. It’s free. They do all the medical tests, you talk to psychiatrist, etc. But it is what it is – a medical study. Medical studies have their own agendas as well do I. I’m there to get free medication, they’re there to use me as guinea pig to (dis)prove their theory. I have no qualms with that, though I do admit I was rather disappointed not to have shrink sessions. I enjoy therapy. I feel it was valuable for me last time (as was the medication). But this is how it is. They want to try and experiment to see the effectiveness of aggressive medication (I won’t get into it now) and no therapy. Hell, I’m curious myself.

This is why I tell very few friends about this blog. I like to write about my experiences in Bangkok and NYC which they usually enjoy reading, sure, but I also need this blog to barf out all this secret stuff I’m ashamed of, just like I did on this page today. Sure, to the couple of people who actually KNOW me and might read this, I’m pretty humiliated right now, but that can’t really be helped. I have some damn good friends in my life right now, not a lot, but I’d say the quality of my friends is fantastic. My mother’s been pretty great too for the past year or so (so strange that I’ve often wondered if she’s secretly dying). And yet, I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about this, and let’s face it, Depression still has its stigma. In fact, I know one person I know who may read this and puke on his own. He’s never really believed much in mental illness.

And naturally, I’m ashamed of my own weakness. Sometimes I even surprise myself at how independent and strong I am. Sometimes I feel I can do just about anything (not in that euphoric bipolar sort of way, mind you! *cough*). Sometimes I think there’s not anything I can’t adjust to. And yet, here I am, nine years later, back on the weak track. Yes, yes, I know all the arguments against that. I know all about how it’s more about a drop in your serotonin levels than it is about being “blue.” Nevertheless, I am disappointed in myself. And I think it makes me less attractive as a person to know, as a friend or lover. I know that personally, when I have met men with an enormous amount of baggage, I have just flat out not been interested (unlike my early twenties when I would have relished the challenge to “save him!”). And here I am now, a baggage carrier myself. Blah.

Well, the pills begin tonight. In eight weeks I should be flying higher than a kite. Will it be me or the wellbutrin???