*a la Alexander/Judith Viorst
There is a reason Mess is in the title of this site.
This is one of those weeks. Less soulful and more just plain mess. I’ve set off the smoke detector in the kitchen. Twice.
I had to pick my underwear based on the pair that made me feel less homeless because I have been meaning to buy new ones but haven’t. (Nothing says sexy like ripped underwear.)
I’ve been sick for a week but only mildly so and I can’t seem to kick it out or feel better. And it is affecting everything else but I am having trouble seeing that.
Everything I try to write seems to turn to shit. I have 5 different half-to-three-quarter finished blog posts, none of which I can magic into a finished post.
I have felt fucking starving and all I want to do is eat and eat and eat. So my pants are tighter and I feel crappy about that and then that makes me eat and eat and eat. I feel like my very own Oprah Magazine. But less sparkly.
There was a car stopped dead on the ramp to 95 (in the dark, of course) and I had to slam on my brakes to avoid collision and deal with the near heart attack that accompanied that.
I’m having yet another phantom pregnancy (as my sister calls it) where I take one tiny symptom that could be 100 other things and I fixate on the fact that it is an early sign of pregnancy. Then I mood swing (another sign!) between sheer terror of and intense desire for a baby.
I had to cancel something today and that always makes me feel like a loser, like I’m crapping out, like I’m just not making enough effort. Like if I were different, life would be easier.
I finally got the financial statement from the therapist I saw briefly last year but I don’t want to submit it to my insurance company because I don’t want them (the illustrious them of the insurance company) to see “major depressive disorder” written right there in black and white.*
*Also, I am pissed that this therapist never questioned any deeper and that it was me who figured out months later that a prescription’s foremost side effect (a prescription that I had been taking for three years for interstitial cystitis) is depression or mood changes. Fuckers.
Somehow it’s worse that the statement from the therapist is handwritten and not typed. It makes it more personal, like a letter to my mom, someone telling on me, telling on my mood, telling on these ups and downs. I heard recently on NPR that most the great painters and artists of the past (think Picasso, van Gogh, et cetera), if they lived today, would be labeled bipolar or some variation thereof and would be heavily medicated to fit in with society. And thus we would have lost such gifts to the world.
I would rather feel and have this body that’s alive than not have a body or be numb, but some weeks the up and down is just so hard to carry, so hard to feel so good one day and so shitty the next. So hard to know that I have the means to feel better, things like acupuncture and yoga and herbs and good friends and blah blah blah, but when I feel like this it’s so hard to access any of those things
And even as I write this I have to remind myself that really what I have going on right now is not a “major depressive episode” (which hello, just means “depression,” do they have to make everything sound worse???), it is likely a virus and because I feel tired and crappy physically of course I feel tired and crappy emotionally.
It is days and weeks like this that I just long to be in a cabin in the woods with a wood stove and a couch and a dog. Oh and a quilt, a handmade quilt. Those make everything better.