I'm Not Ready

Nope nope no, I'm not ready to be 28 yet. But here I am anyway.

I don't remember ever dreading a birthday like this before.

It would be foolish of me to think I'm unique at all in this—there's a sense of time slipping through my fingers, despair from feeling like nothing's been accomplished, the panic from not knowing where I'm going. Clock's ticking, time's-a-wasting.

And it really does feel like time wasted. I know I'm still young and I know I still have years and years ahead for me to experience plenty of happiness and to make something of myself. But those aren't here yet. They're "what if"s, unfulfilled promises and wishes that may or may not be all that great. What's here instead are memories of loss, failure, and pain.

I met with several former professors over the last few weeks—I had bound copies of my thesis and CDs of my works to give them—and they all wanted to know what I'd been up to and I felt at a loss for things to say. I'm still working in the same dreadful retail job. I'm still not making any artwork. I'm still incredibly lonely and pining for a girl who's still married.

Then, this weekend, I went to see a show being put on by several of my former classmates and, while the show was great and the works were great, I was still saddened by it. These were people I could've known, could've been friends with. Two more to throw on top of a pile of names of people I've lost touch with because I didn't know how to be their friend, because I couldn't believe that they could like me as much as I liked them, because I was too caught up in being depressed and anxious.

Tricia, Gary, Daniel, John J, John K, Josh, Brandy, Jessica, Cassie, Michael, Stefan, Katrina, Sarah, Emily, Toni, Nicola, Allie, Paul, and the rest I can't think of at the moment—You were all just too awesome for me. I still think about you guys and feel so much regret.

And those are names from only the past five years or so.

I'm not ready to be 28. I'm not ready to lose more people, more reasons to get through the day.

But, the times, they are becoming quite different. I think. I hope. I have Lucy now and even though we're in a bitch of a situation it's still more than I've had in years. I'm completely off my medications now and feeling good about it. I'm seeing a good therapist and (gasp!) I feel like we may be making progress, albeit very slowly. I'm looking at getting a teaching job. Visiting that show over the weekend has me wanting to be an artist again. And I have a secret book illustration project.

Will any of these pay off? I only more time will tell. More and more time—it's as if all I ever do is wait for things to happen. I wait and watch the wrinkles grow.

Hardbones

Everyone needs to go to Mary Milne's web site and listen to "Hardbones," because it's absolutely phenomenal.















Do it!

Coffee with a Former Professor

"Why did you go off your meds?!" She became very upset when I told her. Angry even.

Other than Lucy, therapist J, and this blog, she's the only one I've told about going off my meds.

But why did I go off my meds? It took me a moment to remember. Side effects. Lack of efficacy—I was still very miserable while on them. The recent acknowledgment that antidepressants aren't much better than placebo. Fear of a new doctor getting pissed at me for stretching out my remaining meds. I admitted that it was stupid but that I was doing it anyway. I suggested that my depression is situational and couldn't be medicated away.

By the end of the hour, when our meeting had to end because she had another appointment, I think she realized that I was going to be okay. I told her that I knew, that I could tell that I'm a bit moodier without the drugs—maybe just less flattened—but that I have Lucy to help me, to provide a more objective eye in case I slide into depression again.

She also shared her own experience with antidepressants. What she told me made me raise my eyebrows internally: She takes Prozac to "stay married." She "doesn't have anything" like depression, but she's taking drugs because she gets "bitchy" when she's off them—irritable and quick to anger with her husband, who does have depression. She didn't mention anything about therapy for herself.

The whole thing struck me as, I'm not sure how to put it... backwards? wrong?

I don't want to read into things too much—it's not like I have any idea at all what her life is like. But I found myself concerned with how her two young children were faring in this situation.

Therapy and Homework Assignments

I've been in and out of therapy for almost 9 years now. In all that time I've met more counselors and therapists than I can recall (though this is mostly because of all the different "groups" I've participated in while in school, which were largely a waste of time because every 8 or 9 weeks the current group would end with the school quarter only to start up a few weeks later with different facilitators and members—this made it near impossible for me to accomplish anything and it felt like all I ever did was start over and over and over).

I vaguely recall one therapist giving me homework to do, although I forget what he assigned me. I remember not being able to do it, not being able to make myself do it, and no one since has ever tried to have me do homework.

Except for my current guy.

Therapist J has been persistent about the assignments—it took us a while before we came upon something I could actually do, whether it was breathing exercises or writing things down—while also being careful not to force them upon me or judge me when I don't follow through. He's been good and hasn't judged me by how much I write down or how often I make the effort to write.

This is what he's been having me do:

(click to embiggen)

He gave me this list, a photocopied page from a book somewhere, of "thinking errors." J says they're more like "thinking styles," but I wonder if he's saying that to remove the explicit and harsh negative the word "error" brings—something that could make me feel extra guilty and ashamed for doing anything on the list. I appreciate that, but I think "style" maybe isn't too accurate either.

So I got myself a little blank sketchbook (which I got free from work because it was damaged product) and I write down a brief summary of something that's happened to me recently, the thinking style I used and how I used it. It's been a slow process, which is frustrating, and I don't feel I write enough or often enough (though J keeps telling me it's okay however much I write).

I'm still skeptical, but I'm trying my best. And that's progress, right?

Above Whelmed

I've been feeling beyond whelmed lately. "Overwhelmed," one might say.

In addition to the general stress and frustration in the situation with Lucy, I'm also still working in a job I loathe that barely covers my expenses... the expenses I'm paying, at least. I'm currently in default on my student loans.

I'm also stressed by the notion that I'm going to have to call home sometime very soon to ask about the fate of my insurance coverage. My therapist has been urging me to find a doctor and get a physical.

A former MFA adviser suggested I get an adjunct position teaching at a local university. I'm afraid, but it's something I want to do. I think. I've yet to make a move on it.

And, I'm working on an illustration project with someone who contacted me online, which is going slow and I'm frustrated by the process of everything and by my own work. The author isn't pushing me or anything, but I imagine it. With all my issues, I wonder if he'd be better off finding someone else.

Then I received a summons in the mail for jury duty. I'm thinking of postponing it, just so I don't have it weighing on me at the moment. This means talking to my bosses at work, which is scary to me. Authority scares me. And it's just a huge unknown. The unknown scares me.

There's also my homework assignments for therapy, which I feel I don't put enough effort into.

And I'm done with medications, period. I haven't had any amount of Effexor since Friday, which, since I've tapered myself so slowly, I'm only getting minor brain zaps from. It's still quite unsettling and I hope it doesn't get worse.

I feel frazzled, like I'm barely holding myself together here.

Leavin'

I've got big, big, BIG news! Lucy is leaving work! She hasn't put in her two weeks' notice yet (as far as I know),  but she's give the department managers (who have no control over hiring or payroll of any such thing) a heads up.

This is scary and exciting for both of us. She's scared of the lack of income and she's scared this might make it any easier to leave her husband, who is trying to convince her in to staying till the end of the school year. But she's happy that she's going to have more time for her grad school work—she's been stretched to the breaking point with work and reading and dealing with life and she hasn't had any time to make any actual artworks. The past few weeks have been awful for her and she's been so depressed she's even been talking, however obtusely, about killing herself.

I'm scared that this won't make it easier for her to leave her husband too and also that, well, I'm not going to get to see her or talk to her much at all after she leaves. The only reason I've been continuing to work in this awful, horrible job is that it's also the only place I've gotten to spend any time with her. Not ideal, but anything's better than nothing.

Along the same vein, I'm excited that things are changing at all. I'm excited that Lucy's finally taking some control over her life and not just rolling with the punches and finally finally finally doing something for herself! She has so many thoughts about what she'd like to do and things she wants for herself and her life and it kills me to see how afraid she is of doing anything to get them.

But I'm really scared of losing her. I'm scared of change. Once she leaves work I'll have no excuse not to be out and looking for different employment, which is one of my absolute least favorite things to do.

Excited and scared... I so wish this situation were over and done with. I so wish it could end with the two of us together.

A SAD Little Lamp

So a little bit ago I pulled out this "daylight" lamp I've had sitting in the corner gathering dust.

I don't know when it really started to hit me, but, yeah, I do get pretty depressed over the winter. Seasonal Affective Disorder. It was two winters ago when I was thinking about killing myself, I was so depressed. Back then I didn't have a job or you or anything to get me out or occupy my thoughts. The psychiatrist I was seeing at the time, the one at school, upped my Wellbutrin intake, which helped me get out of the worst parts of it.

I mentioned the SAD to my parents one year and, in an effort to help me, they mailed me this "daylight lamp" last year. It came from Big Lots (it said so on the box), and I don't think it was over $30. (It had the price on the box too, but I tossed it and now forget the exact figure.) I remember I smashed my thumb trying to put it together. It's so cheaply made, this metal plate in part of the stand ripped apart its welds as I tried to screw it together so that it'd stand upright and not at some wonky angle.

My parents mean well, but I don't know if this lamp is the kind that'll help. Firstly, there was no mention anywhere about how many lux the lamp is. Lux is some kind of measurement of how bright the light is... most places tell you you need a lamp that produces 10,000 lux for SAD treatment. For comparison, most lightbulbs only produce a few hundred lux. I've done a lot of research over the past few years... if I'm going to spend over $100 on a friggin' lamp, I want one that'll friggin' work.) The other part that bugged me that that there was no mention of UV filtering. I want the lamp to cheer me up, not turn my eye sockets into smoking craters!

But I'm sitting here with this light on anyways, because I'm feeling lonely and sad and it's dark out already. I don't know if I'm any less depressed, but I can certainly see better.

Thirdsies

So, a 75mg Effexor capsule doesn't cut into thirds very easily. There's just not enough of the gelatin capsule to go around. Oh well!

Caught Between a Marriage and a Hard Place...

Lucy has been in an awful state lately—very depressed, angry, miserable, and she's been having some suicidal ideation. Not good.

The weekend before this last one, she and her husband were able to have some reasoned discussion about the state of their marriage and, at the time, it seemed like he agreed with her that it's not working out and that it's time to end things.

Then he said he didn't care what happened and that the decision was entirely up to her.

Now he's been pressuring her to make a choice. First he insists that he doesn't care what the answer is but after she says she wants to end things he gets pissed. She's trapped.

I think Lucy knows that this isn't likely, but she doesn't want to cause a stir or a scandal. She wants the decision to be mutual. She's afraid of being the villain in all this, hated by her own family as well as her husband's.

She dreams of running away. Of quitting her job and leaving for another city. She always feels sick and she doesn't like eating.

I hate seeing her in this state. I so want to fix all her problems, sweep every obstacle aside, and grant her every desire. I know these things aren't possible. I know the most I can do is be here for her, support her, try and not get sucked into a bad mood with her.

But as frustrating as it is to see her suffer so much, I'm still absolutely crazy head-over-heels about her. I like her so much it hurts.

I'm really sappy, I know. I feel pretty pathetic writing about these things.

I Don't Like Weekends

Since my hours were trimmed back, about a month ago, to the 25ish I have currently, I've had a lot more free time. Except I have nothing to really to do in my free time.

Actually, it's worse than that—There are things I want to do and things I absolutely need to be doing, but in my time off I'm often listless and unmotivated. I get frustrated with myself and my tendency is to distract myself with the internet, with games, and with lots and lots of music.

But these just let me kill time and avoid my problems. Eventually I get bored with the internet (especially over the weekend when it seems most everyone else takes a break), I get frustrated with the computer game I'm playing, or the music playlist reaches the end and an intense silence fills my apartment. I don't have anyone I can talk to, I don't have any friends except for Lucy, but I can't talk to her or see her because of her husband. All I have to help myself manage the loneliness and despair is to distract myself some more.

Days like today make me feel like I'm going more than a little stir crazy.

I Don't Know You

...or at least I hope I don't. It's nothing personal.

What I mean is, I'm hoping I'm anonymous.

Not even Lucy knows about this site, although I'm often tempted to tell her. It's difficult to keep this a secret from her, since I tell her about everything else, but I think it would be better to keep this separated from my real life.

See, this is actually not my only web site and not my only blog. This is just my alter-ego, my secret identity. Hence the super-hero-esque blog name.

My other web site is the one that's the "real" me, the one that's under my real name. It's where I have my artworks posted, where I write about current art projects, thoughts about art, theory, exhibitions, and whatever really strikes my fancy. It also used to be where I wrote about my depression and anxiety. My artwork and my emotional, personal issues are intimately linked, so one inevitably leads to the other and, for a while, it was okay to use that space to write about myself in such detail, even thought I had very mixed feelings about writing under my own name.

One thing that irked me was that people I knew in real life, friends even, who also followed my web site never said anything, they never responded to any of the personal, emotional posts that I wrote. Even "good" friends that I'd known for years and years, they never said a word in response to anything personal. I'd make myself vulnerable and get nothing in return. They'd say "I read your web site," to me in person, but not a comment, not an email about anything that really mattered.

I don't know if they just didn't know how to respond, if they just didn't understand, or if they thought I was being stupid. (I doubt it's the latter, but my neuroticism keeps it on the edge of my mind.)

Then the worst happened: my mom started reading.

My relationship with my family is really strained. I don't talk to my parents very often at all, and when it is it's nothing of consequence. They certainly don't know any of the details of my situation, of my condition, and I don't believe they'd understand at all. Getting back on topic here, getting comments and emails from my mom on the personal and revealing posts I wrote felt violating. It felt like an assault, even though she meant nothing by it and, after all, I did write openly and under my own name.

The last straw was my MFA thesis exhibition, where my web site address was going to be printed on all the promotional postcards and emailed out over the school's mailing list. The amount of exposure my web site was going to get freaked me out. So I removed all the personal posts from my site (not that anyone seems to have noticed... not that anyone's told me if they noticed).

So now I'm the Anxious Avenger. It took me a while to start a new blog at all... making something of a brand new identity, setting up the space, and writing with almost no visitors are all taxing and frustrating for me, but I'm glad I'm doing it. I feel better now and I'm no longer afraid of sharing my web site with anyone because of what they could find out about me. And, in this space, I feel so much more comfortable to write more openly about myself. I feel less hindered. And, though I still have almost no visitors, I do have Susan visiting and commenting, which has given me so much extra confidence and motivation that I feel like I can keep going.

It still bugs me that Lucy doesn't know. Maybe some day...

PS— Now go visit Susan! Do it!

I have filters in place for precisely these kinds of emails...

And yet, I'm often strangely compelled to look at them. I get this kind of crap from my parents, most of it having to do with religion or god and, nowadays, politics. This one was sent to me by my mom. The line breaks are exactly how they were in the copy I received:

Subject: Profound thought

There was
a blind girl who hated herself because she was blind. She
hated everyone, except her loving boyfriend. He was always
there for her. She told her boyfriend, 'If I could only see
the world, I will marry you.'

One day,
someone donated a pair of eyes to her. When the bandages
came off, she was able to see everything, including her
boyfriend.

He asked
her,'Now that you can see the world, will you marry me?' The
girl looked at her boyfriend and saw that he was blind. The
sight of his closed eyelids shocked her. She hadn't expected
that. The thought of looking at them the rest of her life
led her to refuse to marry him.

Her
boyfriend left in tea
rs and days later wrote a note to her
saying: 'Take good care of your eyes, my dear, for before
they were yours, they were mine.'

What a shallow, selfish bitch! Firstly, what's with the arbitrary conditional, "I'll marry you if I can see"? And the boyfriend "donated" his own eyes? Both of these hypothetical people need intensive therapy.

This must be what abstaining from sex before marriage does to people. Trading your eyes for sex, if that isn't true love...

But there's more!

This is
how the human brain often works when our status changes.
Only a very few remember what life was like before, and who
was always by their side in the most painful situations.

Life Is a
Gift

Today
before you say an unkind word - Think of someone who can't
speak.

Before
you complain about the taste of your food - Think of someone
who has nothing to eat.

Before
you complain about your husband or wife - Think of someone
who's crying out to GOD for a companion.

Today
before you complain about life - Think of someone who went
too early to heaven.

Before
whining about the distance you drive Think of someone who
walks the same distance with their feet.

And when
you are tired and complain about your job - Think of the
unemployed, the disabled, and those who wish they had your
job.

And when
depressing thoughts seem to get you down - Put a smile on
your face and think: you're alive and still
around.

So the real lesson of the boyfriend who gave his eyes away to his shallow sightless girlfriend is that there's always someone out there worse off than you? I'm lost.

No, the real message is one of invalidation and dismissal: Don't complain and don't bitch, because you're actually really lucky, you just don't know it. Want to leave your physically abusive husband? Don't! There are people out there who are lonely! Are you depressed and want to kill yourself? Well cut it out! Babies are being aborted as we speak! Do you hate your job? Don't get another one, just shut your trap and smile!

This tripe makes me so angry.