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Signed With A Capital D
Jun. 15th, 2009 06:26 pmSo my thirty-ninth birthday was pretty good, as birthdays go. While I was hemmed in by the usual Sunday obligations of breakfast, Mass and dinner, I also had time to take the bus down to the High Museum to see the Monet exhibit (not a terribly extensive collection, but, dude, Monet.) I soaked up some art and just went ahead and napped and read at my parents' house so I'd be right on time for dinner. Filet mignon, baked potato and a nice Australian shiraz. And chocolate cake with butter icing. I got some booze and technology as my presents.
But that's not really what I came here to talk to you about. I was up early enough that particular day to crank out my Morning Pages and as I scribbled and pondered I finally admitted something to myself that I've been dodging around for weeks.
The black eyed dog, he called at my door
The black eyed dog, he called for more
The black eyed dog, he knew my name
The black eyed dog . . .
Yep, depression with a capital fucking D is back on my doorstep. The symptoms are unmistakable--chronic insomnia, the nameless ache in the chest and an overwhelming urge to numb myself. And this, in a strange sort of way, is good news.
I haven't spoken much about it, simply because I insisted on Not Wanting To Be A Burden On Anybody. (This, funnily enough, may well be a symptom in and of itself.) Finally acknowledging that The Big D is back for another round makes it easier to cope with. Now that I'm aware that the sense of despair has nothing to do with circumstance, nothing to do with what I have or haven't done and everything to do with skewed brain chemistry, I can solve the problem from a different angle than trying to talk myself out of it or convince myself that everything will be better once I have a job and stuff. I'm dealing with a physical problem, which requires physical solutions on top of the mental ones.
I'm not eager to resume medication. I think I need to focus on my usual home remedies before resorting to hassling with prescriptions. Fortunately, unemployment provides me the latitude to adjust things as necessary more easily, and finding a job should be a sufficient jolt of novelty to get me the rest of the way out.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go out for a walk.
Today I took pleasure in leftover french fries. No, really. Salt, pepper and cheese plus 400 degrees and leftover fries can be made into a yummy lunch.
Today I learned that OpenOffice should not be trusted when one pushes the limits of the laptop battery.
But that's not really what I came here to talk to you about. I was up early enough that particular day to crank out my Morning Pages and as I scribbled and pondered I finally admitted something to myself that I've been dodging around for weeks.
The black eyed dog, he called at my door
The black eyed dog, he called for more
The black eyed dog, he knew my name
The black eyed dog . . .
Yep, depression with a capital fucking D is back on my doorstep. The symptoms are unmistakable--chronic insomnia, the nameless ache in the chest and an overwhelming urge to numb myself. And this, in a strange sort of way, is good news.
I haven't spoken much about it, simply because I insisted on Not Wanting To Be A Burden On Anybody. (This, funnily enough, may well be a symptom in and of itself.) Finally acknowledging that The Big D is back for another round makes it easier to cope with. Now that I'm aware that the sense of despair has nothing to do with circumstance, nothing to do with what I have or haven't done and everything to do with skewed brain chemistry, I can solve the problem from a different angle than trying to talk myself out of it or convince myself that everything will be better once I have a job and stuff. I'm dealing with a physical problem, which requires physical solutions on top of the mental ones.
I'm not eager to resume medication. I think I need to focus on my usual home remedies before resorting to hassling with prescriptions. Fortunately, unemployment provides me the latitude to adjust things as necessary more easily, and finding a job should be a sufficient jolt of novelty to get me the rest of the way out.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go out for a walk.
Today I took pleasure in leftover french fries. No, really. Salt, pepper and cheese plus 400 degrees and leftover fries can be made into a yummy lunch.
Today I learned that OpenOffice should not be trusted when one pushes the limits of the laptop battery.
