On the Twelth Day Since Posting

It's been -- What? -- 12 days since my last post. Since the day I was pretty damned crippled by the problems in my head chemistry.

I have been to see the brain doctor in that time. I saw him on the Monday following. I like the brain doctor I see, but he's semi-retired so he's on vacation for about a week each month and sometimes that makes it really hard to contact him. He started me on a new medication. That means I get to feel awful while taking small doses of a new drug to work it into my system while lowering the old drug and experiencing the withdrawal symptoms that come along while also keeping all the side effect I had before. Joy.

Still, I am here, despite the imaginations in my head. That counts for something, right? It's been tough, though and that one, stupid, unanswerable question (Why?) just keeps flowing through my head. Like a little kid who doesn't really care about the answer, but just wants to push you to your breaking point where you turn away and the little kid "wins."

I've been reading one website a lot recently. It's basically people writing about their experiences or desires or thoughts with the end. Many people express their appreciation for group of people who "understand." I'm just humbled with the realization of how not special I am. I am neither the oldest nor the youngest visiting the site, either. That surprised me. I expected to be the oldest. I do not post but the vast majority of the people who post are younger.

For the most part, the posters are all of that age when everything is so serious. Where nothing can be taken at face value, but is scrutinized so much that even a physical object sitting on the palm of a hand becomes nothingness. So scared. So ugly. So fat. So lonely. No understanding. No one. No love. No reciprocity. These are brought up over and over again. Things that are so subjective that even the person who writes them can't properly explain them. (Even the fat one because she posted that she's a disgusting size 12. What does that even mean to me without height and weight and a million other little details?) I read the post and wonder if there is a change that could be made that would make them better?

In some ways, the comments are even worse. Too many of the comments starts with the commenter saying that he or she has no right saying this but... How seriously can one be taken if a few days ago he or she was eagerly waiting to swallow a bottle of pills with a vodka chaser and then tells someone else to wait one more day or focus on the good? I don't know. Those aren't the only comments. Sometimes people say they understand. Sometimes the commenter had a friend or family member end it all. Sometimes it's about missing the poster. Sometimes there's nothing at all.

The weirdest (worst?) part is that I'm jealous of a lot of the kids that are posting. I know that being in the moment is hard and crushing, but most of them will grow out of the darkness as hormones settle and growth stops and they become more comfortable and happy with the person they are rather than believing that there's something that they should be. And then they'll move on. I'm not saying all of them will change and grow out of the depression, but most will. I'm pretty sure about that because everyone I knew growing up had dark times between the ages of 10 and 21. Most of them grew out of the extended periods of horribleness and settled into mostly fine with periods of dank and periods of great.

I didn't grow out of it.

I don't know if I'm mentioned this anywhere except to my brain doctor, but I was 11 when I first seriously considered... First came up with a plan. I was involved with a whole never ending/no escape thing that I had no control over and I just kept burying myself deeper within myself. I can't say if I really might have tried anything, but I kept thinking about my best friend when I was little and how the first time my parents met his mother she told them about how his sister had cut herself; not in that I-want-to-feel-physical-pain-I-controll-rather-than-mental-pain-I-can't-across-the-street sort of cutting, but the seriously-I-don't-want-to-be-around-anymore-down-the-block sort of cutting. Afterward, my parents' took me aside and talked to me about it. I'm sure I didn't understand everything, but I knew that it scared my parents and that it wasn't something that I should ever do.

For a long time, especially in the really deep dark times, that was the thought I hung on to, how much it would upset my parents. It was the reason I would occasionally lose my belt and sit in the closet rather than, say, go to the kitchen which is where my brain wanted me to go. A long time. Really up until about 14 months ago. Losing that barrier was one of the reasons I went to see this current brain doctor because without that barrier I don't know. I don't know.

I should know, shouldn't I?

Shit or get off the pot, right? But what if you didn't want to be on or near the pot in the first place? What if you had no choice in the matter?

***********************

I've been staring at that last question mark for a couple of minutes. It isn't the last thing I wanted to write, but it's the logical place to end.

If I weren't so tired I would have tried to wrap around to something more positive. Something that wouldn't leave a family member with an ache in his or her stomach and a lump in his or her throat.

This is the best that I can do and hopefully it's a much less heart exploding finish because this post wasn't meant to horrify, but to explain and to get a thought or two out of my head so I can obsess over other thoughts.

This Day

Got to the house yesterday a little before 4:30PM. Sat on the bed while I was changing clothes. Next thing I know it's after nine. I opened up the house, turned on the fan, took my meds, and then went back to bed. Other than a brief trip to the bathroom sometime after midnight I didn't wake up until my alarm went off at 6:30. Since I've spent the whole week at work forcing myself to not hide under my desk all day I've decided to not go to work today and fall asleep in front of the TV.

I did call the brain doctor yesterday. Unfortunately I think he's on vacation this week. Maybe next week.

Post Title

I am not feeling right.
I haven't been feeling right for nearly two weeks.
I missed a day with my brother and his family because of this.
I think I should set up an appointment with the brain doctor, but I'm afraid that he will change my medication which will force me to see him once a week and will also make me miss visiting my brother and his family near the end of September.
The trip is an hour or more, depending on traffic, each way and is about 100 miles there and back again.
Add to that an hour, about, of me trying to find new ways to say the same things I've been saying for the past eight months.
I wish there were a brain doctor with 20 miles who took my insurance.

I've been screwing up at work.
Not big things, but minor ones that may one day add up.
Mostly I transpose numbers and write things like 286 rather than 268.
Once, that I know of, I forgot to change/correct a phone number and left it alone when I realized my mistake.
Piles are growing on my desk.
They are sort of organized piles, but they look awful.



I think I scare my dad.
He seems more off-put by me than he used to be.
While he was here, my brother spent time explaining what depression is like to my dad.
My dad has a very hard time understanding what something is like unless he's experienced it and he hasn't experienced anything like this.

My mom says she's had bouts of depression, but she had kids, a family, and couldn't give in.
The thing is when she was my age, I was 16.
My brothers weren't much younger.
I don't know, but I don't think that she had extended periods lasting weeks, months, years.

Recently, I've read a lot about how depression needs to be talked about more.
So people understand it better.
That way it won't have as much of a stigma.
I'm not sure, though.

The whole Robin Williams thing has brought depression/suicidal ideation more to the public discussion, but how long will that last?
Especially when people keep on believing that someone like Mr. Williams had nothing to be depressed about, let alone kill himself.
Thinking like that makes it very hard to discuss either.

By that thinking, I have nothing to be depressed about.
I'm the privileged, white male 25- to 39-years old.
I grew up in a safe place and live in a safe place.
I have two parents who, although there were some severe bumps, have stayed fairly happily married.
I work in a job that I don't hate for a boss that I like and respect.
I make enough money that I'm not living pay check to pay check and can spend a little extra on a trip or useless pop-culture things without having to worry.
I'm content being by myself because I rarely feel lonely.
I have a car that runs and more than enough to eat.
Yet I know how Mr. Williams felt and understand why.

I read a post by some British guy that pointed out how silly it is to ask what Mr. Williams had to be depressed about.
If he were hit by a car would you ask what he did to get hit by a car?
If he died of cancer would you ask what he ate to get cancer?
Probably not.

Even worse has been reading about how Mr. Williams was selfish or a coward or an attention seeker.
We don't really think in those terms.
Selfish implies that something is taken from the people remaining so that the person leaving can gain.
There is unlikely anything to be gained; most of the people who claim to know what happens next believe the Mr. Williams will be punished while those who don't believe expect there to be nothing.
The attention seeker thing comes from people who are always surprised that a person could do this.
These people who are surprised by suicide will be shocked no matter how the act is done -- even when done quietly and privately like Mr. Williams -- because they cannot, or refuse to, believe that a person can give up on the ultimate gift.
Life.
As for the coward, that's much harder.
If you believe, as I do, that bravery is doing what you are scared to do, then maybe they are cowards.
The problem is that we can't know what is/was in a person's head.
We can't.
Can any of us say that to live with chronic pain is brave?
Maybe it's not fair to compare depression with chronic pain.
I don't have chronic pain, but major (clinical) depression doesn't go away.
If you're lucky, sometimes it's less worse, but it's never great and there are no cortisone or steroid shots for depression.

What you choose to do about depression is a choice.
Mr. Williams choose to get help, go to rehab, talk with his family, and then choose to never talk again.
Some people choose to focus on waking up tomorrow and then waking up the next tomorrow and the next.
I choose to believe that there are a few people I would hurt and choose not to hurt them.
I choose to get up and go to work even though I wake up every morning and I don't want to go to work or even climb out of bed.
I choose to hold to the few commitments I have in the future.

After that

Just Within Reason

"Oh, if life were made of moments,
Even now and then a bad one--!
But if life were only moments,
Then you'd never know you had one."

On Tuesday I woke up thinking that it was Wednesday and when I looked at the date and saw it was really Tuesday a string of obscenities came out of my mouth.

Wednesday I woke up just wanting to get out. Get out of here, my insides screamed. It didn't matter where I went just as long as I went and never came back. The feeling has lingered all week long.

It's more than just a feeling in my head; it's a physical feeling. My whole body feels tense, like I'm prepared to run as fast as I can for as long as I can (not very long) to get away from something. I don't know what I want to run from, though. There's nothing there. Nothing's changed.

Still, I feel like I should stand up, walk out of here without saying a word to anyone, head to my car, and just drive.

Drive where?

South. Down the desolate valley and over the mountains. Along the coast through cities too crowded for me to stop. All the way to where the sun is, more or less, always overhead.

North. Up the desolate valley and over the mountains and then through another desolate valley feeling the temperature drop as the latitude gets larger and larger, but also smaller and smaller. Where there's a nip in the air all year round.

East. Over the mountains and across the desert. Through the salty flats. Over more mountains and into the plains -- the alley -- to watch how nature whirls.

West. Quickly across valley and onto the coast. Aboard a plane high above the ocean. To an island and then onto a ship or boat to an even smaller island.

Anywhere I can disappear.

The problem is that, in my head, I can't see anything after I disappear. As if me wandering off will just shut me down and there will be a completely new -- completely separate -- being inhabiting my body and I, if I exist at all, am not aware of anything.

That's not how it works, though. I would get somewhere and still have to think and reason so that I could decide and each decision will inevitably lead to another and then another without stopping. How is that better than right now?

Still, I can picture myself: sitting on a beach, skin redder than a beet; on a street corner dazzled by the age of the buildings; standing half in the shadow of a mountain, half freezing; dazzled at the abundance of life.

"But how can you know what you want
Till you get what you want
And you see if you like it?
All I know is-
What I want most of all-
Is to know what I want."

Adjective Verb Noun

For barbecue ribs you barbecue ribs on a barbecue.

When I Grow Up

I went to the brain doctor on Monday without any good news and the bad news was old news.

After a year of seeing him I've finally made him understand that more people in my life isn't the way to increase my happiness for the long term. In short visits I can, and often do, feel better spending time with people I know well and like and trust. Once those visits hit a certain point, I start getting uncomfortable and feeling icky. Long term is never good.

The thing is, he said, that for people with my level of depression having them go out with people and visiting friends and family all the time would be his first suggestion. For most people it works and he's pretty much been pushing this idea on me for a year. Monday, he didn't.

Instead of focusing on a social life he switched gears to my work life. It started with how I feel about my current job, which is okay. I don't LOVE or really like my job, but I don't dislike or HATE it, either. It just is. The people are nice enough and seem to be here more to work than make others look like fools. My boss is great and trusts me. The actual work is mostly mind-numbing and repetitive, but sometimes there're things that require real brain power. The pay's okay. It's not going to buy me the house and land I'd like, but I can rent comfortably and not worry about shopping or going to plays or visiting people to the North or to the South. It's not a bad job, but if offered full pay I'd rather not come each day.

He then asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up and the honest answer I gave him is I don't know. Everything I've said in the past -- engineer, lawyer, writer, WWE Superstar, astronaut-fireman-president, etc. -- aren't wrong answers, but they were answers to get people to stop asking me about the future. I told him that there isn't one job I can think of that I wouldn't be happy to retire from or forced to stop doing because of some horrible physical problem. I look at my parents as they approach retirement and I can see them missing things.

My dad loves working with the students at the community college. He loves helping them put together an education plan to help guide them through their years at the school. I think he'll be glad to leave the daily grind of his job when he retires, but I think he'll miss the students. I've told him that he's going to go back and help out a few times a year and it won't be about the money, but the time he gets to spend helping people.

My mom, on the other hand, won't miss her job at all. She won't miss the kids or the teachers or the administration. When she retires she plans on doing her art and selling it and her art is the thing she will miss if she can't do it. Hell, I've seen it for years. Because of the high stress levels at school she doesn't art off and it makes her sad. On those few weekends when she does art off she's rejuvenated, at least in the moment. When she gets to the point that she can art off most of the week and then she gets to a point where she can't art off anymore she'll be crushed.

I don't have anything like that. Yeah, if I have my eyes pecked out by a canary I'll miss reading, but there are still books and tapes (anachronistic) and television to listen to for stories.

What do I like doing besides read? he asked. I like to cook and bake, I said. So the brain doctor tried to come up with something I could do in that area, as if I hadn't thought about it before. I'd go nuts working a line, just flipping burgers or putting on the condiments or taking orders. So many people to deal with. At my own place it would be even harder because I'd have to depend on and trust other people. There's no way I could do everything. If I wanted to be in the back and never come out then I'd need people to wait and take orders and handle the cash and do the books and I don't have it in me to trust **anyone** that much. The only way I could see me being happy is if I had a window and I could make whatever I wanted to make and sell it and when the food is gone it's gone, too bad for the next person.

He suggested getting into publishing. To which I replied that I'd have to move to a big city, a place I don't want to be, and start at the bottom and push to make quotas and harass people who are running late. Then he tried to suggest doing something with publishing online and I explained that most online publishing are vanity presses and not real publishers.

He then asked what I'd really like to do. I said I'd like to be paid to lay on a couch all day reading. I'd like to be an eccentric billionaire, I said. He asked if that would make me happy and I said that I don't know, but I'd feel safe. We bounced around on this for a while, discussing things that I like to do and how to feel safe in my life. Nothing was resolved. And in the end he told me to keep thinking about what I like to do so that I can find a job that will make me happy. I said okay, but I don't believe anything'll happen.

Summer Storm

I love thunderstorms in California during the summer. The temperature always drops because the air is so dry and the smell of petrichor is strong in the air for a long time.

YOLO?

If I were to die tonight I'd die with
no regrets. There's plenty that's not yet done
and I know that I will not do a fifth
of what's half planned. For what is not begun
can only be missed through dreams in the day.
The meaning of dreams comes from the meaning
we give. What we think is told, dreams don't say.
All dreams do is a little brain cleaning.
Each day I re-decide that what I did
or did not do was what I required.
Why regret the outcome? Heaven forbid
I work through what may be undesired.
Still, while I'm young I keep regretting it
and must wait for age to be forgetting it.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I went to the theater last night and saw the Broadway version of Mary Poppins.

It was different from the movie in many ways. The best difference was not making Winifred a suffragette. When I was little I didn't know what a suffragette was. All I knew was that Sister suffragette was a fun song to sing along and was funny. As I grew and learned about the suffrage movement in Britain and what so many of the women went through the song stayed funny, but the way Winifred just turned her back on the movement because her husband suddenly realized how important his family is never sat right with me. Sometimes it really bothers me. Especially when I learned it wasn't in the books.

The reason that the suffragette stuff was added was, probably, to allow American audiences be okay with the family having a nanny. Nannies haven't ever been a common thing in the US, especially among the middle class, even the upper-middle class, but in England nannies were used by anyone who could afford one. If Mrs. Banks hadn't had an obsession that kept her out of the house all day American audience would have been left wondering why the family needed a nanny when they already had a cook and a housekeeper. Why couldn't Winifred take care of her own children?

*** Culture clash! FIGHT! ***

So, the suffragette thing was cut, thankfully. Mr. Banks pretty much declares that having a nanny is a status symbol. A way to free up his wife's time and allow her to throw parties for the "right" people. By putting this in there it shows where the older Banks's priorities lie and allow Jane and Michael a visible reason for their anger and resentment toward their nannies. They see their mother at home all day, but she doesn't spend time with them. At the same time she's conflicted because she wants to spend time with them, but she also wants to please her husband and help him in any way she can.

Other changes I liked:

The games Mary Poppins played with the kids, like Walk-in-the-Park. Walk-in-the-Park is exactly what it sounds like, Mary Poppins and the children go for a walk in the park. Michael complains because a walk in the park is not a game, at which point things begin to change, including a statue. Out comes Mary Poppins and Burt dressed up finely and they sing Jolly Holiday, with adjusted lyrics. Other games involve cleaning up the kitchen, and visiting the bank. Of course none of them are as straight forward as they seem.

I enjoyed the new supercalifragilisticexpialidocious scene and most of the changes to the song. The scene takes place in a shop where you can buy conversation. Mary Poppins only wanted an ounce, but ended up having to buy letters to find the conversation.

Changes I didn't so much care for:

"Chim Chim Cher-ee" is used a lot to transition scenes, but the new reprises seemed off. The meter didn't seem to fit properly. Maybe it was the guy playing Burt. I'm not sure. It's especially disheartening because I always wanted Burt doing more chim chim cher-ee-ing in the movie.

They cut out Mr. Banks's first song where he talks about how perfect and disciplined his life is. Yes, it was replaced with a song with a similar theme, but the new song doesn't have the same joy as the old song. In the old song you could hear how much Mr. Banks likes his life. How much he revels in the "order" he's achieved. The new song is somber and it sounds like Mr. Banks doesn't actually believe what he's singing, he just thinks it's how he should act.

The song in the bank was cut out, too. To be fair, it wouldn't have made sense anymore and I do like the bank stuff in the play, but the original bank song is so much fun and who doesn't get creeped out as the old men slowly circle Jane and Michael and then get closer and closer to the children before stealing Michael’s money. It's a spectacular scene and song in the movie that has no place in the play, but was sorely missed by me.

Other things:

"Step in Time" is just as pointless in the play as it is in the movie. Sure they add some lyrics to try to make it seem like there's a message, but, like the movie, it's all about the dancing. The dancing is good in both, but it doesn't do anything for the story or for the characters. Well, maybe Mary Poppins and her need to be the best with her magical spinning, but that's it.

I've never been so touched by "Feed the Birds" as I was last night when I heard it sung live. The song was sung by the bird lady and Mary Poppins. The bird lady sung her request for money and Mary Poppins filled in the story. It was lovely and I ached a bit, in a good way, when I heard it. Quite lovely.

The songs from the move were simply better than the new songs. They're just catchier, easier for normal folks to learn and sing. The new songs just aren't. However, the new songs do drive the story and characters better than the old songs.

There's an anti-Mary Poppins. She's outrageous and her song is very funny. I wish she'd been around longer, but the battle between her and Mary Poppins was great.

What I hated:

Burt sang "Let's Go Fly a Kite" to try to cheer up the kids and taught them to fly a kite rather than being Mr. Banks's demonstration of love for his children. In the movie it was the final song, the culmination of everything Mary Poppins was teaching the whole family. Instead the last song is about reaching beyond what you desire so you get your desire and more. It's a good message song, but it isn't strong for the characters. After that song the plot gets tied up as you'd expect and the cast does a reprise of "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." The ending felt weak, to me. There's the promise that Mr. Banks will spend more time with his family and everything will be happy ever after, but this ending doesn't show the happiness. They really should have kept "Let's Go Fly a Kite" as the closing number.

Despite the weak ending, I enjoyed the play. I'd see it again, but it'll never be able to replace the movie.

There and Back Again

My accidental experiment with the generic version of my medication was a failure. But a relatively cheap failure.

Twice I have ordered 90-day supplies of the meds. Twice I have shelled out more than $400 dollars because I nearly did the s-word on the generics. The name brand didn't work as well at it should have, though. When I found myself thinking a lot about the s-word and had to remind myself not to do or to do certain things because of the s-word, I went, right away, to the brain doctor to talk about it. His decision was to supplement my medication.

This new medication is also a brand name. Unfortunately, the new med is causing some problems. Not with my brain setting, not that I've noticed, at least. In fact, it's helped me feel better. The problem is that even though this medication has been shown to help people who are depressed, the FDA hasn't classified it (or has refused to) for use with major depression. Therefore, my insurance won't cover any part of the cost.

Oh, sure, the first bottle was free because the brain doctor gave me a coupon and I can cut the pills into thirds because he prescribed the big ones, but how much will the next one cost? I'm afraid to find out, even though I have to. I'm betting it'll be at least $500 for the 30 pills that I cut into thirds. That about $1000 every three months. $4000 a year. About 15% of my current net pay. So much for putting anything extra aside for retirement!

I'm sure that some people are saying that I should just stick with the generics. The thing is that I'm taking something that currently works for a problem that is unlikely to go away. This isn't strep throat or pink-eye where you get the medication, take it for however long to make the problem go away. This is a problem that's there all the time and the medication helps to mitigate what's happening. If it takes the full dose to make things better, it takes the full dose every day. Generic medications only have to be within (plus or minus) 20% of the original brand. (Look up bioequivalence.) That means, on the low end you're losing a fifth of the medication. (Sure, it's possible to get above the mark, but isn't it usually cheaper to have more filler than the actual stuff?)

Losing the potency is more or less okay for something like antibiotics because that's usually built into the prescription, even if the doctor doesn't actually think about it. That's why you're supposed to finish your damn antibiotics. You take them until the infection is gone and then take some more to make sure the infection is actually gone.

If you get on the low end of the spectrum with generic pain pills and they're not working for you, you can probably ask for something stronger and your doctor will probably give it to you. (What do you mean there's prescription pain medication abuse?)

With anti-depressants, though, you’re taking them to help regulate your mood. If you need the full dose and you’re not getting it, you change. You sink back into that pit; creep back into the shadow; curl up into a quivering ball.

At the time I accidently went on the generics I was getting my meds at the local pharmacy every thirty days. It cost a bit more, but it felt like I had some control. By the end of those thirty days, I wasn't the person I had been at the beginning. Even my family saw how much I had changed, how hopeless I had become.

I did get back to the name brand stuff and I did start to feel better, but because I had been on a dose that didn't help me much, I had started to build a tolerance to the active parts. I may have felt better, but I didn't feel good and I knew I was never going to reach where I had been before the generics.

Even with the supplimental meds, I still don't feel as well as I did way back when.

Sometimes I'm not sure it's worth trying to get there again.

In Social Situations:

When I am by myself, I pretty much know how I am going to react to anything.

When I'm with one or two people I know fairly well, I can make strong assumptions about how they are going to act and react.

If those one or two people are people I don't know well, I can't really know how they are going to react. I can make guesses based on my lifetime of general human behavior, but individuals often go outside of general behavior. Here is where I start getting uncomfortable.

The more people there are, the harder it is for me to figure out exactly what sort of reaction they will have, in part because I can't know everyone very well and in part because people in large groups don't always react the same as they would by themselves or in a smaller group. I start getting nervous and feeling very uncomfortable at this point because there is no way for me to predict anything. I might be able to make educated guesses based on the situation, but people at a movie theater usually stay in their seats for the entire movie, people at a fair or a party are pretty much allowed to do as they please.

Similarly, I rarely feel alone when I'm by myself. I'm there and I communicate with myself fairly well and I don't ever have to try and interpret nonverbal cues.

With one or two people who I know I also rarely feel alone. These are people who I've been around enough that I understand most of their nonverbal cues, often instinctually, and since I'm not uncomfortable around them I'm also a talker and will ask if I'm confused.

When those two people are people I don't know I sometimes feel alone. I don't talk much around people I don't know. I often can't force my voice out of my throat. I'll just stand there. If there's no talking I have to try to make an educated guess at their nonverbal cues. Sure, I've got the smile and frown thing down and I'm okay with detecting how those expressions change when the eyebrows are up or down or furrowed, but what about the one hand in the pocket and the other across the stomach? What does that mean?

Add more and more people and the noises and the motions increase and start getting muddled together. The person behind me telling and laughing at a racist joke doesn't match the person hunched over with arms across their chest in front of me doesn't match slowly getting louder argument to the left doesn't match the person strutting across my line of sight doesn't match a million other things going on in the room. Here is where I start to feel alone and lonely, surrounded by all these people.

Worse is when I see a group of two or three talking and laughing, enjoying themselves. Here is where the loneliness becomes a stomach pang as well as emotionally crippling. It hurts because that's my comfort zone I see, but I don't have it and can't have it because I'm either there by myself or I the people I came with have scattered because they are fine in a crowd and hovering on the outside of their conversations is just as lonely as if they weren't there to begin with.

Those times I am out with one or two people I know and we stick together, I don't get lonely. I suppose it's because I have what I need a unit I basically understand.

Understanding Love, 3

The brain doctor told me that friends weren't the people whom we wanted to unload all of our problems on. Friends, he said, are the people whom we just want to spend time with. Time going over the bullshit of the day. Time watching TV that you both enjoy. Time trying to make each other laugh. Sometimes, he said, you do unload your problems on them, but that it was their choice to offer to listen and stay because they also want to spend time with you. In the end, though, friends are about shedding off any outside crap and enjoying the time.

You were probably the best best friend I ever had.

For four years we were nearly inseparable. Where you went, I followed. Where I went, you followed. Any new people came into our lives and the decision to keep them was a mutual one. You not only had a license, but a car and were willing to pick me, and my brothers, up for school every single morning. We both liked cartoons well past the age we were supposed to. You had a biting, sometimes cruel, wit that always made me laugh. And for some reason, you liked me, too. (As I've gotten older, it's been getting harder for me to understand why you, or anyone else, like/d me. That's probably a mix of my no-self-esteem and depression, though.)

I had known you for a long time before I knew you were my best friend. About half of our lives. And during that time, we were friendly, but I'm sure if we were exactly "friends." During our time it was still considered wrong, or at least questionable, for a boy and girl of seven to be friends. Sure, we could all play tag in a huge group, but for me to encourage you to play Cat's Cradle and you to get me to play basketball, that was a rarity. So you mostly hung out with the girls in our grade and I mostly hung out with my one real friend, my best friend, at the time.

I've written about us before.

My favorite story of us as little kids is still you selling me curse words for fruit snacks. It's the best price I've ever paid for anything because I still smile when I think of that day.

Did you know that because we were together so much and got along so well that just about everyone we went to school with thought that we were dating? Did you know that our parents, or at least our mothers, expected that we would eventually marry? Or at least get close to marriage?

I certainly didn't, at the time. Hell, I didn't know until I was specifically asked if we were married, yet. It was a bit of a shock.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't fantasized about my female friends. Can't be helped. I didn't fantasize about you, though. I've known you since we were seven. You were the sister I never had and better than any sister that I might have had. Also, by the time we were basically inseparable I knew you too well. I knew your quirks and crazies, you buttons and issues. I knew you and in knowing you I learned that there are things you can say, thing you can do, with friends that don't fly when you're also intimate with that person.

With you, though, as a friend anything went. That whole discussion we had, on the bus with one third of our classmates, about turning human breast milk into cheese and then selling it as an aphrodisiac? All the places sand gets and the problems that come with it? How the attack on the Death Star in the original Star Wars is all about sex? ("We're too close." "Stay on target!" "Loosen up!") There aren't that many people out there who would have let me just go off on those topis, let alone joined in.

So, what happened? Just saying college happened or growing up happened isn't really enough for me. Not enough at all.

During our senior year of high school you started pulling away, some. There were two others, girls, who you seemed to enjoy spending more time with than me. I understood because most people aren't like me and only want/need one or two really close friends; most people want more. I missed you, but I knew that your time was your time, not my time and not our time. But sometimes the relationship you had with those two seemed less and less like a friendship and more and more like a relationship. The three of you had these weird jealousies and reactions. And then the way it all ended with the three of you hating each other, that was just strange.

I did ask one of the two, the one I was closer to, what happened and I asked you, too. Neither of you wanted to tell me. You just got angry and she always told me to ask you. Mutual friends hinted around that there was a sexual relationship between the three of you. I don't know and probably never will. Still, if it wasn't sexual it was extremely intimate.

Anyway, exactly what the three of you meant to each other isn't the point. The point is that this was when things changed between us. Then college happened and you were in the north and I went south and you learned the joys of becoming a fag hag and I became more and more isolated. I started to get left out of gatherings when people were back from school because I didn't want to drink alcohol and you and they did. Did I make you feel self-conscience? I didn't judge you or them, it simply wasn't something that I wanted to do. As time went on you stopped coming back from school and if you did it was just for two days and we didn't always get to visit. I kept sending you e-mails, but you didn't always reply and I wrote you less and less.

After years and years of not hearing from you, not seeing you, you friended me on Facebook and I saw that you were engaged. I e-mailed you and your wedding was that weekend. Of course I had to be there even though I hadn't heard from you for years and didn't know the guy.

Your wedding day was the last time that I remember seeing you. That day I was horribly uncomfortable surrounded by people I hardly or didn't know, but for the ten minutes that we had to ourselves was like nothing had ever changed between us. Just the smooth flow of conversation.

That was the last time we spoke. I don't even think we've exchanged e-mails. I quit Facebook after that and since your account is only viewable to friends I can't see it. I don't, and probably never will, know you husband. I haven't seen the photo's of your children. Are they boys? Girls? One of each? Are you still a nurse? In the ER still, or have you moved to something less stressful? Are you still obsessed with fantasy books? Do you have plans to introduce you kids to Pinky and the Brain?

I miss you. I miss having a friend like you. The way I am nothing is going to change between us. I wish you and your family happiness.

Things Change

I could say, or write, that it'll get better, that everything gets better, but I can't because I don't like to lie.

It doesn't always get better.

I'm sorry to tell you that.

Sure, the president and hundreds of other people have posted videos and written article and blog posts telling you that it will get better. I don't think that they're lying. I think they're telling their truth.

Their truth is not everyone's truth.

And the truth is that things don't always get better, but things change. School ends. You have more choices. But with more choices come the consequences of those choices. Sometimes good and sometimes not so good.

It's the choices that lead to getting better and a willingness to accept any consequences that may come.

Something like this isn't easy to write. I want to be honest, but also want to give hope. How can I give hope when I know that things don't alway get better? That's not a hopeful statement.

My life isn't a horrible one, but it's also not much of a life. I don't really have any friends and the few that I sort of have live hours away. I have no goal. No hobbies. I don't read nearly as much as I used to or would like to. I do see live plays and concerts more, but that's because I make more money than I ever have and can afford to do so. I don't know anyone or speak to anyone on that shallowly deep (or maybe deeply shallow) level about the crap that we both enjoy.

My life isn't horrible. I'm fat, but not in physical pain. I make enough money that I can just buy stuff that I want. I can afford short to middling trips to visit people I know or catch a show in a big city. My job is secure. I have a decent boss. I don't have a roommate. It's not horrible, but it's not much.

I made decisions that I can see so clearly that have led me to where I am, but I can't see how doing something different would have made this life better. I can only see different. Those difference that I see aren't all that different what what I'm living right now. Hell, if I knew then what I know now, I probably would have ended up where I am even sooner.

Choices and consequences are what our lives are made up of. One leads to the other which leads to another set of the one. Things happen and you will react. Sometimes not quite in that order.

I can't promise that it will get better. I wish I could, but I don't like lying. All I can promise is that things will change, even if the only change is eveything getting a little bit older day after day.

J st T S y

There's plenty more to write whether it's
interesting or not the days sometimes
get stronger and the nights sometimes collapse
or it's entirely reversed and upside
down while backward while trapped in a chair with
wheels with no straps holding Us down then
there's the person who's the person who We
use to miss the most but now only miss
when We think about all that We have missed
in the North where the summer's not too hot
or the South with all the people moving
and moving and not allowing time for
a break because sharks are always going
forward or they die (bullshit!) on the camera
for the internets where the thoughts come to
life and are shared and are admired and
We're scared so scared of all that happening
to Us and those moments of fear happy
anger sad that rise to the base of the
throat but go no further would they overwhelm
and spill out of the box like the things ordered
last night most of which will come scattered
throughout the summer and waiting is all
there is all there is to do when the knowledge
isn't there or just tumbles around and
out and in and doesn't help anyone

It's more than the thumbs.

In an effort to become more human, I have applied to the local junior college. Registration for fall is in nine days. I hope this works.

Understanding Love, 2

Late one night, or early one morning, I told you I loved you.

This was the first time that I remember saying those words of my own choice and not just parroting them back after someone said that they loved me.

You had invited me to spend the night, which was rare for me. Not the spending the night where you lived, but that was usually a group thing; everyone was invited and everyone stayed over. Often I was only invited after people were already there -- an afterthought. This night, though, you had specifically invited me and that was different. That was special.

You had recently moved out of your old room and into a new room to get farther away from your problems. The new room not only had your bed, but a decent couch for someone to sleep on. Even though other people, other friends, were over we barricaded ourselves in your room after eating. I remember being surprised, the next morning, that no one came upstairs, no one disturbed us.

Talking is what we did that night. We talked about books we had both read and went over the things we liked and disliked. We talked about books the other hadn't read and made enthusiastic, but hollow, promises to read them for ourselves. We talked about spirituality and at that time you still sort of believed in a spiritual world; not necessarily God, but something unexplainable. We ranked our teachers and rated most of them as placeholders who just didn't care. We discussed various Dungeons and Dragons campaigns we'd played and decided that what we really needed was to play more D&D. We mocked our friends and verbally ripped apart people whom we didn't care for.

Eventually, as we both knew would happen, we worked our way to your recent split with your girlfriend of almost, I think, two years. I was curious about what had happened from your point of view because I'd heard the other side and didn't completely believe it. You seemed almost relieved to be able to talk about it with someone who thought the whole thing was fucked up and genuinely hadn't picked a side in the matter, but was leaning your direction. At that time it didn't occur to me that you may not have been allowed to talk out the things you needed to talk about because the whole mess with your girlfriend also involved your best friend and sort of, in a sideways way, involved another of your closest friends. You really had no one to talk to at that time, did you?

I'm forever thankful that you weren't looking for answers because I wouldn't have had any. (I probably wouldn't have any answers now.) You just needed to talk, to know that someone understood your side. Any question I asked, you answered. And I tried to be thoughtful; to not just go for the juicy stuff that would have made for horrible, but addictive, television. I also tried to make you laugh because laughter always seems to make horrible things easier.

When you finished, you seemed more relaxed than you had in a while. It must have been a great weight off of your shoulders. You also asked me not to tell anyone the things you said and in nearly 20 years, this is the closest that I've come to saying anything. I still remember some of the stories you told.

Then you asked me about my potential love life. I talked about some of the girls who I had crushed on for a while because they were intelligent and cute but ultimately talked too much and I learned that they were kind of horrible people when I got to know them. From there we talked about the girls at our school and who were, or at least seemed to be, decent people. You asked about my best friend and what was up with that and I told you the truth, that nothing was up with that, but I'm not sure you really believed me. Finally you straight out asked me if I ever loved anybody, that's when I said that I loved you.

And I did love you. I loved you like I loved all my friends. I loved you like I loved my brothers. You were one of the best people I had ever met up to that point in my life, how could I not love you? You thanked me, even though it wasn't exactly what you meant when you asked the question. You said that you loved your friends, too, and it was hard when that love was betrayed. I agreed, but told you that there were still people who cared for you.

Fortunately, we were both non-weepy guys because, looking back, this would have been the point for tears. Instead I moved on the couch and in the process let one rip. Windows were open, only partially as a joke, and the subject was changed. I don't know if you remember any of this and if you do how much, but it was a good and important night for me.

Understanding Love, 1

I've heard it -- or read it -- said that if you think you've been in love, you haven't been in love.

Still, I think that at one time I loved you. I think I loved you hard.

I remember thinking about you when you weren't there and feeling happy and sad and a little sick to my stomach. I remember being with you, sitting, and feeling happy and a little sick to my stomach. I remember the rumors about you and your former boyfriend. I remember the day you transformed yourself into a very sad, very insane woman and handed out flowers. I remember how easy it was for you to slide from your social group to mine and then back to yours and how I'd already been rejected by your social group; I could have lived on the outskirts just to be close to you, but that would have been pathetic and I already had so many things working against me. I remember the day you saw the toys I carried around in my backpack and you found it amusing, not in a cynical or cruel way, but more in an I-understand-why-you-carry-these-things way; you understood that I liked what I liked and I used them to get reactions from people. I remember your kindness.

High school was not a kind place for me. It wasn't cruel, either. It was more indifferent. I was fat enough and nerdy enough that I put people off. I was smart enough, nice enough, and "normal" enough that no one attacked me, physically or mentally, for being different than they were. I was a place holder, a space taker, to most of the students, probably most of the teachers, too. I was an object to be walked around and a group member to be ignored.

To you, though, I wasn't just an object. You always greeted me, even when I was forced to sit alone in a group of four desks and I spitefully made sure I sat in the desk closest to the door. When, one day, you were rejected by your group and had to sit with me, you liked it enough that the next day you came back, even though there were empty seats elsewhere in the classroom. And you came back the next day and the day after that and each day until the school year ended.

There was a day, when we had a substitute teacher, when we sat at our desks, across from each other, and we talked about The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You had discovered it more recently than I had and were in the process of indoctrinating your friends. Just as the substitute teach came up to our desks you said that the weekend before you had "devirginized" your boyfriend, at the time. The sub said that he and a lot of young men were devirginized during their time in the Army, you turned red, and I bit back laughter. You stumbled and stuttered, trying to explain the movie and the tradition of the lipstick "V"s on a new watcher's cheeks. The sub said that if your boyfriend needed more help with the devirginizing he should join the Army; they have a lot to teach, he said. You looked down and said that he was actually joining the Marines. I snorted. Even better, the sub said. I burst out laughing and a half-second later, you started to laugh, too, still redder than a strawberry.

It was you kindness and your ability to laugh at your mistakes and your forgiveness to me for laughing at you before it was with you. It didn't hurt, too, that you were easily the most beautiful female in our class, if not the whole school. I remember how you kept your hair carefully tucked behind your ear, but when you were concentrating hard it would fall from its place as you leaned forward and the very tip of your ear would poke out of your hair. I remember your eyes flashing in anger at the idiots in the classroom and in joy when I could make you laugh. I remember your smile: your huge smile when you were excited; your sly smile when you had gotten away with something; and your small smile when you were simply content.

I knew that if you loved me at all it would never be the same way I loved you. There was someone, a friend, who was smarter than me, nicer than me, and much better looking than me who you said you couldn't like as anything other than a friend. What chance did a schlub like me have? It was okay, though, because I got to spend 50 minutes alone with you every day we were at school and I wouldn't want to give that time up for anything.

We went to the same school out first year of college. I didn't go hunting for you. I have this thing about social strata and not trying to shake it up and while I knew where I'd end up -- outside and alone -- I didn't know where you would choose to be. I knew you'd choose, though, because you were smart enough and acceptable enough to end up anywhere. I did call you a couple of times, though. Once to tell you a teacher had died, one who I really liked, and you helped me feel better. The other time was to see if you were headed home one weekend because I needed a ride back to school. You were and you did. We also ran into each other a few times and just chatted. Your roommate, who we went to school with, was not nearly so kind.

I held on to the feeling I had for you for a few years until it reached the point that I had to give it up. I was going to a different school and wasn't ever going to see you again. It was hard letting go, but I had to even though it made me feel good and safe.

You were the only person I wasn't in semi-regular contact with who I wanted to see at our ten year reunion. You didn't come. I'm not going to the 20 because once in a room with those people again and just being an object was enough. I've kept an eye out for you on Facebook, but cannot find you. Either you’re not there, or you've changed enough that I no longer recognize you when I see you. I don't know and I'm not going to be concerned about it because it probably wouldn't change anything anyway.

I hope your life is nice. I hope that even if you didn't become what you thought you were going to become you're something that you like. I hope your husband appreciates what he has and shows it to you every day even if it's just by taking your hand for no particular reason and giving it a small squeeze. I hope that any kids you might have got your smarts more than you looks, but I hope they have that same sly smile when they're up to mischief. And I hope that when you think back to high school and that fat guy you sat across from in English it's with fondness.

A Play Question

The part of the play that comes after the intermission is almost always shorter than the part before. Is this because everything used to be written in a three act structure and we keep trying to force that structure into two acts?

What's this advertising?

I pulled this picture off of an advertisement I got in my e-mail. There's no text, just the picture, among a lot of other pictures. The other ones were pretty clear what they were selling, but not this one.

What is it trying to get me to buy?

I've found myself in an odd situation at work recently. I don't have a lot to do.

It feels wrong. Pretty much since the day I started in November there was always lots of work. Lots of applications coming in. Papers to file. Letters to send. Hiring packages to prepare for interviews. Hiring packages to clean up after interviews. Always something coming in for me to store or prepare to send out.

The mail coming to me has practically dried up. Mostly I've been getting returned mail; letters I send out, printed from the statewide system, that candidate haven't updated their addresses. Most come back with a sticker saying the person cannot be found. It's a shame how much money we spend on postage on mail that gets returned. Returned mail I just mark in the system and shove in the file.

This lack of mail bothers me. I have over a half dozen open positions newly posted online. Each position had about 50 letters sent out and I'm not getting any responses. One of the positions is, traditionally, a very popular position that normally receives 10 or more applications in the first three days after posting the position.

I don't know what's going on. My fear is that our mailroom is behind, way behind, and I'll end up with a huge stack of mail on my desk, postmarked two or three weeks ago.

It's not a completely far-fetched idea. Last week I received a piece of mail that was post marked 11 days before the day it crossed my desk. Who's to say that won't happen again and with far more mail?

The biggest problem with not having enough work is the thinking. Thinking leads to posts like yesterdays after hours of building up inside because I spend most of my time thinking about things that apparently "normal" people don't think about.

Being busy, but not that horrible kind that's also boring, is a reason this job is attractive to me. It keeps me from thinking. I'm sure I'll get back there eventually, but it can't be soon enough for me.

Searchin'... Gonna Find Her

Because I am not feeling so mentally stable and the brain doctor is over an hour away, I started looking into finding someone closer who could manage meds, but still specializes in the brain.

First, of course, I checked the brain doctors who are part of my insurance plan. There are none local. I expanded my search then expanded it again and again. Finally, brain doctors were found, but they were all, by then, over an hour away. I checked without my plan and found a few, but when I called a couple of them to find out prices the lines were disconnected. I don't know if they moved or if they've retired, but the internet's information is out of date. Also, I don't really want the one's whose name is linked up with some pretty heavy Christian websites. My brain isn't wired that way.

Next, I thought that maybe I could do what someone I know is doing and see the brain doctor to manage meds, but see a brain whisperer locally because maybe, even though I don't really trust people, it could help me to talk about stuff that I don't want to talk about but would feel like I have to talk about because I'm paying for the listening time. Again I checked with insurance. No one local, but there are a couple over the hill and through the woods and over the river and through some more woods, about 45-45 minutes away from work, when there's no snow. I don't want to put in that kind of time for something that I don't really want to do. There are several brain whisperers who are local, but the one with a website was extremely New Age-y; lots of meditation and spiritual quotes and hummingbirds. I assume the average price would be $100 per visit. I'm not sure about the other brain whisperers and haven't collected phone numbers. How do you start when your choices are not limited by insurance?

One thing for sure, I'm not going to be shoved into some bullshit group therapy again, I can tell you that. Real life group sessions aren't like you see in most TV shows where the hero goes a few times and gets better and moves out. It's more like that old sit com, Dear John, about a divorce group where no one really gets better or leaves and even if they leave, it's only for a little while they're soon back with the exact same problems. Plus, I already don't trust a single potential member of a group session, including the person leading it, who may or may not be a trained mental health professional.

(A little off topic, but I watched the first three episodes of [grav∙i∙ty] last night. I liked the way they showed Lily's loneliness in the first episode. In the next two, though, it seems like these people are "healing" too easily. Maybe it's a post attempt rush of energy and eagerness. I'll have to keep watching to see if it holds. It's also interesting to learn why these people attempted. It's never simple and often seems stupid.)

I can feel my heart beating rapidly and my stomach is churning thinking about everything all at once. Getting better is hard when you don't want to.

Self

Do you recommend movies or books or TV shows or music that you think are horrible to the people you like?

I don't.

Just So Tired

Sometimes, the worst thing about going to sleep is knowing that I'll be waking up.

What to Say

When you're afraid of scaring people and being misunderstood you can't really say, or write, all the things that you would like to.

Never Promised

When I was younger, like nearly 1/4th my current age, I was told that I should learn how to type because it was a useful skill. As time went on I kept being told by teachers and other authoritative adults that I should learn how to time. I didn't really care until someone said that when I started working I would only be typing and I'd never have to hand write something ever again.

Being the niave and trusting person I was, especially toward authoritative figures, I took learning how to type to heart and as a promise.

I don't really hate my handwriting, but I don't like it much either. It's chunky and inconssistant. Lines waver even when there are lines to write on. It just doesn't look good.

The problem is, the authoritative adult didn't make a promise and my chunky, inconsistant handwriting shows up all over the place at work.

Another reason life is unfair.

Spring Is Tough

For the last several day I pretty much get to the house and climb into bed. On Saturday I called my dad sometime after five and then headed for the covers. On Sunday Dad dropped me off close to six and I locked up then went to my bed. Monday I got back from work, 4:30ish, jumped into bed, and brushed my teeth around 8:30 when I woke up to pee. Yesterday I forced myself to stay awake until after six-ish because I wanted to make sure the dishwasher got opened so the dishes could actually dry; I texted my mom near eight because, again, time to pee, but I had my teeth brushed well before.

Today looks to be much the same.

I've been feeling this way for a few weeks, but didn't give in to it until recently. Don't know why. (Not that I feel better sleeping 10-12 hours, either.)

It's a spring thing, I guess. I've always felt much worse near the beginning of spring. Maybe it's the allergies, although this year it's been all in my eyes and out of my nose. Maybe not. Last year spring was easier becuase I had a new job to distract myself with. Nothing like that this year though.

My Father's Father

He kept a rubber band around his wallet for as long as I can remember. He said the rubber band made it hard for criminals to steal the wallet and helped keep everything in the wallet. I figured he used the rubber band to keep the wallet together, since he never seemed to buy a new one.

When he learned that you liked to eat something that he really liked to eat he would always have it for you. When you told him that you didn't like a food that he really liked he got very upset.

He never lounged in his pajamas and always came to breakfast dressed for the day.

Once he threatened to hit me, and I feared he would, because my cousins (girls) and I were being too loud late at night.

He spent part of World War II in a labor camp for being a conscientious objector. He had no trouble fighting or using weapons, but he was opposed to war. Most of the other men there with him were simply afraid to fight and one day he simply walked away from the camp. He sent a letter to the FBI letting them know where he would be, but nothing was ever done about it.

While working as a college professor he was the faculty person in charge of the fraternity that had the people who would never be accepted by the other fraternities. Mostly it was made up of black men and Jewish men. When he took the students to get a haircut at a local barber, the barber refused. He told the barber that if the students weren't served at this barber he would charter a bus to the next city to get the haircuts and he would make sure to bring a couple of reporters along with him. Everyone who wanted a haircut that day got a haircut.

He believed in the teachings of BF Skinner, that behavior can be trained into people given reinforcement or punishment. This led to him doing some awful things to some of his children, including using electric shocks because how can you reinforce good behavior if the behavior happens while unconscious.

There were televisions in almost every room of his house and two in the main room. He would have these two on all day long, one for news and one for sports unless there were two sporting events he wanted to watch. Sometimes he would even have the radio on for a third game.

He loved his wife with all his heart, but he took her for granted and didn't really show his appreciation for her.

When he cooked a roast or turkey, before slicing for serving, he would take half the meat and put it in the freezer to make sure he had all the leftovers he wanted. And even dinner ran short the extra wouldn't be pulled out.

He taught us how to make a blue cheese spread that is fantastic and, at the very least, gets made every Christmas for gifts for family and dipping before, during, and after the meal.

On Friday, March 28th, he died leaving behind memories for those who knew him.

Sexy Dream

Last night I had the sexiest dream I've had in a long, long time and it was me and an Internet "celebrity" discussing possibilities for making a movie. Doesn't sound sexy, but the me in the dream sure imagined that the sexual tension in the room was almost too thick to see her.

So Long

My father's parents are dying.

I can't think of anything else to say.

"S" Word

The name brand medication is working. Well, it's working better than the generic did, at least. The brain doctor said that it could take up to two weeks for the full effect to come back and it's only been nine days. Give it time. Give it time.

The thing is that the "S" word has been pretty forfront in my thoughts for the past month or so and that hasn't gone away. If the meds work like they did the last time they won't go away totally, but they won't always be on the surface.

It's the "S" word that really freaked the brain doctor out last week. I went in wanting to start the appointmet off with the med thing, but he interupted me and we got into topics that had more to do with me living my life. That's how he gave me an out for thirty or so minutes so I didn't have to talk about the thing that was important to me. Eventually we got there though and I gave him the story about why I was on generics and we blah-blahed about that before he asked me about the changes in me. That's when I got to the "S" word and he practically hopped out of his chair. It made me wonder if I somehow convinced him that I had stopped thinking that even though I'm pretty sure I told him it was always there, just burried enough that I didn't see it all the time. Or maybe it's because that was the first time I ever said the actual "S" word to him. I was very careful not to say the "S" word to him for so long and this last time it just came out.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I hardly ever even think the "S" word. I wonder why that is?

I mean, just sitting and thinking right now there are several words that I know that I hardly ever use or think, but that's because I rarly think about the topics those words are related to. But I've been thinking about this for a very long time (years and years) and I don't use that word to myself. Odd.

The Loneliest Number

I am sitting in a movie theater crowded with people who like at least one of the TV shows that I do. I've been here for an hour and I've watched a lot of people come in. Most in pairs, occasionally in a triple, and once in a while they come in larger groups.

It's time like these that I feel lonely. The times when I'm surrounded by people who have people when I don't have a people. Most are chatting together, not about the movie we are going to see, but just stuff, life. Some may be having (or think they are having) deep conversations, but whether they are or aren't doesn't matter. What matters is that they have someone to share whatever it is.

These are the moments when I'm really aware of my social retardation. I have an in with nearly everyone sitting around me. What's your favorite Veronica Mars moment? I could ask. Except the few time's I've tried sounds won't come out of my mouth. Not even the weird cacking sounds cats make while watching bird through the window. I look forward to this being finished so I won't be as aware of this problem, but I will always know it's there.

Sitdep

I see the brain doctor in a little less than two hours.

If the world is less against me, non-generic medication should be waiting for me when I get back this evening.

A few months ago, six at the most, I probably would have felt that how I feel now, how I've felt for a month, is an improvement. I guess it shows how much mind altering chemicals can change a person.

After I got back from Oregon in November, I saw the brain doctor and he was impressed with how changed I was. He started talking about how he thought that a, not small, portion of the deep depression I felt was, maybe, situational because not only did I just have a successful vacation, but during that vacation I found out that I would be changing jobs to the one I currently have by the end of November. And yes, knowing I wouldn't have to put up with my old boss made me feel a bit better, but by that point I had also been on the maximum dose of my medication for six-ish weeks. I'm sure that had a large effect on me, too.

Now that I've been on the generics for a while and have watched the dawning grey turn back into a starless night, I don't think that the situation has as much to do with this as he hoped.

I am not looking forward to today's appointment.

Here's something to know about me and doctors: When I see a doctor I try to learn how I can manipulate them so that the focus is not on me. Insane, right? Still it's who I am and what I do, but not exactly on purpose. This brain doctor was a tough one, though. He was very good at ignoring my attempts as evasion and distraction, which is something I needed from him, probably still do. (The brain doctor I saw several years ago did nothing for me because he was easy to nudge off on tangents into things he was interested in; it only sometimes had to do with psychiatry.) The unfortunate thing is that during our last visit I think I needled my way through and found his distraction and that's not good because I don't help me if I push him off course. Of course, that begs the question of do I want to help me? Because even when I was on the name brand stuff, and started to really feel, I didn't want to get better and now that feel even worse the desire to just be and become so that I no longer am has grown.

Dear Liza, dear Liza

There's a hole in me. I think it's in my diaphragm. It feels like it's trying to suck my shoulders and hips toward it so I'll just collapse in on myself. It hasn't worked, so far, but if feels harder and harder to sit straight up.

Make It Simple

I like to sing.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that here or anywhere, really. I do, though. I really enjoy singing. I sing in the shower. I sing while I’m cooking. I sing while I put away dishes and groceries. I sing in the car. I sing at work. When there’s music I like singing along so I can get the key and tempo and (hopefully) words right. When there’s no music I do the best I can and tend to stick to songs that I know all, or most, of the words.

Singing always makes me feel a little better. When I have really bad days I don’t sing. I can’t sing. I want to, but my tongue, jaw, and lips won’t move.

Maybe this goes back to when I was a kid and suddenly one of my brothers would start singing and I and the other, if we were all there, would join in. Mostly we sang songs from Animaniacs or The Beatles. Stuff we knew. Our voices went together well. It was always fun for me. Also, it was something that people of the female persuasion would compliment me on because they were surprised that I could do it (like the guys and my ability to catch a football, every year for all of my required schooling). I wasn’t complimented on much as from my peers, especially the female ones, and it felt a weird kind of good.

Singing still feels good even when it’s just me.

One Scene

The house that I live in now has a one car garage and I find myself thinking about the movie Sabrina. (The one with Hepburn and Bogey and Holden. I haven't seen the newer one.) There's one scene, near the beginning, that I keep thinking about. Over and over and over.

I Once Described It As A Bowl

The last time I posted anything on a February 19th I posted about how much water waterless urinals are supposed to save.

I wish I had something like that to write about now.

Instead, I'll continue with the downward-ness.

The last time I saw the brain doctor, in December, I was feeling okay. And I mean actually okay, not the general answer "okay" I give all the time. I didn't hate my job. I was looking for somewhere to live. The future was growing brighter, to a point where I could almost imagine myself having a future. He was glad for me and decided that I wouldn't need to seem him for a couple of months. He also told me that my meds had finally passed the time and a generic version was available. He warned me against taking generics, though, because there had been no research done to show how well they actually work versus the name brand. I said okay and went home.

When I picked up my meds the next week, they gave me the name brand because that's what I'd been getting and my perscription said not to substitute. And things were coolish.

When I next picked up my meds they were generic. When I asked why, the pharmacist assitant or pharm tech or cashier said that my insurance no longer covered the name brand at the pharmacy level. I took the generics and researched it online. Sure enough, the pharmacy insurance would help with generics at the store ($10 per perscription) or I could get the name brand through the insurance, online ($100 per perscription). I figured I would try the generic stuff and if everything was okay just stick with it.

Being me, full of the luck that I have, the generics aren't as good. Pretty soon after starting the generics I was no longer okay, but back to "okay." I didn't want to respond to my e-mails anymore. I had a place that I was going to be renting, but I really didn't care about that. My temper's short. And all I want to do is crawl in bed and eat fattening food that's salty, sweet, or both. And sleep.

Oh, how I long to sleep so much. To not have to wake up except for the short visit to the unrination station. To open my eyes breifly then roll over and fall back into the insanity of dreams and the nothingness inbetween. To never have to have a clock scream into my ear to wake me up.

Anyway, this weekend I sent my perscription to my medication insurance so I can get the name brand stuff. I can only hope that it'll make me feel better again. I never felt great, but I felt different in a better sort of way.

Here's to hope and the preparations for disappointment.

Grunt

I don't think that the generic version of my medication works as well as the name brand stuff. I seem to be thinking the things that I'm not supposed to think all of the time again.

Fuck.

Why?

I'm pretty sure it's because animals don't do it. Except for whales and dolphins and manatees and buffaloes running from fire and lemmings running from people…

Piss Poor Move

I've been in a bad mood today. I was up too late last night. The people I like from my old job are getting the same sort of shit we were getting when I was there and they are being blamed for it. And I just feel vaguely crappy,

In an effort to feel better I spent money. After years free from BMG and Columbia House I have once again joined a DVD club. I don't feel any better. At least, in a few weeks, I'll get a few DVDs that can only be bought through the club and two of the movies are ones that I dearly love.

It doesn't help now, though.

A Hard Thing

One of the hard things about being a depressive person is that when you have a day that you feel good, you don't want it to end. The problem is that going to sleep much later than usual leads to a less good day tomorrow.

So far the next days have been not so good. It's hard, though, to let go of the good when you recognize it.

Is it?

When I saw the brain doctor last week, he said that he was really glad that I went and saw the play of It's a Wonderful Life performed at a radio show. He said that the moral (my word) of the play is so very important for a person like me. A person with my... mood. (I don't remember the words he used.)

The thing is, I've thought about this for years. It's a Wonderful Life is a great movie. Great cast that carries off a very earnest script with ease and believability. The direction is competent and the moral is very strong: a person with friends is always rich.

Although I think the brain doctor was more interested in the fact that life is worth living and we don't know how we have effected the world around us.

Again, I've thought about this for years. The only truly horrible thing that I can think of happening if I hadn't been born is that I don't think my brothers would have been born, either, because I doubt that my parents would have gotten married if my mother hadn't been pregnant with me. (Hell, on several occasions, and in less vulgar terms, my father has told me that he offered to pull out because he thought she would get pregnant that time and she told him to keep going. I could have been a smear on my mother's stomach. Or back.) The fact that my brothers wouldn't be born bothers me because I don't think anyone should have the right to take another person's life. Other than that, though, I haven't led a life that has drastically affected anyone. George Baily lived in a small city and gave out home loans to people; he was in position to touch many live in an important way and that's not even counting his family. I've only done work that anyone could do just as well as I do.

Then there's the thoughts about friends. If they're reading this, I'm sorry, but I don't know if I really have any friends anymore. I don't think I understand what friendship is. Did I ever? Is a friend someone who doesn't answer your letters or calls or ask questions even when you try to? Is a friend someone you used to spend time with, but don't anymore? Is a friend someone who you always have to go to, but he or she never comes your direction? I'm not sure anymore. And since I know I haven't made any friends since I left high school... well that leave me pretty screwed in that department.

Still, I do know that my meds are working. Thursday I found myself planning for the future. Not like when do I think I'd like to take vacation next year, but planning for years from now. I am going to quit my job and go back to school for an MFA. It will take me at least two years to get there, but probably three. I have to take the GRE and the subject specific GRE. I need to create a network so I can get references from people that are related to the MFA I want. I have to start writing fiction. And for the first time in I don't know how long this decision feels really real. I know what program I'd really like to get into for a Ph.D., but it only takes five students a year. Most of the MFA programs take more students and there are several out there that could pay my way through school. At the shortest it'll take me four years to be finished. If I go all the way it could take up to 10 years. And I'm okay with that. I really don't know the last time I was willing or able to make plans so far in advance and feel okay about it.

One more thing before I check out, probably for the year, these are decent in explaining how I have felt for more than a decade: Adventure in Depression and Depression Part 2. They're not perfect, seeing as how I'm a different person, but for the most part it's close enough. Especially the first one.

Happy Christmas

The idea of me decorating a Christmas tree makes my stomach flip and flop.

And watching people actually decorate one makes me feel really uncomfortable.

Vomit Free Since 12/16/13

I am feeling very blargh right now.

Two Tuesdays ago, a cold caught me. That Wednesday, I stayed away from work because along with blowing snot out my nose, the membrane back there kept puncturing and my nose would bleed. I hate doing the bloody nose thing at work.

I'm fortunate that the cold never turned into a bad cough, but the thing is still with me, sapping what little energy my rotundness produces.

On Sunday night, sometime after midnight, I woke up to a bellyache. I told myself over and over that I would not throw up. My body said that if I wasn't going to head to the bathroom it would make me thin that the other side needed some relieving, too. I sat down and farted then got sick. I was holding the garbage can on my lap.

There wasn't much in me because I only at breakfast that morning and some cheese (harvarti) and crackers for dinner. Of course that didn't stop my body from waking me up twice more to heave up bile and water. Monday I didn't go to work or see my brain doctor or do much of anything.

This morning, I woke up, still with a bellyache, and went to work because I hadn't been sick for 18 hours and I felt well enough.

Which is kind of funny because that's one of my answers when people ask me how much I like my new job. "Well enough," I say.

One of the best things about this job is that I don't loathe going there. It's just work. The people are decent. I have a great boss and she has a nice number two. The work I do can be challenging, but is never so hard that I want to scream. This job, though, isn't something I care about.

I will never be passionate about posting jobs vacancies online, or collecting and reviewing applications, or logging the movement of hiring paperwork into an overstuffed binder. Never. I wish I were so that I would wake up excited to go to work. I wish I were driven to push myself up through the ranks. I wish I had a goal.

Once, I think, I mentioned that when I was in high school some of my friends had an assignment to show off/explain their bliss. I thought about the assignment for a long time, even though it wasn't my assignment, and came up blank. I still think about that assignment. I still come up blank.

A True Thanksgiving

We had a real traditional Thanksgiving this year. Not only did my
brothers, their spouses, and their children come to my parents' house,
but once again my grandfather ended up in the hospital.

I know that I've mentioned this before (and I would totally link to
the other stories if I was writing this from my computer rather than
at work where I can't get access to Blogger) but my grandfather,
father's father, has been in the hospital a lot around Thanksgiving.
It's like every two or three years he goes in.

The last time was 2011. He had an infection in his foot and wound up
having two toes removed. He was out of his house and either at a
hospital or in a "rehab" center until just before 2012 started. (I
know that the story in on this blog somewhere. I really do wish I
could link it.)

So, the Saturday before Thanksgiving I moved back in with my parents.
I got hired back at the prison in Cowtown out in the personnel
department. The brother who lives in Oregon and his family arrived in
Cowtown noonish that day, as well. On Tuesday, I think, it was
decided, that they were all going to visit my grandparents in the care
home while I was at work.

Around 9AM that Tuesday, my family family received a phone call from
the home asking how my grandpa was. My mom asked why. She was told
that Grandpa had been taken to the hospital in the early morning
hours. Everyone packed up, a little earlier than planned, and headed
to the hospital to see Grandpa and then over to the home to see
Grandma and then back to the hospital.

Of course, I didn't learn any of this until I got back to an empty
house that evening and called my mom to find out what was going on.

Grandpa was in the hospital, this time, because he blood was low. They
found no open wounds on him. His abdomen didn't hurt and his poop
wasn't bloody; they could have scoped his stomach for ulcers, but he's
93 years old. One thought was that he was bleeding internally, but
nothing was tender. There was talk about leukemia, but no tests were
run. And the doctor mentioned that when people get old their marrow
sometimes just stops producing blood cells.

The hospital gave Grandpa three units of blood. That's about three
pints. About six cups. About one quarter of the amount of blood in the
average adult human. The hospital wanted him to stay for a while after
the final unit was given, but Grandpa is such an asshole that they let
my parents take him back to the home. My brother's family drove back
to Cowtown. Our parents stayed in a hotel so they could take my
grandpa back to the hospital for tests in the morning.

I didn't see them until the next evening, but I got the full scoop.
The parents didn't take anyone to the hospital and instead they talked
to Hospice and introduced the Hospice person to Grandpa. This causes
my grandpa to freak out a little and he wants to get my grandma's
opinion, which is a huge problem.

If my grandma doesn't have Alzheimer's then she has a severe case of
dementia. She's lucky though because her normal personality is
friendly and sweet. She wants to get to know you and even if she
doesn't understand what you're saying she is truly interested in
listening to you. She smiles and handles small talk like a pro. Even
on days when she loses her words and can't speak in complete sentences
she stays pleasant. She doesn't always understand or can't communicate
especially when it's something that's hugely important and requires
critical thinking. When Grandpa started to talk to her about Hospice
and letting go, she freaked out.

She'd already been having some trouble, anyway. She's restless in the
room she shares with my grandpa. She's up and down and moving things
and is generally disruptive when Grandpa is trying to watch TV or in
the middle of the night. She knows to go to the bathroom, but doesn't
always understand how to use what needs to be used and leaves messes
or throws used toilet paper in the hamper or sink or bathtub. She
wanders into other people's rooms and moves or takes things. She eats
off of other people's plates or smears her food on the floor and walls
of the dining room. The ladies at the home have taken to bringing her
along on their rounds so they can watch her. Before Thanksgiving, the
idea of moving her either out of the shared room or to another home
had been mentioned.

Thanksgiving Day there were no calls from the home. It was a calm day
on the grandparents' front.

On Friday my parents and my brother, along with his wife, who lives in
Los Angeles, drove down to the home to see my grandparents. Grandpa
had to go back to the hospital to have his blood drawn. My brother,
who is almost a medical doctor, spoke with our grandpa's doctor with
our dad. His blood level wasn't low, but it wasn't as high as it had
been after the transfusions on Tuesday. Grandpa would probably have to
go back in a few weeks for more blood or just let himself go.

Fortunately, things were good at the home. Grandma was personable and
my sister-in-law played the piano. Things were okay until the guys got
back and Grandpa, again, tried to talk about end of life issues and
get my grandma involved. Again, she got upset.

The next day, the brothers, their significant others, and the children
all left, four to the north and two to the south. In the evening
Grandpa called and spoke with Dad. He had decided that he was going to
get the transfusions and stay alive as long as possible.

My grandpa is an atheist. An atheist who is afraid to die. In college
he started out as a seminary student, but he's too analytical and
without any real proof or feeling of KNOWING in his gut he switched to
psychology, he was of the B. F. Skinner variety, and told himself that
there is no higher power and nothing after this life; if there was
something, he said he would be pleasantly surprised.

He was okay with this way of thinking until about 15 years ago. I
guess he just realized that he was old and would die one day, I don't
really know, but suddenly he was really interested in those TV
psychics, like John Edward, who spoke with their audiences about
family they'd lost, family currently in the afterlife. Grandpa didn't
obsess over these celebrity psychics, but their message that there was
an afterlife comforted him. He was skeptical, though. He didn't
believe with all his heart that an afterlife existed because there was
no physical evidence that had been confirmed by means he trusted. Deep
inside he still believed that there is nothing after we die. And this
scares him.

So, when my grandpa spoke with Dad on Saturday and said he want
extraordinary means to stay alive, I wasn't surprised, even though it
went against everything Grandpa had stated over the years. Grandpa
tried to rationalize by saying that Grandma needed him. Emotionally,
she may need him, but he doesn't notice the problems she causes unless
she's disturbing him and even when he does notice all he does is yell
at her and call in the ladies to get her out of the room. According to
my dad, Grandpa taking such extraordinary means to stay alive is
against everything my grandpa has said when talking about end of life
issues.

What makes it even harder is that my grandpa expects my parents to
drive him to the hospital and back each time he needs a transfusion.
Both of my parents said they can't do it. My grandpa lives over an
hour away from my parents and the transfusions would have to take
place on a weekday. One unit of blood takes about three hours to be
absorbed. With the pick-up and drop-off that's at least six hours. A
lost day of work. And since both parents work with students it's a day
of prep and appointments lost, too.

The week after Thanksgiving, Tuesday or Wednesday, the home called and
said that Grandma has to be moved somewhere else. She can no longer
stay at this home because she's disturbing the other residents too
much and she's upsetting my grandpa too much and there's no way to get
her under control. She has to go.

My grandparents moved into this current home at the end of September.
A new place has been found, but we have to wait for rooms to become
available. Grandpa is insisting on going to be with Grandma. They will
not be sleeping in the same room. The new place will cost twice as
much as the current place. Grandpa keeps talking about dying and
moving to Grandma, upsetting her.

I really wish I had a way to wrap this up. Something witty or
meaningful. I don't though. My head is stuffy from a lingering cold,
all this crap that I've been writing since yesterday, and my new job.

Besides, this is life. There really isn't an end.

You know the cold is bad when...

You blow your nose and you can feel the snot being pulled from your
sinuses, like a snake uncoiling to strike.

$1,000,000

I figure that if I had one million dollars I would not have to work for the next 20 years.

I'm Tired

The problem is: The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner it feels like I wake up and have to go to work.

Crap.

Before the Giving of Thanks

Dear Blog Readers,

I am going back to work in Cowtown the Monday before American Thanksgiving. This means I will probably be moving in with my parents for a while. A much shorter while, this time, I hope.

My mother and I drove around looking at houses yesterday. Some were rentals, most are for sale.

The most significant factor in where I'll end up is the snow line. I feel mostly safe driving myself, but I hate most of the drivers out there. (I mean who thinks it's smart to stop while driving uphill in an inch of slush covered in two inches of snow?)

Also, there's the whole me just being me factor and sort of, kind of freaking out about nothing and everything over the job, over living with the parents, over the crappy neighbors that don't yet exist.

Yeah. Just wanted to share. Aren't I great?

Sanctioned Fan-Fiction

I am usually in bed at this time. My meds usually make me yawny and that means get into bed. Tonight, though, I stay up to watch Elementary. The show is enjoyable, but not one that I have to watch see each week. This week Sherlock's older brother is back.

Mycroft Holmes is my favorite character that Conan-Doyle created. Sure, this Mycroft is different from the one in the books, but I still want to see what's done with him.

I love that fan-fiction can be loved by mass audiences and companies will spend millions of dollars on without slutting up any of the characters.

Dear Gramma,

Thank you for the casserole dish.

10 Years

I started this blog 10 years ago. It is a success in that I've been posting for that long. I've never been a popular blog, though. I flirted with huge readship one time when I kept writing about comic books and made sure it related to gender issues in some way, but that wasn't ever what this blog was intended to be. The number of posts is nearly one post every other day, which is pretty good, especially since I don't get paid for writing. Even checking Facebook several times a day hasn't completly stopped me from posting. No regular interwebs connection and sever depression almost stopped, but I eventually came back.

So, yeah, 10 years. If I was someone else I would point you to my favorite posts. I'm too lazy for that, though, and the few that visit probably don't care anyway.

The Hard Part

I've been watching The War. Ken Burns's documentary series about World War Two. Like his other documentaries it's full of images and film from the era. You see people of all sorts dying or already dead. The part that's the hardest for me to watch, though, is the people who were there talking about what they saw, what they did, and what they felt.

How these men have lived so long and so well with that war is baffling. One guy talked about how, after dreaming about a certain incident, he would lose the use of his right hand and his wife wouldn't say a thing she would just place a cup of coffee on the table with the handle turned toward his left hand. They got married right after the war and they never talked about it.

Inside My Brain

I found the 3rd season of 30 Rock for $10 and been watching it this weekend. So I've got to thinking:

A few years ago it was really popular for porn companies to make "parodies" of popular TV shows. If I remember correctly, 30 Rock is one of the shows they parodied; I think 30 Rock even made fun of the idea. I started thinking about the many combinations of characters they could go through and I bet that they had Liz and Jack get together. And that thought upset me.

One of my favorite things about 30 Rock is that Jack and Liz are friends with little to know sexual tension. They even refuse to kiss; they just can't imagine doing that together. And a porn that I haven't seen, but know exists bothers me because it, probably, gets a fictional relationship wrong.

Friday Nights

I seem to be watching Undercover Boss on Fridays. I don't particularly like the show, but I like how good the editors are at manipulating emotions and creating a story out of hours and hours of footage full of nothing.

"V" is for Peace?

During World War Two, holding your first two fingers up and spread apart stood for victory.

By Vietnam, the same gesture meant peace.

When and how did the come to be?

Friday Nights

I seem to be watching Undercover Boss on Fridays. I don't particularly like the show, but I like how good the editors are at manipulating emotions and creating a story out of hours and hours of footage full of nothing.

And the Tears Won't Come

There are times when everything wells up inside and I feel like crying. Not just a few brief sobs and then done, but real tears that just don't end. Usually it happens at work or some other time or place where it would be inappropriate, so I refuse to let myself. At those times, though, when it would be okay to cry I try to let myself, but the tears just won't come. I sit feeling scrunched up inside with no release.

Sometimes, those moments, or at least a reason for those moments is understandable. Today I got some news that was upsetting. Not just because something was cancelled (to be honest I wasn't that excited about a party), rather it was the mindset of the person who cancelled. And it scares me and I hope this person will be well. For a good long while I was scrunched up. Now, not so much, but behind my eyes feels very heavy.

Makes sense, right? Last night, though, I was reading Jess Fink's outstanding We Can Fix It: A Time Travel Memoir and it happened. The book starts out with Jess traveling back in time to keep herself from doing embarrassing relationship/sexual things. Then it changes to her looking at some horrible things that happened in her life. After that she decides to look at these little moments in her life that made her laugh or brought her joy. Thats when the feeling started and nothing could come.

Of course before I could sleep I spent an hour dwelling on it, dissecting everything I had thought and felt while reading. In the end I figured out the why and fell asleep.

I'm not going to write what the why is because it actually has to do with the last time I cried and I'm not comfortable putting it out there right now because when I did the crying I was mocked for the thing that upset me. I really don't need to go through that again.

First Time Top Five

On Friday, The brain doctor told me that I am one of his top five patients. He then told me that I didn't want to be in that group because those are the patients he worries about the most.

Is it wrong that part of me feels flattered for being in his top five?

Blackbird Singing

The best thing about Glee doing The Beatles is that I can sing along with all the songs. Although some of them are a bit odd. I think it's the voices more than the arrangement.