December 17, 2006
While depression disrupts many aspects of my life, my ability to write is not one of them. In fact, writing has always been one of the only truly consistent means I have in helping me deal with depression and I have countless notebooks filled with poems, journal entries, and essays dating back to middle school. Granted, most of the middle and high school writing is pathetic and some of it downright scary (I was a wee bit fixated on death and suicide back then), but writing helped me make it through, helped me to survive, just like its continued to ever since.
But something has gone wrong being that, for the last week or so, I have not been able to write. Plenty is going on in my life and my thoughts and feelings are still active and whirling around inside but, every time I try to write, the ability to form coherent sentences and express myself in words totally leaves me and what takes its place is a weird, inexplicable anger. Anger at writing, anger at my thoughts and feelings, anger at my inability to express them, anger at myself and life in general (and, yes, I'm feeling that as I type this). When I try to write anything at all, it veers off course and leaves me hating everything, which I don't understand and its frustrating the hell out of me.
Some might call it writer's block but, as far as I know, writer's block doesn't leave you feeling homicidal, and this irate wordlessness cropped up around the same time that the overwhelming desire to be alone did. That's all I want these days, to be completely alone, and that strange anger rears its ugly head at anyone who infringes on my lone-liness. Ross will give me a hug or a kiss or ask me if I want to go out and do something and I have to fight the urge to punch him in the nose and tell him to leave me the fuck alone, which isnt my normal response and an odd reaction to have to someone you dearly love.
So this isn't good, this strange place I'm at. I'm relatively happy when I'm by myself and not trying to write but, once other people or words enter my personal equation, all hell breaks lose inside. What it basically comes down to is that semantics and socializing turns me into Satan these days, which is evidenced in the fact that I currently want to throw my computer out the window and run around screaming profanities for no apparent reason.
Suffice to say I hate being this way, it makes me feel like a demon possessed lunatic, but that may point to the possible cause of the problem. Medication, as in I have not taken my anti-depressant or insulin sensitizer since I lost the pregnancy a month ago. Technically, that would seem like an obvious cause - no anti-depressant and whacked out glucose and insulin levels - and I would have settled on that conclusion if it weren't for the fact that I usually write more when I'm struggling, not less. This is different than how a lack of meds usually manifests itself, which makes it more difficult and confusing.
But, based on the bizarre logic of depression, the fact that I think it's something other than a lack of medication probably means that a lack of meds is, in fact, the problem. Depression is often weird that way. It has a mind of its own and can easily convince you that you do just fine without medication and that you really don't need to take that stuff. No meds for me, thank you very much, I'm doing ok without them and their side effects really interfere with my homicidal rampages. Ahem.
So. Medication. I really should start taking it again on the off chance that these depression symptoms that I think aren't depression symptoms could be alleviated with a little help from my meds. Of course, that means facing the daunting task of taking three pills every day, and I am notoriously bad at taking my meds (obviously), but that's another odd quirk of depression. When you're on your meds and feeling ok you forget to take them because the depression isn't as bad. And when you're not on your meds and feeling like crap you can't recognize that the lack of meds is making you feel that way.
So goes the strange cycle of depression that completely obliterates your ability to help yourself. But at least there's always cheese. When I was a kid and our dog needed to take a pill, my dad stuck the pill in a piece of cheese so that the dog wouldn't know he was taking a pill, so maybe its time for Ross to start hiding my meds in food. Granted, I'd probably be suspicious if Ross suddenly started peddling cheese, but anti-depressant laden truffles would certainly work. Of course, then I'd probably overdose on them but, right about now, me thinks I need all the help I can get.
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