With Desired Effects…

this weekend was legendary.  friday’s work was hard and annoying- mice turds, scummy tubs and christmas tree removal.  fears of last weekend’s blowout still ringing through my brain.  not one to be dissolved into misery, not anymore at least, i pasted a waxy smile to my face and reminded myself how short life is, and cautiously stepped into Friday Night.

when your partner of ten years takes mood altering medication, you never know what face you will see at the end of the day.  one weekend smiles.  next weekend you are homeless.  one weekend is hot and heavy, sex, sex, sex.  the next weekend you are face down on the floor, sobbing.  with the uncertainty of days of wine and song, or nights of hyperventilating sobs, weekends can be a scary place, and have lost most of the glittery dancing, cocktail clubbing,  Thank God It’s Friday-ing times i used to live for.  so it was with supreme eggshell-walking i planned on not planning out how my weekend would go and with trepidation i watched the clock.  i crafted.  i cleaned.  i failed at crochet again.  i wrote.  i read.  i texted.  i went to the gym.  i ate.  i filled time.  i was.  i sat.  i thought.  i worried.  i chewed my nails.  i picked my cuticles.  i texted.  i snacked.  i ate mindlessly.  i worried some more.  i panicked.  i flipped out.  i cancelled plans with friends.  i texted.  i pretended.  i faked that nothing was wrong.  i stared out the window until 2 AM when i saw his car pull up.  i froze.

clumpy snowy steel toed boots walked in.  boots came off.  wooly-socked little feet.  a “hey baby, how are you?” and a kiss.  i smiled, cautiously.  the weekend had officially begun.


side effects

Celexa.  Cymbalta.  Prozac.  Lexapro.
Paxil.  Ativan.  Seroquel. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm….. there you go.

Just a few things I need, indeed, to stay up
Interesting to think I can be fed my moods, or lack thereof, in a cup.

Wellbutrin.  Zoloft.  Zyprexia.  Valerian root tea.
All served up and ready to produce an even better me.

The celexa gave me lockjaw so bad that I thought I had died.
Cymbalta didn’t do anything so I sat around and cried.
Prozac made me feel funky and all jittery with the shakes.
Lexapro I don’t remember much, but the horrible stomach aches.

cute and sugary coated like that rhyming poetry shit- that’s just not me.
my quirky doctor wanted me to write out how I was feeling and that was the first bunch of crap that just popped into my brain.
and it made me want to barf.  it made me actually feel worse than before i sat down to write it.

but the other part, the part that i wrote and DIDN’T SHARE?  was so much worse. 
and you never want to do something that opens yourself up for judgement by your therapist,
or allow them to see the basketcase that you really are.

my abnormal life.

my abnormal life-
it’s as prickly as a cactus.
as confusing as any road map
with about a hundred do-overs,
i’m something of a mess.

all fleeting happiness overshadowed by depression.
anxiety and regression
i have faked it, but have yet to make it.
i’m not who i advertise on the outside, but i hope to be.

i write.
and i write. and i write and i write and i write.
if i dont, my brain gets gummed up with words
gets jumbled with thoughts all trying to sort themselves into something fighting to take over.
i just pray that i come across as sane.
i pray that no one sees inside.

cant sleep. wont sleep. need sleep. heartburn. nerves all jangly. Walmart in my jammies.
heart attack-like pain dulled now. Thanks Zantac! dulling to a steady burning ball of pain.

Subsiding. Writing. Denying. Pondering. Trying.
Seriously considering checking into the hospital, but way too afraid.

gotta be okay. pretend it away.
i think it might help. not sure how, but it cant hurt.
i’ve seen TWELVE MONKEYS and ONE FLEW OVER A CUCKOO’S NEST- and they certainly didnt turn out well. i know how these things work.

i must weigh my brain-health and the possibility of “getting better” against what it might mean to my son if dear old mom goes off to “The Crazy House.”
i could lie, i guess.
How are you doing, Theresa? (i say, “fine. good. great. everything is awesome.”)

too heavy to think about this at whatever o’clock in the morning.
cantdontwont go on like this.
it’s so much extra work to be THIS FUCKING NUTS.
happy one second, flipping out the next. mad after that. then falling in love the second after. smilingcryinghidingpretendingavoiding. faking it all.

holy hell, i’m a mess.
i’m embarrassed and ashamed and mad at myself.
holyshit i’m in a shame spiral again. oh goody!


should i take this more seriously?
should i take meds more furiously?
should i medicate this furiousness, SERIOUSLY?

“I want to be better.”
“Of course you do.”
“I swear it.”
“Of course.”
“Really! I’m just not there yet.”
“Of course not. These things take time.”
“We have to be patient.”
“Take your meds, dear. We’ll talk later. Right now you need to rest.”

i’m headed in the right direction i think.
is that the ativan or my inspirational quote-a-day calendar talking?

-“it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
-“Gotta go through it, to do it.”
-“Measure twice, cut once.”
-better out than in?
-smile it’s free?
-Two birds with one stone?
-an ounce of prevention and all of that shit.

i’m an absolute fucked up trainwreck basketcase whacked out nutjob.
i really am.
i’m agoraphobic, morbidly obese and suffer from Social Anxiety Panic Disorder and Depression.
a regular ol’ hotmess.
but that’s who i am.
and it’s part of my abnormal life.