Northward Midget

Tag: depression

  • Fuck You

    All of you.

    All your fear.

    I lie, inasmuch as I don’t know the truth.  Inasmuch as everything I say is some dialogue of script I’ve written moments before, seconds before, split microframes of life before speaking it.  And I mean it.  At the time.  But it all fades.  Truth is ephemeral.  It’s a whisper misheard and repeated with mutations and twisted with prerogatives and turned into hateful resentment.

    I’m drinking now, and I’m posting publicly.  Now, I know this is the wrong thing to do.  I know this is what caused some … some person to … to cause me to be committed to a mental hospital.

    But I won’t stop.  I can’t stop.  We can’t stop.  None of us.

    Just say it.  Do it.  Act what you feel.

    What’s more true than the words and motions queuing up in your frontal lobes, waiting to be spilled upon the world?  If they don’t understand, fine.  If they don’t understand and don’t try, it’s a pity.  If they don’t understand and don’t care, then fuck them all to Hell.

    Years ago.

    What if she’d been honest?  What if, instead of skirting around her real feelings, hiding behind some ludicrous fear, what if she’d told me how she felt?  Because, honestly, and truly, I had no fucking idea.  I didn’t know.  I couldn’t understand.  She’d try to explain, sometimes, and I’d listen, intently, trying — but it was all gibberish.  We were speaking different languages.

    There’s only one language we all understand, and that’s the rage and tears that spill from an honest heart.

    Fuck you all and fuck God.  What kind of world is this, where we can’t communicate?  Babel was never dismantled.  It was never finished as a vain, clever gedankenexperiment by a smug watchmaker of a God.  It persists, and none of us can relate to each other.  Our fears, our pain.  They can’t be quantified or qualified.  They’re boolean values.

    We are afraid and we hurt.

    And instead of trying to fix it?  We go on to someone else.  We think they’re different.  We think they understand us.  But they’re the same beneath a different shade of paint.  We’ll get tired of them.  We’ll find some flaw.  We’ll hate them as much as we hate the man we left, or the woman we left — the person we couldn’t stand to even try to be with anymore.

    Some goddamned cunt looked me in the eye over her bifocals at CPEP and said she had never considered suicide.  Never.  Never in her life had she just wanted to turn it all off.  Deluded, or a fucking willful liar.  She must have been a doctor, a doctor of the mind, a mesmeristic witch pretending to know how people tick.  Had she never looked at herself?  How can she even be real?  Just another slug sliming her way across the illusory manicured lawns of this putrid Earth?

    Is someone going to call the police?  Is someone going to say this poor man needs help?  That he’s in a crisis?  That he’s a bad father?  That he doesn’t deserve to live but he wants to die so you should put him in a cage?

    Fuck you all.

    Every Christ-fucking one of you.

     

  • Gonna Wash That Grey Right Outta My Head

    No. Not really. It ain’t going anywhere, is it? It’s part of me. To “cure” myself would be to kill my self, and I don’t want that now, do I?

    MAOI is done. See the log up top for the final entry. Next up is “Viibryd.” As noted there, WTF? That’s one hell of a random-number-generated space-name. Sounds like something my character would be smuggling in my Star Wars campaign.

    I haven’t bothered to look it up. What’s the point? Probably the same as the others.

    Over Thanksgiving, I went to West Virginia. Although I’d brought the girls down before, that was the first time without any of my real self-produced family coming along. I felt profoundly sad and out of place. Lay on the couch after the turkey.

    Christmas went surprisingly fantastic with regards to the girls. They didn’t seem to miss a beat, or me. I was afraid there’d be some great trauma when they woke up on Christmas morning and I wasn’t there with mommy to open the presents, but apparently not.

    They came over on Christmas Eve morning and opened my gifts to them. Highlights were Ani’s playable guitar shirt from ThinkGeek, and Celyn’s decorate-able treasure chest. Only three or four hours with them, and then I was off to West Virginia again.

    The day after Christmas, a friend of the family visited.

    A sexy friend of the family.

    I felt old.

    I left soon after they did. Mom cried. She always cries. I had to get away. Had to leave there. It didn’t feel right. I didn’t want the unconditional love of family. I wanted to get back to my man-cave apartment and drink myself into oblivion. So, I drove.

    On the way back, I emailed an old PlentyOfFish.com contact on a whim. We made a date. We’ve been seeing each other exclusively since then. She’s nice, smart, sexy, and 38, so I don’t need to bother with determining whether or not I should feel guilty about dating twenty-somethings.

    The role-playing has been going well. Still every first and third Saturday. Just did a write up on the previous session. My character, Kelyn, has become a full-blown sociopath. The end scene had him ready to blow a couple of his fellow party members and a few other “innocents” out the airlock.

    Speaking of sociopathy…

    I had my first appointment with he who would become my new therapist. A real psychologist, not a licensed clinical social worker. That sounds snarky. Sincerely, I did appreciate what the previous therapist had to offer, but I didn’t need it. I don’t need someone to talk to, and I certainly don’t need someone to affirm my questionable life choices. As I’ve told my friends and others: I’d have to rape someone to get criticism from her. Not just anyone, either. A baby. With Downs.

    So, this new fellow. At first, Donald Sutherland. Then, Ian McKellan. I even cajoled him into saying, “You shall not pass!”

    His initial diagnosis is “depersonalization disorder.” That’s a new one, huh? It’s close to sociopathy, but more a learned or trauma-induced behaviour. He mentioned he’d watched “Mad Men” and recognized the lead character as having it.

    And me.

    I tried to find the book he mentioned at Barnes and Noble. Not in stock. “Finding Unreality” or somesuch. 1996, co-authored by a doctor and her patient.

    I got more out of my hour-ish with him than I did from my full run with the prior therapist.

    I’m looking forward to seeing him again. He has the spark. He knows things, sees things. He speaks on my level. He appreciates my wit. Not quite as a consumer, but perhaps as a peer.

    So, I am in the Washout til Friday. Off the MAOI. As I mentioned in the MAOI log, it’s not nearly as bad as it was with the SSRI/SNRI. However, lately, particularly today, I’ve felt low — low dipping precariously close to the dark Empty.

    The gin and tonic and Sprite and sour mix seem to have held it at bay for the time being.

    Just a few days left.

    I’m doing alright.

    I still wonder why the wife did what she did — why she sacrificed the family for some vain pursuit of “happiness”. I want to know the timeline, the sequence of events, as related by her, that led to the demise of our marriage and our family. I still don’t know.

    I guess that was the problem.

    I never knew.

    Never saw it coming.

    Until it was gone.

  • From Parnate to Nardil

    Last week my doctor switched me from Parnate (tranylcypromine) to Nardil (phenelzine).

     

    At least it’s easier to spell.

    Yesterday at work my friends kept asking if I was high.  I was very tired, maybe slightly euphoric in that tired kind of way.  Not a particularly pleasant high, unless all I had to do was sit in the sun.  Not if I had to correct the code of others in the middle of a deploy.

    After work, I had a date at the pub up the hill.  I don’t know how it went.  It seemed fine to me.  I don’t think I did or said anything particularly offensive, as I am wont to do.   I like her, she’s attractive, was fun to talk and be with.  It was a good time, and then it ended.

    Eh, it was a Monday night.  Whaddya gonna do.

    Nardil isn’t making me any happier.  On the contrary, I feel somewhat worse than when I was on a steady flow of the former MAOI.

    I’ve got to admit a gross violation of the suggested dietary restrictions for MAOI and any other anti-depressant.

    I consume alcohol daily.  Sometimes not a lot, just a beer or two.  Sometimes an awful lot (a bottle of wine or a bottle of whiskey apportioned in overpriced servings), sometimes nothing at all.  But I do it, and I know I’m not supposed to, but fuck that.

    It’s the only thing that makes me feel “good” at the moment.

    So, I’m not giving that up.  It isn’t going to happen.  Same with smoking, although that doesn’t affect the anti-depressants.

    Maybe Nardil is less tolerant of alcohol than Parnate.  I’ve read bad things about most of its “hydrazine” class being recalled due to hepatoxicity.

    In any case.

    Sometimes.

    I realize, where I’ve landed.

    And, although I say I am happier than I ever was when married, and in a sense, I really am, when compared to the loveless marriage of the past few years, and others think so, too.

    Sometimes.

    I wonder.

    Where is my beautiful wife?  Where are my beautiful girls?  Why am I all alone?

    Why am I fucking crying?