Event Horizon

What seems like a million years ago, I took on a project at work. Funny how nine months can feel like a million years and two weeks all at once, isn't it? One day you've started this thing, hoping against hope that you can really pull it off because you can't fathom doing exactly the job you're in for 25 years, and then a split second later you are done with it. Remarkable, really.

It's like I've gone through some kind of worm hole.

It went so smoothly. Not perfect, because nothing ever goes perfectly, but smoothly. Remember how I was a bit miffed that I had been told I would report to someone? Well MY GOD was I glad she was here. I wouldn't have been able to do it without her. I learned so much and had a great time (she's a wonderful person, too, which was pretty lucky!). I hope to work with her again.

I would love to tell you exactly what I did and who was there but I can't. So I'll just share with you a few of my favorite photos of the little details that pulled it all together. It was sort of like seeing my first child brought into the world. After a long wait wondering what it was going to look like, I finally got to see my funny amoeba turn into a living, breathing thing. You know, without the labor pains and swollen ankles.

Old Topic New Fears

In the past week I've had two "episodes". It's been a long time since things have felt unstable and now, inexplicably, these rages have begun to crop back up.

No, not inexplicable. Totally explicable. See, medications have a kind of time limit on their efficacy. I know that, but I didn't want to believe it was true for me. Trileptal was working well for me. I felt almost healthy. I felt normal. I was able to function and take on challenges and make changes and friends. Husband and I have been growing together as a couple. I thought, naively, that if I ignored the little symptoms telling me that it might be time to tinker with the dosage that I wouldn't have to.

Then - BAM. In the snap of a second I had to smash my hair dryer and needed to rip my skin off. I couldn't breath. I couldn't stop crying. All total it lasted about an hour, but the emotional hangover blurred our house for days.

The second one happened last night at a dance club. I had no idea it was coming. I was excited to go dancing. I lasted about thirty minutes before the music turned up to an unhealthy decibel. Why do they even do that? My ears hurt. But it wasn't just that, it was the frequency of a high pitched voice reverberating through speakers a foot and a half over our heads. It tittered shrilly right through to my nerves. I tried to stave it off by moving away from the loudest speakers but it didn't work. I had cracked. I left the club in tears, shaking.

By this morning the medication in my system had regulated. Excepting being emotionally drained I felt fine.

Which is the worst part - the confusion. I feel mostly well, mostly normal, mostly sane and then suddenly I'm not. It's not like before where my nerves were constantly frayed and I was ten inches from mental collapse at any moment. I'm fine most of the time. I am so fine that I'm not even worried about how I will get to the other side of it. I am seeing my doctors. I am changing my pills. I am being patient and kind with myself.

But how do you explain that to the people you care about the most? How can you tell someone that those moments of terrible, skin burning anxiety and desperation are really temporary and nothing has to go back to the way it was before. We're not reliving those days because, I swear to you, I'll fix it. How to you tell someone that "I need you to just do exactly this and be patient for one more week", and have them believe it, when they have seen your demons. They have restrained your angry body and walked you out of an emergency room and held your hand at the psychiatrists office while you calmly explained that you don't really want to die but living physically hurts.

You can't explain it because every time it happens that person relives those moments. They aren't taking the mind altering medication. They haven't even been in the darkness and brought back into the light. They are simply unfortunate bystanders to your mental disorder. For them, one episode is the same as any other - horrifying and damaging and question raising. Can I keep doing this? What have I done now? When is it going to happen again? Will it ever end?

I know this time - especially this time - is going to be very temporary. I have a new medication to try. And if that one doesn't work I'll try another. But I'm scared. I'm scared it won't work or, worse, it will work but it will make me fat. I'm scared of the side effects I haven't had yet. I'm scared that, in two years, I'll have to do this all over again.

"Isn't this very bad for your liver?" Husband asked.

And it probably is. But what are my choices? Live in that dark, scary place that feels like knives and terrifies all the people close to me because I choose to worry about my liver? No, that's not even a choice. That is a fate worse than death. So I resign to the fact that, barring some miracle advancement in modern medicine, I will probably have problems with my liver at some point.

Worse, though, is this one: Do I have a right to bring a child into this world, like this? The subject came up this time. Husband and I had been tossing around the idea of babies for a couple of months and I had really warmed up to the idea. But how? I cannot even fathom how it could work. How could I be pregnant while I'm on all these drugs but then, also, how could I raise them? I never want a child of mine to experience one of my episodes. Ever. Yet I can't guarantee that they will stop happening. Is it fair of me to bring a child into that kind of world? This place is scary enough without knowing you can count on your parents not to lose their shit.

But I'm holding my fears on my tongue like a dry communion wafer. I'm making that brave face that people always tell depressed people to have, so that they, themselves, don't have to feel fear. "Just buck up," they say. I am bucking up. I've been bucking myself the fuck up for years. All I want now is for someone to hold my hand through it, hug me, squeeze me until the endorphines shoot into my brain and tell me it's going to be okay. I know it will, but oh god it sure feels good to hear it said sometimes.

Sometimes two scared people together holding on for dear life make everything feel like it really will be alright. Sometimes you just don't want to do it alone anymore.

A Day in the Life

Dear Auntie and Uncle,

You and maybe two other people are the only ones who check back on this blog these days, so this little update is for you. I thought you might be wondering what I am doing these days and the truth is – very little. The sun rises and the sun sets and each passing day looks fairly similar. Let’s take a Tuesday, just for example:

My alarm goes off but I ignore it because Husband is still in the shower. It’s no use getting up until he’s done brushing his teeth because the bathroom is so small. At least that is what I tell myself.

Once he’s vacated the space I take my turn and get myself out of the house. If I have time I’ll pass the Starbucks – not because I like their coffee (in fact it’s much to strong but I refuse to get a five dollar mocha) but because I like seeing the neighborhood pass through the line. I know the faces by heart but not their names. If I’m awake enough I smile and make small talk because it makes me feel connected. I wish I could be that guy who does his work there every other morning, or that woman who is still in her pajamas getting her morning latte but I’m not. I can only stay a moment.

Back on the road I head down past the train station and towards work. I pass the arboretum on my left and the soccer field on my right where a young dog is patiently walking his old man. At the field the old man lets the dog off his leash to go bounding through the grass, darting back and forth with vim while his friend smiles on from the safety of the fence.

Further down the way, if I’m lucky, I get to see the horses set out to pasture for the day. They gallop and buck and whinny, shaking the stiffness out of their necks. Behind a mother the foal is tripping over its knobby knees to keep up with her. Just after the horses come a field of cows who I will gladly open my window to moo at if they are close enough. These little exchanges with the scenery will prepare me for the day.

At work it is expense report day. Nobody who does expense reports loves them and I’m not different than anyone in that regard. It’s tedious and boring but somebody has to do it. So I do. The cheerful Fedex man brings me a package (“Hello sunshine!”). The grumpy UPS guy brings me a package (“Hey.”). I enter data into formulas and double check and print and collate. I smash other projects into the moments when I take a break from the monotony. I answer the phone. I eat lunch and then do it all again until closing time.

On my way home I do the reverse drive of the morning, except that the cows have moved up pasture and the horses are back in the stable. Instead of the old man with his puppy the field is full of young girls playing lacrosse. At the stoplight around the bend is the man in thick glasses who sells six roses for six dollars, rain or shine. I never buy his roses but I sometimes fantasize about driving by and forking over a wad of cash for the whole bucket of them, just to see him smile. I have only seen him smile once even though I’ve passed his post every day for the past two years or so. Sometimes I feel bad for him but I know that he chooses to be there because I’ve seen him in my neighborhood, just hanging out. What made him choose selling flowers on the roadside as his profession. Who is his family? What is his story? The light turns green and my thoughts move on.

I stop to pick up the laundry from the Korean man at the Wash & Fold. We know each other by first name which is good because he and his wife have both smelled my dirty laundry. I know that has two kids and loves classical music and opera. He knows that I’ve lived in France and work as an assistant. Between the exchange of money and clothes we share micro-details about our lives, just skimming the surface of important personal information but making the most of a moment between neighbors. I find myself a little sad when I think about the day in the future when I will wash my own clothes and no longer say hello and how are you to the drycleaner on the corner.

At home I am greeted by the cats. They meow at me from the window as I come up the walk and then yowl at me when I stumble in the door with my various bags (laundry, groceries, shoes, and a purse). I follow Fitch to the bathroom to turn on the faucet in the bathtub. Boo Radley follows me in just to chat. In a short hour Husband will be home and we will take turns washing dishes or making dinner and watching the Tuesday shows. It’s not a special night and we are both tired so I don’t even think about trying out my new (used) guitar or writing a blog or doing a sketch or even reading. I just put on my pajamas and turn off my brain. The cats take their respective posts on our laps until bedtime. It is comfortable and routine. It is just another day.

There is nothing new to report.