Pills With My Coffee

After six months of feeling giddy all the time, needing a nap right after breakfast, and my brain doing an impression of a Tesla coil every few minutes, the pills are starting to work. That is, they’re contributing something to my life besides side effects. I can tell because I’m in love with my cats again. I adore them in fact. I’m still pissed off about every minute of my life, and at myself for having lived it, but at least I’m keeping the cat box clean. Sometimes I even leave the house, and I’m taking showers more frequently.

Still, if too many obligations pile up, obligations to perform a thing, no matter what it is, a thing I cannot find a way to get out of or postpone, then I start wigging out completely. Then it’s not just naps anymore; it’s being paralyzed in bed for the duration, trying to ignore the fact that I have a body; curling up in fetal position among soft surfaces and staying as still as I can, until I get hungry – the one thing that will motivate me to move this hated meat puppet that I drag around.

As you can imagine, this has played havoc with my work life, and forget getting through four years of school. So, I’m broke all the time and I spend too much time imagining what my life would be like with money. The money would have to fall from the sky, though, because jobs tend to require a commitment to performing those aforementioned Things.

I’ve always thought someone should take care of me, and so far no one has, not even during my childhood. That’s probably at the core of my depression, at least as far as a shrink could get, but who can afford a shrink? And even if I could afford one, I’d still have this wonky brain chemistry that instructs my other systems to respond to stimuli that are not there. I cry for no reason, laugh because I’m hungry, and fall in passionate, horny, soaking wet love with a strange man half my age whose picture I saw on the internet, I eat voraciously when I’m not a bit hungry, and then cower in terror because I’ve promised to do. a. Thing.

So, this is what I have to work with; this is the raw material with which I’m supposed to carve out a life that doesn’t piss me off. Depression, I’m told, is mostly self-directed anger, so it looks like I was born angry. But I was also born creative. I hear love in colors that form musical phrases; my body is a drum; the inside of my eyelids is an abstract painting of the hand of a deity blessing itself. Most importantly, or at least more usefully, I can change the courseĀ  of my reaction to stimuli sometimes and redirect the energy to an easier flow.

For instance, I know that if I can find a way to deliberately interrupt my anger with gratitude, I can create some moments that do not suck. I also know how to notice my thoughts and choose different ones.This stuff works for me sometimes. Then I become an artist who creates my own reality using fluid light, and the outcome is feeling happy for whole minutes at a time. I want to teach other depressives how to do that. I want to get paid to teach/share those simple skills that can help a depressive’s day work out a bit better.

That’s what I’m creating now. Let’s see what happens next.