Balloons waterfront Orwellian corndogs.
Maleficent recliners conditionally clotheslined tenterhooks.
Yeah, I thought so. That doesn't make any sense to me, either, but that is the best way I know how to describe my memories of the last month of my life. I have some pictures and snippets of ideas in my head about where I have been and what I have done, but there is no coherent, chronological string along which anything is threaded. Imagine that everything from the past month was pairs of socks, and that they went through the wash only to have half them fall into a black hole in the dryer.
That metaphor sucks.
Another way to describe it is that I am a guppy. 'Round and 'round I go, and where I stop, I can't remember.
My guppiness is largely attributable to the increased dosage of my psych medication over the last month. Rather than quell my rising depression and anxiety, it has let those stay and then thrown in compulsive thoughts and behaviour to flesh out my issues, because what's the use of being crazy if you're not going to go all the way?
[After that last sentence, I left the apartment to get the mail and found myself standing downstairs by the mailboxes with a mug of coffee in one hand where my keys should have been, which meant that I was locked out until the Palinode arrived home from work, and so I have spent the last hour-and-a-half sitting outside and then in Abigail and Smyrish's kitchen in the clothes I slept in the night before with a cold cup of gritty coffee as my sole possession. If a guppy could have opposable thumbs, receive mail, and drink coffee, then call me Bubbles.]
Today is the first day of moving myself back down to my original dose, because my obsessive scratching, refusal to wash anything sharp when I do the dishes, and need to keep track of exactly how many squares of toilet paper I use in a twenty-four hour period harshes my buzz in no small way. Tomorrow, I have an appointment with the medical doctor who I have been seeing while I wait for my referred psychiatrist to see me some time in October, and I am hoping that he won't say the following to me again:
Think of your husband. You must do something about this. Your behaviour is probably irritating him by now.
Oh, really? I am sitting in your office, crying into a tissue with my hands shaking around my face, at a complete loss as to how to move forward at the moment, but you have managed to put your finger on the exact heart of my problem. I am annoying to my spouse! I am irritating! All I have to do is stop being so damn nettlesome!
I am in somewhat of a better place since then, though, despite the increased medication's side effects. Choosing to lower my dose means that I will be in a slightly better position to make decisions for myself soon, and October, the month in which I will finally meet my new psychiatrist, is fast approaching. All I have to do between now and then is weather the storm of physical and emotional weirdness that comes with dosage changes and the stress that is meeting with my medical doctor, who seems to be more concerned about my being irritating than the fact that I can't bring myself to leave the house most days.
Until then, I am concentrating on being kind to myself. If I have to sleep sixteen hours a day, then so be it. If what keeps me on even keel in the afternoon is muscle relaxants and an hour of Tyra Banks, well, that is what it's going to be, (except that where I wrote "Tyra Banks", substitute something less embarrassing, like a PBS documentary). I am making a concerted effort to stop feeling guilty for needing some space in which to heal. Even if it means that I am going to be medically diagnosed as irritating.
What I mean to say is, don't worry too much about me making it through this messy spot. There are still some difficult times ahead, but I know that there is another side ahead where spending three to four hours a day watching old episodes of "Will & Grace" will no longer have to be my security blanket. (Also, I am running out of old episodes of "Will & Grace"). I will just keep inching forward until the hurt trickles out.
Or maybe, I should just take a vacation with hard liquor: Chris Rock on Depression (video).