Feelin' good

I had a realization today, and I thought I'd commit it to paper since everything else in here is so godawful depressing (and there's a reason for that--when I get down, I get all introspective and whiny, and I feel guilty enough imposing that on a blog. When I'm up, I'm too busy sharing it with the world to sit down and write).

No more Jimmie Legs.

My periods of what has since been identified as hypomania were marked by the most horrible, skin-crawly urges to move you can believe. I would go out running only because sitting still was agony. It was the illegitimate love child of an itch and a tingle and the feeling you get when you put your tongue on a battery, multiplied by ten, and I haven't felt it in at least a month. So I'm thanking the gods and the drugs and whatever else.

No more Jimmie Legs. The urge to smoke has gone way down. The urge for sex is gone, and I've had my opportunities, too. I was irritable this weekend, but I'm fairly sure that's just due to my impending period. The insomnia's gone. The urge to eat is controllable, making the urge to purge a nonissue.

So there's joy in my life. I feel I need and deserve it. I may be down, but I know it's sadness, not depression. It's situational. It's logical for me to feel sad right now (as logical as feelings ever are). And as bizarre as it sounds, it makes me feel happy to feel sad.

It's something I discussed briefly with Dr. R. at our last session. He mentioned me being depressed about the Hot Mess thing, and I was able to correct him: not depressed, sad. Having been there, I know the difference. And when Dr. F. and I were discussing medication, I told him that I still wanted to experience my emotions, because they're what make a life out of an existence. I'd been numb, and I didn't want to do it again.

No numbness. No depression or hypomania. Happiness, contentedness, and sadness. My life's not perfect, and it's not likely to stay this way for long, but for just one day, things seem to be more or less working out on the mental health front. And when you've got the crazazy, that's pretty damn noteworthy.

A moment to whine

I'm sleep-deprived, I'm premenstrual, and I don't want a pen pal.

I just generally don't want things to be the way they are. Isn't that just the worst whiny bitching boiled down to its elemental form? "Stop the world, I want to get off!"

I don't want to be sick, I want to be sane. I don't want insomnia, I want to sleep. I don't want Hot Mess there, I want him here, and I don't want to be his pen pal, I want to be his girlfriend. I don't want "love ya," I want "love you."

And I don't want New Guy. I'm so sorry to say it, especially since he seems so into it. Actually, maybe that's why I'm not interested. What kind of 41-year-old man would be physically attracted to and intellectually stimulated by me? Must be something wrong with him, right?

I guess that's something to discuss with the new doc, Dr. R. (and best of luck in your new practice, Dr. H.). It kind of ties in with my abandonment complex, I guess; if nobody else finds me worthy of hanging around, I must be worthless. And if I'm worthless, what's this guy's problem?

The more I think about it, the more I should, I realize, hate Hot Mess for the number that he's done on my psyche and my self-esteem. He's made it quite clear that he doesn't give two shits, and I've internalized it to believe that I'm not worth two shits.

And even recognizing this, I still can't imagine being able to let him go. Now that's sick.

Frozen

Frozen is the word for how I feel. I know what I'm supposed to be doing--working out, eating better, writing my story, writing my novel, writing my screenplay, knitting that damn blanket--and it's not that I don't want to do them. I want so badly to do them. I just can't make myself move. I sit in front of the computer and can't type; I pick up my knitting and stare at it.

I lie in bed, trying to force myself to get up and do sit-ups. I cook up a nice veggie casserole and eat ice cream instead.

I wonder if this is how Hot Mess feels, constantly self-sabotaging. I realise that my issues aren't quite as serious as his, but still--to know what you need to do to make life better and to not be able to do it. To only be able to do the opposite.

It almost--well, okay, no almost, it does, it makes you lose hope that things will get better if you can't make those small steps, if you can't let them get better. And when things don't get better, you know the only person you have to blame is yourself.

He lost his job because he was an asshole. I might miss my deadline because I haven't written this story. Things could go right, but they aren't going right, because when I try to do what's right, I freeze. And maybe, like Hot Mess, I'm just subconsciously scared of what will happen when I do finally get my shit together.

Or I'm just lazy.

On my own

I'm not doing too great. Ever since Hot Mess left, I'm not eating right, I'm not getting to sleep on time, my place is a mess... And it's not like I've ever really been the queen of clean living, but when I'm in a good emotional place, I don't do too badly.

And toward the end, there, especially, H.M. was really looking out for me. He always kind of teased me about my insomnia, and we'd do a lot of eating together, but toward the end, he always made sure that I had dinner, and he'd be the first one to call me on it when I stayed up past my bedtime. I guess that was his way of showing that he cared about me as a friend. Not a bad way to show it, all told, but would that it meant something more.

And now I have this quasi-date on Saturday, which is bringing up all the old anxieties and then some, and I lack the support structure to handle it in a healthy manner. So I eat my weight in fries, and I narrowly avoid making myself barf, and I fall asleep on the couch. And I do have a therapy appointment coming up, but it's not until Tuesday, and I've got to break in a new damn therapist since Dr. H. bailed.

It's not like I resent her for leaving; it's just that she already understands why losing H.M. is so hard on me. I don't have to explain. With Dr. R., I'll have to give him the breakdown of our entire relationship, and there's still a chance (a good one) that he'll just see it as your standard breakup when really it's so, so much more.

It's such a scary thought that I can't take care of myself. I'm 27 fucking years old; I'm old enough to eat right and get to fucking bed on time. But throw a guy into it...

That's really not fair, though. Hot Mess is more than a guy, he's a friend and an ex and a man I love and a person I care about and a person who took care of me.

And I guess part of me wonders, if I'm not worth it enough for anyone in my life to stay around and look out for me, what's the point in looking out for myself?

The going and the gone

So, it's been a while since I've felt the need to write in this thing. That's got to be a good sign, right?

Had my last session with Dr. H. this morning, and she raised an important thought: How am I going to deal with Hot Mess's absence? I've given all of this attention to the going without lending a thought to the gone. And the gone is going to be a bitch.

The gone is going to leave a great big fucking hole with absolutely nothing to fill it except food, random sex, and shopping. I have no one in my life currently who can easily move into the role he has in my life. And I don't know how to find or what to look for in a potential candidate. I'm completely at a loss.

And I'm so afraid to screw it up. Getting things right with Hot Mess--at least, as right as they are--has been painful enough. With new people, or new relationships with old people, there are so many opportunities for screwups, and that could be a significant setback for me.

And yet, I don't resent him for going. I know this is what he needs to be doing right now. If anything, I'm jealous; I wish I had the stones to chuck it all and pursue a dream. Maybe I'll be inspired. Or maybe not.

He flies Friday. We've reached the official point of no looking back. That's two days to enjoy his presence, refrain from declaring my love for him, and try my best to prepare for the aftermath of his departure.

Or just not think about it at all. Yeah. I think I'll go with that one.

All I want

I've been thinking a lot about life lately (duh), and I guess that's why something really struck me as I read this interview with this industrial designer. He was talking about archetypes and the way we cling to them even when technology no longer dictates that we have to. Why are phones and cameras and cars shaped the way they are now when modern advances offer so many other options? Why build a camera when you could build a "digital photo machine."

That got me thinking about the archetypes in my life and Dr. H.'s comment that "normal" is only about statistics. What things do I only do or want because it's traditional to do or want them? What do I really want, the hot list, the necessities, that I'm limiting myself to traditional means of pursuit?

I want love, for one. That's the big big. Marriage? Dunno. I'll probably have to because I want kids, and they're better off in that legal social structure. But there's not reason that it has to be a "traditional" marriage, whatever that means, and if I meet the right guy, I'm sure it won't be. Scratch that: it definitely won't be, because I'm not getting married until I find that right man, age be damned. Young marriage is just an archetype, and a pretty stupid one, if you think about it. Why make that kind of commitment when you're immature and naive?

Maybe immaturity and naivete are what it takes.

I want to be confident that I'll be able to afford food and shelter. But that doesn't mean a traditional 9-to-5. Freelancing, writing, odd jobs, bartending, sending handcrafts, singing--all of these are sources of income. Sure, they don't come with insurance--which is a must--but I might marry a man with benefits, or I might make enough to afford them on my own.

I want a pleasant physical environment. My mental/emotional state is heavily influences by my environment, so it needs to be uncluttered and pleasant. This actually recommends against trad jobs, because there's not too much you can do with an office or cubicle. This also doesn't necessitate a house; a yard would be nice, but so would a sunroom filled with plants, and great landscaping can be found around condos, apartments, and townhomes. And any dog I'd want would be just as happy walking to the park as tear-assing around a back yard.

I want a dog.

I want a good relationship with my family, but not at the expense of the other stuff. If they love me, they should want me to be happy, even if I find that happiness in nontraditional--but not dangerous--ways. And if they can't support me in that, we might have to reevaluate our relationship.

I want variety. I get so bored so easily, so I need stimulation and interest and change. This really recommends against trad jobs and housing, because it's hard to run off and chase a story for six months when you've got a McJob at home. I guess a condo, once paid off, could be conducive to travel, provided it was small and low-maintenance.

I want stability. I know that it seems at odds with the "variety" thing, but it's not. I just want to be able to count on the things that I want. I want to know that my love will treat me right and that I'll have food and shelter and intellectual stimulation wherever I go. It doesn't seem like much just written down like that. Kind of attainable, actually.