What a bleak and bizarre few days it has been. My depression has not subsided, it has merely worsened to the point where I'm having crying spells again. I thought I had moved past that since my last brush with the dark cloud, but I was mistaken. I cry every time I am reminded of my life before Benny Bipolar; I cry when I try reaching out to friends and I feel rejected; I cry when I look at my school books and sit in class because I so want to be participating in the academic process like everyone else I know. There has been so much crying that people notice something different about the way my eyes sit plastered on my face, small, glassy, and red.
The psychiatrist called yesterday as I was sitting at the dining room table, wondering what there was to do and what meaning exists in my life. I answered briskly and was surprised to hear his voice, chirpy and sunny as ever.
"Hi, Amanda?" (He has a way of raising the tone of his voice at the end of sentences, especially questions)
"So I talked to your therapist and we've decided an SSRI would be appropriate right now. Do you have any Zoloft left?"
"Yes. A few."
"Well take half and then when I see you next week I will write you out another prescription."
"Great, see you soon."
I can't say I am thrilled about popping more pills, relying on chemically concocted medications to help me not be stuck in the mud. Then again, I don't see many alternatives. I took actions and made decisions that were "correct" for combating the darkness, but here I am again, sinking more and more into the diaper brown mud despite all my preventative efforts. If one white pill can assist me in scooping away the watery waste, I might as well give it another try. My only concern is that the Zoloft will do what it did before after a few months--make me manic and out of control. My theory is, that won't happen as long as I am with Lucy Lithium. Somehow.
Last night I visited Chloe, who came in from Pomona for Thanksgiving. Suffice to say she hasn't changed one bit, and that for sure is good news for me. (Have I abandoned my liberal roots in favor or anti-change conservatism?) I filled her in on what's been going on these past several weeks, but realizing I was taking up so much time, I directed the focus back at her, who informed me she wants to take a year off next fall. Ahhh. See? Even a dazzling genius like Chloe needs some time to regroup and remove herself from the demands of Academia.
Speaking of which, my dad is coming to our house tomorrow at the advice of my therapist, who listened to the both of us on Tuesday voicing our grievances about me staying in school. I told my mother this morning, "Mom, is it okay if I ask dad to come over tomorrow so I can talk to both of you about...how I'm feeling?"
"How are you feeling?"
Her face dropped in understanding, and she took my shoulders in an embrace. "I know you are."
"Okay, so I think we should all talk about what I could do..."
She let me go and looked me square in the eye. "Is this about school?"
I stopped breathing. My heart stopped beating. "It's about everything."
I breathed again and my heart came back into motion. Not all will be settled by the start of next week, though. I can feel it. If my mother wants to remain her stubborn, projecting self (which she probably will) and refuses to support me in my decision to withdraw from school, I'll simply tell her, "Then I am not going to take lithium anymore." That's the truth. If I must stay, the only possible way I can get anything done and recollect the broken pieces of my education is to quit the agent that is disrupting my ability to think and concentrate and memorize. That's just the way it has to be.
I left the house before noon with my sister to attend Thanksgiving Dinner #1. We arrived at my dad's to follow everyone out to Theo Minoli's for the dinner, and there was little Olivia, changing her clothes for the tenth time, her room littered with red stockings and blue skirts and waffle texture underwear. She decided on a pink skirt and a pink shirt, but when she realized her ghastly mistake of forgetting her socks, she requested the "long white ones." My stepmother went upstairs to find them, but all she could find were long pink socks. Olivia threw herself on the kitchen floor, kicking her legs, propelling herself around and around like an angry windmill. My dad motioned for us to come outside, and from the driveway we could hear her erratic screams and wails as she fought off the evil pink socks.
Once we got to Theo's house, Olivia still had no socks--and no shoes. She walked in barefoot, scowling daggers at anyone who looked her way. Even with an unflattering facial expression, she was still very pretty. My stepmom's gay friends who were invited fawned over the precocious five-year-old, who was shouting, "Pumpkin pie! Pumpkin pie!" for two minuts straight. We ate massive quantities of food and somehow had room for dessert. One Thanksgiving down, one to go.
And, being the vegetarian I am, I did not eat turkey.
I'm right there with you in that state of depression, days are just harsh harsh harsh. I am completely prozacless, as I'm too afraid to call Dr. O'Melia in person, and have not heard from the misc. other sources about my prescription. Anyway, thanksgiving is other, and neither of us ate turkey, go us.