Archive for the ‘The Crazy’ Category

This morning my hair straightener broke. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but it meant I couldn’t wear my hair down today because it was tumbleweed sized and the curling iron couldn’t start to tame it. So I pulled it up into the worlds tiniest ponytail and turned around to see the back. To my surprise for the first time in a few years, the scar on the back of my head was plainly visible.

And more surprisingly, for the first time in a long time, I was self-conscious about it. I was genuinely worried that people might comment, or stare. That it would be noticeable again.

It’s no secret that I have some substantial scars. I have the one on my head, the one on my breast, a couple of good ones on my arms, a few on my legs. My skin is marked with experience in the very same way that my spirit is.

You can’t see all the scars on the inside, but on weeks like this one, they seem to show a little clearer.

I have a scar in my memory from the last time I went to a therapist for anorexia and she told me I wasn’t that thin.

I have scars in my memory from the last time I recovered from not eating by gaining all the weight, and then some, back.

I have scars in my memory from the pain of admitting my problems, time and time again.

I have scars in my memory from all sorts of things I wish had never happened. Many of which were my own doing.

My mind feels raw with its wounds right now, my spirit cracked in more places that it’s solidly together. I am trying to let them heal, to take care of myself and to find my way back to normal, but it’s a struggle. It seems like every time I start to heal in one place, something else breaks.

I feel exposed right now, like all my flaws are on show. It makes me feel even less in control of my life, which really makes everything worse.

It’s amazing how just this morning I found myself worried about what people would think of the scar on my neck, of how they would react if they saw it. And then I realized that it wasn’t really about that scar at all, it was about all my wounds and imperfections.

It was about how worried I am that people might see what’s really going on and how that might change everything.

It started innocently.

I woke up sick at a weekend retreat in San Diego last month. I didn’t really eat much because I felt like hurling pretty much all day. I tried to eat as much as my stomach would allow, but at the end of the day, it didn’t amount to much. When I got on the scale the next morning, I had lost two full pounds.

I haven’t mentioned it too much, but with starting school in August and with the restrictions on activity from the blood patches, I’ve put on some weight I never really wanted. Exercise hasn’t even been an option, particularly given how difficult a regular full school day is right now, and that hasn’t helped much.

Shortly after that weekend, my husband started working nights, meaning he was at work from 5pm to 6am, which was the polar opposite of my schedule. I leave for school between 6 and 7 in the morning and rarely get home before 5 in the evening. While he’s on nights I don’t seem him for 5 or more days at a time, which is tough for a number of reasons. During those weeks I’m responsible for myself only. And somehow I failed at that this time.

While my husband was working nights, I drifted into a familiar pattern. It wasn’t intentional or planned. It wasn’t even something I was fully aware at first.

I was starving myself.

I don’t need to rehash all the details, but I was pretty successful. In two weeks I lost the weight I gained in the past 8 months and then some. I became close friends with my scale, weighing myself multiple times a day, letting the numbers dictate what I ate. I became paranoid of eating foods that would bring the weight back on. I started letting food rule my life.

It took me a week or so before I realized what I was doing. And it took me about 10 seconds after that to realize why. It wasn’t about the weight. It wasn’t really about the weight last time either. It was about the fact that every other part of my life is going to hell in a handbasket. My grades are starting to sink, I’m not sleeping, I’m in so much pain on a day to day basis that I have thoughts that I can’t even admit to here. My husband, my family are all impacted by this.

And I can’t control any part of it.

But food I could control. Losing weight was something I could accomplish, something that I could be responsible for, something I wasn’t screwing up. Which, when you get right down to it, is pretty fucking ironic because screwing up was exactly what I was doing. And even when I realized what I was doing, I didn’t stop. Because in some totally distorted way, I was happy. If I’m being honest, I’m still struggling to stop.

It’s been almost a month and I haven’t told anyone. I only told my husband last night. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because I was, I am, embarrassed. Because there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want to stop, that doesn’t want to lose the control that I’ve finally rediscovered.

I want to say that really don’t know how this happened, how I ended up back in this place, but I do. I am just disappointed in myself, humiliated that this has happened again.

And now I have to own up. I have to admit that I have another problem, I have to seek help because clearly I can’t handle this, my life, on my own. And it’s so damned frustrating that I just want to scream. I don’t know how to live like this, where nothing is mine, where nothing is under my own power or choice. I don’t know how to be a passenger in the backseat of my life.

It’s interesting that people always say that the hardest part is admitting you have a problem. But I’m starting to feel like the hardest part is actually admitting that you are the problem. That the only thing that’s really wrong is you.

After a restless night in a hotel near the hospital, I’m back at home, on my couch. I’ve been trying to estimate if my head feels better, but the relentless pain in my back has made that a challenge. The pain from my back is so acute that it sort of reduces other pain in my body to negligible levels. Which sort of has its benefits.

And so for now, I’m completely undecided on my head. It definitely still hurts, but might be better. It’s just too early to tell.

I’ve spent the day wrapped up in my own thoughts. I’m in a weird place. For 7 months, my whole life has been defined by pain. Every hour has been spent, at least on some level, coping with it. It has infiltrated everything from school to my marriage to my sleep. My life is different than it was 7 months ago.

I’m sure it seems a little crazy, but I’m almost afraid that I don’t know who I am without pain. This doesn’t mean that I don’t want the pain to go away, that I wouldn’t be thrilled to be without a headache, but I’m scared. I don’t know if I remember how to be me anymore. I feel like my life, who I am, has been masked by pain for so long that I won’t even recognize myself.

I have learned how to adapt to this life, I’ve learned how to get done what I need to get done with pain, and it feels like chronic pain isn’t so much an inconvenience as it is a part of me now. An extremely painful part, but a part nevertheless. And so as I wait to see if the pain changes, or in a best case scenario, completely goes away, I wonder a little bit about who will be left behind.

I wonder who I have become, who I am now after 7 months with pain diluting my personality, my life. Am I diluted for good? Am I a watered down version of who I once was?

I know it sounds against all reason to say that I’m afraid of what life will be like without pain, but it’s like all other changes. It’s a mist clouded field of unknowns.

I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what to expect or what to prepare for. I’m afraid that I’ve spent all this time working to be me again, when it might already be too late. I might be lost, changed forever from those months behind this veil of pain.

I don’t even know where to begin.

I went back to school Monday morning, bright and early. Things went okay, though it was incredibly overwhelming and absolutely exhausting, but I managed.

The very last thing that I had to do before leaving school was change out of my anatomy lab scrubs and tennis shoes back into my normal clothes. I got dressed, and without even thinking, bent over to pick up my flip flop to put it on. Normally, this would be no big thing. But normally, I haven’t had 3 needles and a crap ton of blood shoved into my back in the past week. I can only describe what I felt when I bent over as unholy, terrifying pain. By the time I got to my car (sobbing all the way, I might add, because crying in public? kind of my thing now) my back hurt from just below hip level to the middle of my shoulder blades.

And then I got to sit in traffic for an hour and a half. (And do a whole lot more crying.)

While stuck in my car, I got a call from my husband.

Important tangent: My husband has a hard time getting work done with noise, so he will often work in the bathtub, with his laptop on a chair. He runs the water and it acts as kind of a white noise machine. Yes, it’s a little odd (and yea, a little mental image-y, sorry about that), but it works for him.

Or it did.

Because the call that I got from my husband? was to let me know that my cat had walked up behind his computer and knocked it off the chair and into the full bathtub.

My husband’s not even two year old MacBook Pro, was submerged in hot water. HOT WATER. In case you were keeping track, that was thousands of dollars, literally down the drain. I don’t even have words for this yet.

After getting home and eating dinner and finishing homework and dealing with a very upset husband, I went to bed early, hoping to help with the exhaustion. I went to bed at 9:30 and proceeded to spend more time awake than asleep before my alarm went off at 5:40 in the morning.

And as if on schedule, on the way to school, I had a total meltdown. For whatever reason, the commute to and from school just demolishes my sanity. It’s like I sit in a river of hormones for those 3 hours each day.

What I realized this morning was that my midterm exams are in less than 3 weeks (I have 6 of them in one week), I have missed 9 days of school (out of 15) and I’m so far behind that I don’t even know what I don’t know except that it’s A LOT.

Another important tangent: In December, Slappy and I had decided that because I had a 3 day weekend that happened to fall on Valentine’s Day, his birthday and the weekend before Mardi Gras, that we could swing a trip down to New Orleans to celebrate. He got a week off work, we bought tickets.

It’s something I’ve been looking forward to so very much. And I realized this morning that I couldn’t go, not with school, not with all these absences piling up. I have insisted that Slappy go any way because he has a week of vacation and loves Mardi Gras, but I’m just bummed as hell to not be there (for his birthday especially). I know it’s the right choice, it’s just a shitty one. I took comfort in the fact that I was scheduled to go to New Orleans for 2 weeks in early March for a clinical rotation for school. It made the decision easier, the disappointment a little less.

So I cried for the remaining 20 miles of my morning commute, arrived at school on time (looking like a hot mess) and sat through a PAINFULLY long lecture that was given by the instructor who is assigned as my faculty “mentor.” After class I went up to him to let him know about the (pertinent) post blood patch restrictions, especially the not pushing, pulling, lifting 5 pounds for 2 months thing. Because in the field I’m going into, and in his class especially, we do a hell of a lot of pushing, pulling and lifting.

And he sighed sympathetically, thought for a moment and told me that I wouldn’t be able to take two of my midterms on time. Both require me to lift much more than 5 pounds and perform exercises that I simply can’t do, at least not in less than 3 weeks when I’m supposed to. So now I have to take 2 of my midterms at final exams. Don’t look now, but it’s LAST SEMESTER ALL OVER AGAIN.

So then I cried some more.

And then he told me that I had to meet with the program director at lunch to discuss other ramifications of the 5 pound bullshit. The first thing she asked me was if I thought I should drop to half time, which would extend my program by a year. She told me that some of my instructors had indicated that they’re concerned that I’m not going to pass and while she has confidence in me, she had to ask. In case you wondered, the answer is no. She and I have had this conversation before and the answer is still the same. I’m not spending an extra year in school. It may sound stubborn, but I’ll quit first. But it feels really GREAT to know that my instructors don’t think I can pass my classes.

And then, when I thought things couldn’t get worse, she informed me that because of the fucking five pound rule, those 2 weeks in New Orleans that I was clinging to? They’re gone.

I can’t go.

I’m sure it sounds silly because it’s not that big of a deal in the long run, but it fucking sucks. I have worked so hard to get to where I am. I worked so hard to pass last semester so that I could do those 2 weeks in New Orleans. I sacrificed time and sanity to be able to make it to this point. And it’s for nothing.

It’s another casualty of my health.

It’s another dream demolished by pain.

And just in case you weren’t keeping track, today, this awful day filled with suck, also happens to be the 6th month mark on this headache. If that isn’t just fitting, I don’t know what is.

I have lost so much in these six months and today, like many other days, I have been defeated by this pain. I have been reminded of all that has been stolen from me. I have been reminded of how my life, my dreams have been forever changed by pain.

And I am a mess.

And I just don’t know how long it’s going to take to clean things up this time.

Today began much as I had anticipated. I slept in until 9 (minus feeding the cats at 6:30 because it would apparently kill them to sleep in too…), my mom and I got on the road at 10:30, I had the first throw of death by hunger at 10:31 and even though google maps said that without traffic the hospital was only a 50 minute drive away, it took us the entire hour and a half to get there. Fun times had by all, let me tell you.

We checked in and because of a communications snafu, ended up sitting in the wrong waiting room for an hour. And by sitting, I obviously mean laying down on the bench, contracting 800 different diseases but trying to reduce the enormous head pain of being upright. Once that got sorted out, I was taken to the very same pre-op area where I’d spent my past 2 Fridays. It’s always nice when the nurses know who you are before seeing your chart.

My nurse got down to business and told me that she’d have to put in not one, but two IVs. She then took to alternately examining and smacking my arm to see if there were any good veins. She did not approve, nor instill confidence. A small lifetime later I had one IV in each hand and I had climbed on the gurney to go to interventional radiology.

Now, I’m not new to blood patches. I’ve had 2 now. They’re not a big deal. You lay on your stomach, they numb you, insert the needle (check it’s location on x-ray), take some blood and shoot it in. It’s not comfortable, to be sure, but just not that big of a deal.

I met with my neurosurgeon (more on that another time) and then was introduced to my anesthesiologist. Um, wait. What? Anesthesia? No. Just no. Anesthesia and I do not agree. In fact, we usually hate each other with the force of hours of dry heaving. After much convincing and hyperventilating, the anesthesiologist agreed to not use Propofol, but a different drug that would give the “twilight” effect.

I rolled onto the procedure table, my back was exposed and the anesthesiologist explained that he was giving me some Versed and Fentanyl. Before I could say anything, my eyes were droopy. I was awake, but dude, the world could’ve ended and I’d have smiled right through it. As it turns out, anesthesia and I don’t agree, but Versed and I are pretty much blood brothers.

The procedure itself was VERY uncomfortable because my neurosurgeon believes that the best way to do blood patches is to put as much blood in as he can before the patient cries uncle. And when you cry uncle, he puts a little more in anyway, just for good measure.

In a word: ouch.

The whole thing was over in less than 30 minutes and my mom was brought back in. And then she made a fantastic little mistake. She gave me my phone.

Um, I misspelled cake. I was clearly high out of my mind.

After my hour of coming down off my high resting the nurse came in to give me my post-operative instructions. I expected the whole lay flat for a day and take it easy nonsense. Which is why I literally laughed out loud upon reading my post-op notes.

“For two months: no high impact exercises, including running, jumping, bumpy rides, bending forward, or lifting objects heavier than 5 pounds, including heavy grocery bags. Walking or mild swimming in warm water is okay.”

Okay, first of all, high impact bending forward? How do you even do that? I really want to try it, because, dude, how wouldn’t that be awesome?

And mild swimming? Is that like halfway between drowning and freestyle?

But wait, there’s more.

“Sexual activity for 2 months: Female on top, male on bottom.”

Um.

Wow.

So, let me see if I can get this straight (and break everyone’s minds). No high impact exercises, including “bumpy rides” but the only way that I can have sex is on top?

I totally just got the high impact bending over restriction.

Honestly, I can’t wrap my mind around this. Have these people never had sex? Because that’s just not how it works. Or just never had good sex? And more importantly, what the hell kind of study did they have to do to figure out that being on top was less traumatic?

I mean REALLY.

I suppose I can’t hold too much of a grudge, I did get really high on some really REALLY good drugs today. And, you know, he might have repaired this headache, which I guess is probably a good thing. I suppose that in exchange I can stick to mild swimming, low impact bending over and dictated sex.

The sacrifices I make for my health. Sheesh.

Last week in therapy it didn’t take long before the therapist asked me if I’d ever been in therapy before. I sighed, unsure of how to answer. Yes, I have.

The last time was in 2002.

I was a freshman in college, my life, my emotions were a disaster. I say that I’m depressed now, but this doesn’t hold a candle to the way things were 8 years ago. 8 years ago I poured out a fistful of tylenol PM, brought that fist of pills to my mouth and very nearly downed them. To this day, I don’t know what convinced me not to.

I called my mom the next morning and she convinced me to do what I had sought to avoid. Anti-depressants. I began taking the pills and things quickly got better. The sun seemed to shine again, school became easier, the homesickness quieted some.

Somewhere in asking for help, I lost some control in my life. Without even realizing it, I began to seek out that control in other places. I began studying intensely, I began running miles and miles a day and I began counting calories. The exercise and eating habits were innocent at first. I was around 15 pounds overweight when I went into college, and I truly just wanted to lose a little.

Each morning I woke up at 6. I had exactly 1 cup of cherrios, changed into my running clothes and ran anywhere from 3-6 miles. I then hit the weight room and lifted weights for about an hour. I went about my day, eating a salad with fat free dressing for lunch and going to the gym again in the evening, usually for 30 minutes on the bike and more weight lifting. Dinner was almost universally a bagel.

I rationalized it all. I was eating 3 meals a day. Some days I’d even have an apple for a snack. I was just eating healthier, I was just exercising.

There was a scale outside the gym locker rooms. I lived for that scale. I had dreams about that scale and the number it might show. It was my private judge, telling me if I was good enough. It was my best friend and my worst enemy.

I would weigh myself before and after exercising every morning. My mood for the day was tied to the numbers on that scale. If I gained even a half a pound, I would spiral. I would panic, I would run an extra mile and work out harder at my second work out. If my weight was down, I would be elated.

Months passed and the weight continued to fall off. I had muscles where I had never had them before. I had endurance. I could fit into clothes that were half the size of what I used to wear. The numbers ticked lower and lower. 140. 135. 125. 122. 115. 111.

My friends all made comments about it. They knew something was up. I denied it over and over again. My family made comments, I ignored them. I was being healthy. Didn’t they see how much better I looked? Didn’t they see how much healthier I was?

I still remember the day I realized that something was wrong.

I was lying in bed early in the morning, waiting for my alarm to go off so I could go to the gym. I realized that something didn’t feel right. Something with my body was not the way it was supposed to be. I finally realized that it was my heart. I took my pulse. 40 beats per minute. Then 37 beats per minute.

It hit me. I was killing myself.

I took a look in the mirror. My hair was falling out. My face looked gaunt. My clothes didn’t fit.

But I was finally thin.

That morning I got up and ran anyway. I got on the scale, twice. I felt the twinge of happiness at seeing another half a pound gone.

I continued like this for weeks and weeks. Knowing that I was doing something wrong. Knowing that like the night I had the tylenol PM, I was on a clear path to killing myself. My body had given me every signal it had. I didn’t have a period for 10 months (at that point), my skin was covered in a fine layer of hair. I was constantly cold, my pulse rarely got above 50 beats per minute.

I finally reached out for help. I called the student health center and made an appointment with a counselor. I didn’t know where else to turn.

It was disaster.

When I told the therapist why I was there, she told me that I didn’t look that thin to her. I was dumbfounded. I left the appointment feeling worse than I had when I walked in the door. I went for an extra run that day, after all, I didn’t look that thin.

It took months to finally stop myself. To let myself enjoy food, to sleep in. But even now, 8 years later, the urge is still there. The therapist last week said it was like an addiction, the compulsive eating and exercising. The anorexia.

I had never thought of it that way, but now in retrospect, I see how it is exactly that. I will always have thoughts in about starving myself. About being too fat. About needing to exercise more. There will always be moments where I wonder if I could skip a meal without my friends or husband noticing. Where I wonder if I could get away with a low calorie meal without anyone realizing.

I have kept those thoughts in check to the best of my ability. But times like now where I’m about 7 pounds heavier than I want to be, it’s a real challenge. I can’t look at a picture of myself without seeing the extra pounds. I can’t look in a mirror and not see the extra thickness in my stomach and thighs. I can’t not notice that my clothes are fitting more snugly than I want.

I sometimes wonder how I will manage having kids and having these thoughts. How will I be able to model healthy living for my children when I don’t want that at all? When what I really want is to be stick thin. When what I really want is to be able to run a 6 minute mile again. To run a 10K without even breaking a sweat again.

It took me years to get to the place where I am today. Where I can ignore the thoughts for the majority of the time. But I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be free from this. Free from my addiction. I wonder if I’ll ever look at myself in the mirror and not be disappointed. I wonder if I’ll ever believe it when someone tells me I look good.

I wonder if I’ll be happy with who I am, or if I will always wish to be something more. Or I guess technically, something less.

So remember that one time I said I was depressed? Crap. Me too.

And the thing is, I made that stupid appointment. And then put it out of my mind. Because dudes, therapy is not my favorite thing. In fact, on the list of things I like, it’s well, NOT ON THERE. And I looked at my calendar yesterday and hey guess what? That appointment is tomorrow.

It feels a little ironic that I am this unsettled by the idea of therapy. Isn’t that the opposite of what therapy is for?

What do I say? Hi, I’m Katie, I’ve had a headache since August. I haven’t killed anyone or myself yet (a fact for which I’m sort of surprised that no one has given me a trophy yet). I am also occasionally weepy, you would be too if you’d had a headache for FIVE MONTHS.

I am struggling with understanding how this is going to help. This therapist isn’t going to be able to stop this pain. This therapist isn’t going to make it disrupt my life less. Contrary to the whine-fest that is this blog, I don’t actually like to talk about my pain much. It makes me feel whiny, which again, ironically I’m not a fan of. I feel weak when I tell people how much the pain affects me. I feel small and silly.

I am the master of minimizing my problems, and I know that I will do this with a therapist. If you know me in person, you’ve probably seen this. I shrug things off when in front of people. I pretend like they aren’t as bad as they are because it’s not pleasant to talk about how fucking horrible things really are. And the idea of spending an hour tomorrow talking about just that, is just entirely unappealing.

I know that there are like 30,000 reasons why therapy is a good idea, but all of them escape me now. Instead I can think of about a bajillion reasons why it’s not, mainly that I don’t want to, I don’t like it and I don’t want to.

In the end I’ll go, I’ll answer questions and talk. I will sweat profusely and stutter. I do not promise success, or even a second appointment.

But I will go, I will give it a real try and I will keep a (mostly) open mind. At this point, I can’t afford to close doors to healing. Even when they’re the ones I don’t want to walk through in the first place.

(Warning, this post is kind of really freaking gross. And it doesn’t make me look very good. And really, I have no idea why I’m telling you this.)

So last Monday I finished with my last final exam/make up midterm, drove home and took a nap. I wallowed around the house until Slappy and I went out to dinner and as usual, he asked me to drive.

I drive almost everywhere because I am a control freak can’t stand when he moves forward at red lights like it makes them turn green faster like to drive and he doesn’t. So we walked to my car, opened the door and dropped dead.

When I tell you that my car smelled like ass, I’m not trying to be obnoxious or crass, but literally, the only way I can describe the stench that poured out of my car is to tell you that it smelled like someone put their ass in there and left it to die.

Holy crap.

I decided to tackle the smell the next day and we took Slappy’s car. Before we left, the sage doctor suggested that I park the car in our garage and open all the windows to air it out. And because I’m really stupid and I didn’t see the huge flaw in this plan, I agreed.

The next morning I opened the garage to go to the grocery story and before I knew what had happened the ass smell reached up and smacked me in the face. And so did my stupidity. Because our garage gets no fresh air. So basically I stewed our entire garage in ass smell over night.

Oh. dear. God.

I drove my car out of the garage and cleaned it out. I found nothing rotting. I found nothing dead. I found nothing.

But the smell. The smell persisted.

Slappy suggested that it was cat food. Because you see, this one time, a year and a half ago, we evacuated for a hurricane and a full bag of cat food spilled in my trunk. And I cleaned it out, but failed to realize until July of this year that there were like 2 pounds of cat foot in the spare tire well of the car and that’s why my car perpetually smelled like Petco.

(Stop judging me.)

I scoffed at him and felt assured that if I aired out the car for a few hours all would be well.

I was wrong. (Holy crap, did I just say that?)

And moreover, he was right. (Proof that the ass smell has forever ruined my ability to use sound reason or judgement.)

Let’s just say that PERHAPS moldy cat food (erm, it rained for almost a week in Los Angeles, and evidently some water got into the spare tire well of my car…barf) smells a lot like ass and PERHAPS I had to air my car out for a solid week before the smell diminished.

The moral of this story is, I’m pretty much the classiest person you’ll ever meet.

And also? If you spill catfood in your trunk, don’t wait 18 months to clean it out.

You’re welcome.

To be honest with you, I had a completely different post written that I just deleted.

I had written all about the appointment with the neurologist and how she, as usual, had no idea what was wrong. And how she prescribed me a HUGE dose of steroids that I’m not planning on taking. And how afterwards I went to the student health center and got a referral for and called and scheduled an appointment with the shiny new doctor who specializes in CSF leaks.

But I’m not going to tell you all about that.

Today my doctor asked me a lot of questions. Some about pain, some about my life. And eventually she got to the question that I knew was coming and before I could stop myself, a lie spilled out.

My doctor asked me, point blank, if I was depressed. She even went so far as to say that she would be depressed if she was in my shoes (for the record, that’s ALWAYS comforting…) because this situation is shitty. And I looked her in the eye and lied.

I said no.

I told her I had been depressed before, but this wasn’t the same. And maybe a shred of that is true. But…

I am depressed. I need help.

There. I said it.

I have focused so much time on trying to find the source of this pain and dealing with the way it has ravaged my body that I have long ignored what the pain and dealing with the pain has done to my mind. I’ve told you a hundred times that pain has changed me, but I think I wasn’t willing to see just how much.

The person I used to be didn’t cry every day. She definitely didn’t cry over stupid things every day. She wouldn’t have cried when a parking attendant yelled at her for (ACCIDENTALLY) breaking a pen while signing an debit card slip. This person I am today, did. (This person I am also might have flipped her off while crying.)

The person I used to be didn’t get upset and suddenly forget how to cope with tough stuff or even cope with easy stuff. The person I used to be identified the problem, made a plan and stuck to it.

The person I used to be was happy.

The person I am is not.

I have moments, hours, even days of happiness. But more often I have hours and days and weeks of the opposite. I have sleepless nights filled with despair. I have a blog that reads like a tale of sorrow, a tale of woe. I have a marriage that is suffering fiercely and a husband who wants nothing more than to fix something that he cannot fix.

I am depressed. I need help.

I don’t want help. I don’t want to talk to someone, I don’t want to have a discussion about medication. I don’t want to have this be a part of my life again. I’ve done mental illness. I’ve done it in fucking spades. And maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time this go around.

I thought I beat it.

I didn’t.

Tomorrow morning, I’m doing what so many of you have tried to get me to. I’m doing the thing I have been trying to avoid for weeks, maybe even months at this point.

I’m calling and making an appointment with a therapist. I have to. I see that now.

I see that my happiness, my life, is hanging in the balance.

So it rained in Southern California today. Which means that traffic was a nightmare and people everywhere thought the world was ending.

Having lived in New Orleans for 3 years, where it rains at least weekly, I just didn’t think that the weather was that big of a deal. It’s water kids, chill the hell out.

Since I had a final exam in the afternoon, before leaving into the storm, I put on my finals uniform. A school shirt, sweat pants, a sweat shirt and flip flops. I learned that flip flops are better than good shoes in rain after ruining a pair of NICE white shoes in a NOLA storm. (Did you know that even previously washed jeans will run ink onto white shoes if they get wet enough? I didn’t either.)

So I got to my friend’s house and the very first thing she noticed and commented on was my flip flops. I explained my rationale, feeling super smug about knowing how to deal with rain. Because smugness always leads to good things.

We drove to school and were walking to get lunch when as if out of no where, I was on the ground. I don’t even know exactly what happened. I was upright one minute and down on a knee and a buttcheek the next.

In a puddle.

In sweat pants.

And OF COURSE, a stranger saw and RAN OUTSIDE to make sure I was okay. My friend had almost fallen over from laughing and I was both sopping wet and horrified. But, also? Not surprised. That sounds pretty much EXACTLY like something I’d do.

Since our 3 hour exam was in like an hour and no way were my clothes going to dry out before then, I had to walk to the bookstore and buy new pants and a new sweatshirt and new shoes because my flip flops were so soaked with water that I kept slipping indoors too.

Basically, I walked out of the bookstore looking like a fucking USC ad.

And because I looked so pathetic in my soaking wet clothes, I got a 10% discount at the bookstore. That’s when you feel really good about yourself. When you look like such a huge train wreck that people want you to give you things for cheaper.

My life is all kinds of awesome.

If you’ll excuse me, me and my very sore lower back have a hot date with some notecards.