A Mess (how unlike me)
March 6, 2014 § Leave a comment
Man, what a mess. I’m referring to my head, of course. A big ol’ mess.
I’ve been sleeping something like 12-14 hours a day now. Terrible dreams, of course, and never feeling rested. Just wanting to sleep all the time and having no reason not to do so. I’ve also felt shaky, weak, dizzy. Dehydrated? Not eating enough? Caffeine withdrawal? No idea. Either way, I don’t feel normal physically.
Despite the terrible dreams, I’ve partially enjoyed all the sleep. I hate waiting around for things to happen like job applications to get rejected or new jobs to be posted. It’s an escape from waiting but it’s also an escape from my own thoughts. My subconscious takes over which so often (but certainly not always) has very little to do with my reality or current preoccupations. I enter a world of threat and destruction, of action and strategy. A place far removed from my current stasis, my current feeling of being trapped in a bubble where time doesn’t move forward and I’m forced to constantly deal with my negative thoughts and emotions with no distraction or release.
I may be attacked, trapped, threatened, and terrified in my dreams, but somehow that’s better than my conscious state. I did kill a serial killer last night though, and I smoked one of his victory cigars after. Fucking bastard. Ain’t nobody mess with my momma!
I have to start counseling when I get back to Birmingham. Clearly the events of last week indicate that I’m just as sick as I’ve always been, perhaps more so. I’ve been thinking a lot about my firm resistance to discussing my suicidal thoughts, particularly now that I have them so often. I’ll need to up my meds, no doubt, but I have an almost suffocating anxiety when I think about having to discuss these thoughts with a therapist. I used to think that was because I felt ashamed or guilty or weak, but now that I’ve had so much time to do nothing but laze around an empty house in my pjs and think, I’ve decided fear of those feelings is what’s driving the hesitation. I don’t understand those feelings. I don’t have any major trauma to speak of, there’s no historical event that can hold blame for these thoughts, yet I have them, stronger than ever now despite my medications. I’m desperately afraid of the source of those thoughts and the reason for why I’m so depressed. Is it really just chemical? Can we buy that? Will more meds truly help?
Fear of the unknown. Fear of the irrational. Who knew I was so pedestrian in my fears… I’d be disappointed in myself if I wasn’t so fucking scared.
Ah, there’s that shaky feeling again, mixed with a bit of nausea and of course the strong desire to go to sleep.
I’m going on a date when I get back to Birmingham. He’s a PhD student and is both well-read and incredibly well-spoken. But as with every new person I date, I’m reminded so strongly of the things I loved in the last person I dated, the things I’ve lost now. He’s my age and it shows. Plays video games, has never eaten an artichoke, doesn’t drink beer, never finds a reason to put on a jacket or a suit. Sounds familiar? Sounds like Alec.
Only he has a dog, he’s a successful graduate student, he compliments me, and he thinks a lot about being a parent.
Needless to say, I’m feeling apprehensive. I don’t want to date someone who acts like a college kid. I want to date a grown man. Isn’t 26 old enough to be considered grown?
When I think about these things, I miss Mark more than ever. He was a grown man, put together, chic and gritty in all the right ways, and worldly.
Of course when I think about all the good things that I miss so much about Mark, the knife of our breakup twists just a bit more. The words that were said in the final weeks, the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel about myself.
Those are all things that Alec would never have said, looks that Alec never would have given me, ways that Alec would never have made me feel.
But Alec played video games, had never eaten an artichoke, didn’t drink beer, never found a reason to put on a jacket or a suit.
I’m going to give the PhD student a fair chance, of course. If anything, the bad dates we’ll go on will just remind me of how much I should be single right now and how online dating just isn’t for me.
And of course, there’s still the issue of when I should tell him that I’m a suicidally-depressed crazy person who will likely need him to be a strong support system when she starts to falter (which she always does). Third date? Day before the wedding? Never? Can I hide that part of myself and my life away from someone? Should I?
Alec had no idea I was depressed and now that he knows, I doubt he worries much about me.
Mark knew about it and, like my family members, was absolutely terrified. He worried about me and in retrospect, that probably wasn’t a fair burden for me to put on him. But I couldn’t not tell him, could I? Of course I had to tell him. And yet, it doesn’t seem like a fair thing to do to another human being. At least to a non-relative, anyway.
A mess. My brain is simultaneously bored and in constant over-drive, my body is shaky and in constant discomfort. I’m filled with fear, a feeling I’ve had very little experience with, about my future and more urgently, about my nearing return to Birmingham where I’ll have to confront all the things I ran to Florida to escape from. On top of that, I’ll once again be alone. My apartment will feel large and empty, and I may need to thoroughly collect and remove all sharp implements as I hardly trust myself to even look at a sharp blade.
It’s time to put my big girl pants on. It’s time to face the music. It’s time to stand on my own two incredibly shaky feet and start the process of baby-stepping forward. It’s time to get control of my self-destructive impulses and find out where my rational, “Don’t do it” inner voice ran off to. It’s time to get a grip, take a deep breath, and start to pick up whatever salvageable pieces of my life are left.
For now, it’s time to sleep. To escape. To feel a different type of fear. And to wake up from it.