What I Want for My Birthday

So today is my 34th birthday.

Hoopty-freakin’-doo.

Usually I’m a big old birthday-slut.  I want you to be nice to me, and wish me well, and maybe surprise me with something thoughtful, even though I feel kinda stupid announcing it.  This year, however, is different.

33 was not an especially good year for me, and while I am in some ways glad to put it behind me, I’m not terribly looking forward to what 34 seems to be offering:  more of the same.

Of course, one can never know what the future holds (as Benjamin notes, the Angel of History always faces the past), but what it appears to hold is unemployment, debt, and facing up my failure, which I’ve been holding at arm’s-length for the last four-to-six months.

I’m hoping the rhymes-with-smell-shoe-chin will help me with that facing-up.  The first day was a total emotional trainwreck (which happened to coincide with my blowing off a deadline that will simply make getting back on track–should I decide to do so–even more of a slog, but subsequently has improved to mere whippiness.

Once I level out (I’m hoping I level out), as hard as it will be, I must plan a have-it-out meeting with my chair, and let him know where I am vis-a-vis the process both intellectually and emotionally (which is:  resentful, burnt-out, and with little hope for change–in the market, in my attitude and prospects), and listen, as I have so many times in the last few years, to his advice.  I can’t believe that I would be the first flame-out he’s seen in his at-least-45-year career, and I ‘m hoping that he can offer some hint of clarity that I’ve been so in need of.

Activating!

I’m starting rhymes-with-smell-shoe-chin today.  I spent a few days thinking I’d do without, but then when I started getting all drippy and self-hating and unable to leave the house, I thought:  yeah, maybe drugs are the answer.  (Just say yes, kids!)  So I’m about ready to admit that my brain is fucked up, as embarrassing as I find that.

My doc said rhymes-with-smell-shoe-chin is ”activating,” and  as such, may make me spazzy, as rhymes-with-mexico did.  So we’ll see.  I’ve decided not to have any caffiene this morning, the better to judge what sort of spazzy it makes me.  I shoud quit it with the caffiene, anyway.

The good thing about this one (they say) is that it won’t kill your mojo like SSRIs will, which would be nice, because getting off BCP and onto SSRIs was kind of a cruel joke.  It still might kill my appetite.  Which I’m not happy about; I have a good food-day laid out, and my birthday (with ice-cream cake!) is imminent.  Yes, I am that excited about food.

But I have a big stupid thing that I have to take care of today, that I have been procrastinating for, literally, months, and it’s now or never.  So I’m going to go activate the shower, and the subway turnstile, and a copy machine, among other things.  If you see me vibrating, you’ll know why.

The Eye of the Tiger

I didn’t call the doc yesterday because I was busy with a big presentation and then a big, very expensive vet visit for Orange Cat, who has a very nasty corneal ulcer, and who may need more vet care and more drugs (the 5 things he got yesterday might not be enough?).  I have to call the animal hospital–the one where our beloved Screamy Cat died in October of 2007–and see what sorta money an ophthamologist might squeeze out of us.

So I’m down $400+ (and counting) and the sloths are disappearing into their ever-receding equatorial rainforests.

However, there is an upside:  I’m not thinking about myself, or the diss.  I’m worried about the Orange Boy, who is one of the delights of my life.  Send good thoughts, if you please.

Backsliding

Two days ago, as I walked home from errands in the sunshine, I felt really good.  Like “I don’t need chemical interference!  Things are looking  up! Maybe I’ll do some work!”

I was wrong.  On all counts.

I quit taking rhymes-with-Mexico on Tuesday, and I think it’s out of my system now, and although I’m glad that my GI tract is more-or-less back to normal, I don’t like where my head is at.  I’ve been avoiding people again, staying in the apartment for absurd stretches of time, not writing,  sleeping a lot.  In other words: I’ve been here before, and it sucks giant mutant alien buttsores.

I’m calling the doc on Monday, and will probably end up with rhymes-with-smell-shoe-chin.    After that?  I dunno:  cocaine?  poppers?  glue?  If it doesn’t make me feel better, at least it’ll help me pass the time.

Orange Cat has eye problems.  Going to see his doc on Monday afternoon.  If it’s crazy expensive (and when isn’t it?), the sloth-trip will necessarily be put off.

Try, try again.

“Mexico” is a bad drug for me.  The side effects of  bubbly-head should have worn off my now, but no.  I am pretty useless when it comes to thinkery in this state.

Tomorrow, calling the doc for something else, or possibly going off entirely.  Bad stuff.

In other news, I may bug out for a couple of weeks in May or June to Costa Rica, to work at a sloth rescue center.  My therapist recommends it, even.  What the hell else am I doing with my time?  Not writing.

Pace Huey Lewis

I wanna new drug.  One that won’t make me crash my car, or make me feel six feet thick.

And I got one (that rhymes with “Mexico”).

The results, here on day two:  mostly I feel like my head has been carbonated, but occasionally it’s like bipolar disorder as represented in a Jim Carrey comedy:  silly mania, followed by profound, black-out napping.   Blah blah HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!zzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I’m going to try to handle the DMV tomorrow.  Hilarity, I’m sure, will ensue.

Drugs, not Hugs.

I’m not crazy about this anti-depressant I’m taking.  (Ha, “crazy.”) 

• It makes me dizzy, especially when/if I have caffiene, which is a cruel joke. 
• It has killed my appetite for anything sweet; I’ve been eating  cheese and crackers or pasta for breakfast and haven’t touched the ice cream in my freezer for 3 weeks. 
• It has mostly killed my appetite altogether.  I love food and eating, and to feel “meh” about it is a major bummer.  Things taste okay, mostly, but I feel over-full if I eat even half of what I usually put away, and then I just feel ill and gross.
•  I’m thirsty all the time, and I’m the an even bigger pee-monkey than usual.
• My libido, which was recovering from years of BCP, seems to have been dealt it’s death blow.  Wroth is not happy.  Robot Boy is not happy.

So, yeah, I’m going to have a follow-up with my PCP tomorrow and ask if there’s something else out there that won’t make me trade physical comforts for a little mental stability.  What is life for Wroth without a little lust and gluttony?

And am I writing?  Hell no.  I don’t want to.  And I still don’t know why.

Plus ca change…

It’s been nearly two weeks since I last gave y’all the Wroth Mental Health Status Update.  Since then:

–Robot Boy turned 34 with little ado and many cupcakes

–The Other Dawn had a baby called Squeak (although I like to think of him as Little Robot)

–I’ve been blogging my arse off over at Harpyness

–I started taking an SSRI, which makes me dizzy, but has kept me from crying about every godforsaken thing all the fucking time

–I’ve been happy to spend time with a whole buncha gels who are lovely, some of whom read this-yere blog.  I’ve never had as many ladyfriends as I do now, and I am very grateful.

–I still don’t know what to do about the diss, or the job market, or whatever.  I feel better, or less bad, anyway, but the situation is as craptacular as ever.  I feel like I’m in a Beckett play.

Of Related Interest

On days that I’m working (or lately, not working) at home, I listen to NPR, and at 2pm in my market is a locally produced show called Soundcheck, which is pretty consistently good.

They are in the midst of a series called “Deadly Medleys,” which allots about 40 minutes of the program on seven consecutive Fridays to listening to and talking about songs dealing with each of the seven deadly sins.  Today was week four:  Sloth.  Previously, they’ve covered Lust, Gluttony, and Greed.

You can see the various contributors’ list and listeners’ suggestions at this link, and listen to streaming audio of the past shows, too.  Kinda fun.

I’m not Miss Manners, but…

I know it’s pretty fucking rude to arrive more than half an hour (and counting) after the planned and announced meal time when friends invite you a nice sit-down dinner, particularly when the meal time is already rather late in the evening.  I ain’t runnin’ a diner here, folks.

At what point does my rudeness at going ahead and eating the rather time-intensive dish I made before it’s ruined trump the guest’s rudeness at arriving late, with nary a call?