After self-medicating last night with a few extra sleeping pills and some prescription strength Ibuprofen for a migraine, I got some very medicated sleep. Slept in late and woke groggy. But as I drank the giant cup of coffee Remi put in front of me, I took a mental inventory: Migraine? Gone. Mood? Better … calmer …. slightly melancholy but nothing a cup of joe won’t fix probably. Body? A weird quirk in my neck and shoulder, but nothing too bad. “I think I’m OK” was my final verdict.
So I settled into our morning routine, happily content that today was indeed a new day. Remi sat on the edge of the bed with her coffee and the dogs. I sat at my desk, sipping my coffee as I read the comments and emails to Remi. This has become our habit whenever we have a leisurely morning together. Followed by me, looking at my to-do lists and informing Remi of what I need her help on that day. She’s amazingly patient with me and never seems to tire of my need to run through schedules and plans with her, even if I just had five minutes ago. I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the fact that I don’t have much faith in myself being able to actually stick to any real schedule, that causes me to be consumed with them. I have literally been obsessed with agendas, calendars and day-planners since I was a very uptight little girl.
Remi’s anniversary present to me last year, of my ipod touch has more then paid for itself in the countless numbers of journals and planners that I no longer buy, thanks to the many app designers that must be as OCD as I am. Because another part of my obsession, is the moment I would “fail” to do anything I had written down, whether it was an errand, a work assignment or merely eating more calories then I had promised myself I would, I would rip the page from the book.
No, I couldn’t just erase it, or even white it out. I would feel compelled to rip it out and I would try so hard to rip it out perfectly at the seam so that you couldn’t even tell there had even been a page there. You couldn’t tell that I had failed. If there was no sign of my fuck-up then I could start again, with a clean slate. But any tell-tale sign that I had indeed been such a total and absolute loser, like a bit of the page left in at the crack or even imprint of the writing on the next page and it wasn’t good enough. Or when I had done it too many times, and when you closed the book you could see that there were missing pages … well … well then I had to throw the entire book away and buy another one. I could not sleep knowing that there was something giving me away like that. Mocking my failed attempts at a scheduled, perfectly planned life. It would drive me crazy until I got a new planner. It didn’t matter if I had just bought that one the day before, it was soiled. It was ruined. I had failed yet again and if I kept using it, it would taunt me and be a constant reminder of my past failures.
So we spent a lot of money on paper products. Until she bought me my ipod. Which of course, true to my obsessive nature I quickly bought every single app ever created for productivity and scheduling. But between a buck and three dollars a piece, even that extravagance wasn’t as pricey as my old habit. And eventually I had every app they made so the spending was under control.
Now, I can obsessively make lists and schedules and when I can’t do what I planned on doing at a specific time, I simply move it to the next day. No torn out pages, no scribbles, no white out, loudly mocking my pursuit of normalcy. None of that. Just a simple “move to” button and it was as if it had always been there. Like magic!
While the voices in my head telling me what a fucking looser I was for even having to postpone this or that …. they were quieter now. I guess without their physical proof they once had, in the form of the crumpled papers in my waste basket or gaps in the pages, they were a lot less prone to follow me to bed. Where they would usually only get louder once the noise from the television was off and the rest of the world went to bed. Except for us. Me and my voices that never shut up, that never stopped judging me and telling me what a horrible person I was because I didn’t get to the gym that day.
Where was I when I started this blog? …. I’ve already forgotten my train of thought.
Oh yes … I was writing this as an update to my mood because I hate to worry you guys and you all have been so kind. I wanted to let you know that I was better today. Was being the appropriate word.
But as the day matured my grip on serenity loosened and I felt that familiar feeling of slipping …. or falling …. falling back into a dark place where no one can find me or see, or hear me screaming. The horrible thoughts came back and it seemed as if it took all my strength to not give in to them. The logical part of my brain, barely holding on. The easiest tasks today felt impossible to even comprehend, let alone accomplish.
Remi’s home for a few days, so she’s working on a few little projects. Like hanging curtains and blinds. I knew I should be helping. I should be doing something but all I could do was sit there and watch her. Trying desperately to stay there, with her, in the living room and not get lost inside the bad thoughts.
This is stupid. I feel stupid for this. I shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t post this blog but I am because …. I don’t know why. Because I’m honest and honestly, this is what’s happening. I try to keep a stiff upper lip and when I can’t, I hide. Which means I hide a lot. But this blog is …. well … it’s an online diary and if there’s any place one shouldn’t hide, it’s in your diary.
I’m waiting for Remi to get home, she ran out to pick up dinner. Before she left I was crying and told her that if it weren’t for my dogs, I would check myself into the hospital tonight. But I can’t bare to leave them …. I would worry too much and the worry alone would make it impossible for me to rest. I would break out like I have before and walk home in the middle of the night just to make sure they were alright. Don’t bother telling me it’s not rational. I don’t care. I don’t even believe in Western medicine, it’s never helped me. It’s only made things 100 times worse. But when I say, “I think I should go to the hospital” it means that I no longer trust myself.
How sad. To not even trust the only person, one usually can.