"Wait, I'm in the wrong house, in the wrong room
Some place in someone else's shoes
I want to turn back, I want to shut down
You'll blow away if I breathe out
Save me from sleeping now
Save me from flying out
I disappear here"
O hai!
What's been going on? That's a rhetorical question. I don't really care. I was just being polite. This is my blog, after all. If you want to talk about yourselves, get your own blog. They're free over at WordPress, you know. Instead, I'm going to talk about me. Not that you asked, but you have the option to stop reading anytime you feel like it. I'll never know the difference.
November is a hard month for me. It was two days after Thanksgiving 2009 that my dad passed away, which puts a dampener on the entire month. I still carry a shred of regret that I didn't talk to him two days prior when he'd called to wish his sons a happy Thanksgiving, though I've forgiven myself for it. This year will be especially hard with the additional grief of losing Deborah.
You see, this year we were going to hold Thanksgiving at our house. In fact, we bought a new kitchen table together for the occasion. When my brother and I moved back into the house, we had a small, round, four-person table. It was adequate for the needs of two bachelors, but once I started dating Deborah I quickly realized the lack of foresight. We couldn't even have a family dinner with my own small immediate family, let alone hers that includes children and relatives that actually talk to each other and gather on holidays.
So to Art Van we went and we bought a new table that seats six to eight before adding the leaf, which will give it room for an extra two fairly comfortably. It was an exciting moment - our first furniture purchase together! We were turning my old house into our new home.
After Deborah passed, I still wanted to hold Thanksgiving at my house like we'd planned, but as time has gone by and it has inched ever closer the prospect has become more and more daunting. Not that I don't want to keep in touch with Deborah's family - I do - but I think I'm trying to take on too much, too soon. I haven't fully dealt with the severe depression I spiralled into after her death.
Oh, did I forget to mention that? That's because I didn't realize it until about a week ago.
I used to have a policy against self-medicating. I saw it as a sign of weakness that I couldn't control my own emotions or my thoughts. I realized how fucked up I was when a friend told me to my face, "Matt, you need to stop because you're driving me crazy!" That was really the turning point, and since that day that particular friend and I have never had another confrontation. Indeed, we're closer friends. But that moment scared me straight and made me realize I had a problem, so I set my principle aside and went on Zoloft shortly after my dad died.
Man, what a difference!
For those of you who don't suffer from anxiety, let me try and describe it as best I can for you: It's awful, horrendous, chest-constricting, irrational, irritating, obnoxious, annoying, terrifying, crippling, and generally shitty. It's just a horrible, horrible feeling - and the worst part is that you often don't realize how bad it has gotten until someone snaps at you. You see, anxiety breeds selfishness. All you want to do is make that horrible feeling go away. You need constant reassurance. You need affection. You need, need, need, and even when you get what you sought you'll just find something else to obsess over because most anxiety-based fears are irrational. They spring from nowhere just as often as they do from traumatic past events.
Even as someone who suffers from anxiety, it's irritating to deal with other peoples', but I always empathize and say to myself, "I know what they're going through." Much like losing a parent, sibling, child, or significant other, or surviving cancer, or any number of awful, life-changing events, the only people who can truly understand it are those who've been through it. Not to equate anxiety and cancer, of course, but you get what I'm saying. It's impossible to accurately describe how terrifying it is to lie in bed, worrying that perhaps my brother has died unexpectedly. In the past, my anxiety has caused me to go days without eating and/or sleeping (sometimes coinciding, sometimes alternately). Once, when I still worked at Best Buy, I actually collapsed on my bedroom floor and slept there through the night after not sleeping for nearly four days. My body just finally gave in and shut down.
So I went on Zoloft, and I felt better. Much better. The grief from losing my dad was still there, but the irrational fears weren't. The constant worrying and wondering and second-guessing and, most importantly, that dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach weren't there. I did a complete 180 on my belief about self-medicating. Hell, I was ready to become the drug's spokeperson! Zoloft for everyone! Viva Zoloft!
Among my myriad of problems is my inability stubborn refusal to follow doctors' orders. I'm supposed to be taking cholesterol medicine; I don't. I'm supposed to do stretches for my bad back; I don't. I was supposed to take Zoloft, probably for the rest of my life; I stopped.
For a long while, I was OK. I met a great girl, we were happy, and though I had a few episodes that she lovingly forgave me for, it was nothing along the lines of the crazy shit I put my friend through. Right after Deborah died, I asked my doctor to renew my prescription. I got my bottle of little blue happy pills, and I took about a week's worth before abruptly stopping. I once again decided I didn't need pills. I could control it on my own.
Oops.
Once again, it required a cold, hard dose of reality to make me realize, "Holy shit, I have a problem!" Looking back over the last four months since Deborah passed, I can see the problem has been there all along. I can remember the sleepness nights, terrified that someone else I loved was going to be taken from me. I can remember feeling the crushing fear of walking into work, trying my best to avoid the sad eyes and pitiable stares that reminded me of what happened. I can vaguely remember doing things with my family and friends just to keep myself occupied, but I honestly couldn't look back and tell you what 90% of it was. The days ran together in one big blur, and I remember remarking to my brother about losing all concept of time. I didn't care. About anything. Looking back, I'm almost ashamed that I didn't recognize some of the signs, but people seldom do when they're so wrapped up in the cloak of depression. 20/20 hindsight and all that...
I can't tell you how many times I've heard "I really admire your strength" over the last few months. The truth of the matter is this: I am good at faking it. I lived the life of a single, brooding, anti-social misanthrope for 27 years. You don't think I know how to put up a front? If I could build physical walls as well as I build emotional ones, I'd be the world's most prolific construction worker. The truth is I've been running on fumes for quite some time now, and it's time to refuel before I'm abandoned on the side of the road by everyone.
Last weekend I started taking my Zoloft again. I have reminders all over my house to take it every night at 10 PM. Already, I've had people remark that I seem different. Already I feel better, more like my old self - or at least my 2008 self when I came out of my shell and started getting out more. I'm not as quick to anger at work. I'm calmer while driving. I actually feel like playing video games again. I feel creative again (not only am I still writing, but I'm seriously considering another creative project I've wanted to explore for a long, long time). Some of the things I've broken may not be fixable, but that's my doing and I'll accept responsibility for it because it's my own stupid fault. I never should have stopped taking my meds in the first place. I lost the woman I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with. What made me think I could handle that by myself?
I will own up to my mistakes. I will own my dysfunction, but I won't beat myself up over it. In fact, I'm not dealing with anything negative right now. I've spent so much time worrying about everything else that I've neglected myself, and it's time to refocus. If I'm not happy, how can I expect other people to be happy around me? "Yeah, let's hang out with the mopey guy who worries about everything. That sounds like a lot of fun."
Of all the unlikely sources, it was Chris who provided the most poignant advice: "Ignore the sucky stuff. Look on the bright side, and find something to look forward to every day, no matter how small it is." I knew there was a reason I kept this guy around! Each morning I wake up and I think of something to look forward to. Monday it was finishing up a long overdue video game. Tuesday it was playing a new one and making myself a decent dinner (for once). Wednesday it was dinner and shopping with my mom and brother, and so on. It helps tremendously to think of life as a series of small events - getting an e-mail from Chris that makes me laugh, a game of Hanging with Friends with Ashley, lunch with Kristy or Emily. These are common occurrences, but they're what make life bearable. Let's face it, it's a scary world we live in. If you don't find some way to laugh every day, all you're bound to do is cry.
Will I stumble? I'm sure I will. I'm only human. But I'll recover. I have an amazing support group, and my belief that I have the greatest friends in the world only gets stronger with each passing day. They've stuck by me through thick and thin. They've been there for me, accepted me, and forgiven me. Quite frankly, they all deserve medals.
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