20 Days: Sudden melancholy

Coming off of my meds (most recently Cymbalta) and being completely clean of any antidepressants or mood stabilizers or panic meds for the first time in a year was easy. I was on such a low dosage (25 mg every other day), that even the side effects and the “coming down” was almost unnoticeable. The first symptoms came a few days after, when I felt I didn’t have control over my emotional reactions. Then again, this was in regard to my mother who is the source of much of this and who bothers me and will probably always bother me immensely even while practically sedated.

And then there was today.

A decent day. Hot as hell. Hot as balls. So hot I couldn’t mop the sweat off me fast enough and there would already be another layer. I went to the cinema. Saw Bruno. Was entertained enough, but more glad of the AC and the darkness and the company, anonymous though it may be, for a while.

My little cousin is going to be drafted in two weeks, and 18 year-old’s rite of passage here in Israel. It’s traditional here to have a congratulatory party, a kind of graduation party crossed with a goodbye party. Family and friends. Salads and quiches and hummus. A very delectable semifreddo my aunt made. A cheap bottle of wine that wasn’t finished despite eight people drinking. A few speeches, actually. Exactly what I expected.

And it could have been the sweet sentimental proud words coming from grandmothers and parents. It could have been the company that almost never comes together in such form anymore (my aunt and uncle have separated, so we’re rarely in the old house, and we almost never see the other side of the family). It could have been that both those things triggered something very raw and sensitive for me. The fact that I don’t come from a speech-giving family. That it’s been a long time since I’ve felt accomplished or appreciated or loved openly. That my parents weren’t there, missing amongst the “adults.” That if we were back home in the US, we don’t have such a tight-knit family for such occasions. And I could go on and on.

But I don’t think it was as conscious as all that. A sudden melancholy just blanketed me. Right in the middle of a teary-eyed speech. It’s familiar to me. Quite familiar. But I haven’t felt it in months, and I don’t have a chemical weapon to fall back upon. Of course, this is by choice, but still. It’s like sadness but emptier. And it’s that empty void that is almost comforting. Because things become very sharply focused. Sad that I’m not a part of things, but understanding why. Understanding that it’s actually much easier than I think. This thing called life. But that I’ll perhaps never make it. Focused detachment. A sea of nothingness. And I was surrounded by people, my little cousin being praised and embraced, glasses clinking. I wanted to go away. Maybe read a book. Be alone in another room. It felt silly to be there. It had little meaning or interest anymore.

The one important thing. It did occur to me that this sudden melancholy happened all of a sudden because I wasn’t on any medication anymore. It made it slightly humorous, actually. I liked the “meta-ness” of it. Because all of a sudden I was aware of this fact, that because I wasn’t drugged, this state of being that used to be so normal had just set in again, I felt like I actually might have a modicum of control. And that’s a damned fine thing to believe, I’m telling you. Because I do thrive on melancholy. But it also destroys me. And I cannot afford to “allow myself” to fall into a pit. I have to be strong like I know I can be.

114 Days: Plain ole exhaustion

I am plain tuckered out.  Was, maybe 8 hours ago, too.  I haven’t worked this hard in a long while.  Sucks that I’m barely making any money, and that in this holiday season, I’m spending more than I’m making, easily.  But it’s nice to have a full schedule.  There’s something refreshing about feeling my body totally exhausted.  From the soles of my feel to the scalp on my head.

Today, I got up at 7:30 am (after less than 5 hours of sleep) in order to get to my psychiatrist at 9:30 am.  For the first time in a long while, he was super attentive, focused, and really seemed to listen to me.  He agreed with me that we’d better switch up my meds, and we considered a few options.  For the second time, by a second psychiatrist, I was offered Lithium.  And for the second time, I refused.  There is such stigma attached to it.  And I don’t want to gain hundreds of pounds.  Lithium screams “bipolar and proud of it” to me, and I just don’t want to go there.  When it was first suggested, nearly a year ago, I did a lot of research…including all the art inspired by Lithium…the Sting song…the Nirvana song…plenty of other stuff.  I wonder if someone as talented and respectable as Sting is, is still on Lithium.  And whether it was the right choice.  Because Lithium seems like I’d have to admit to myself that I’ve somehow lost it.  So, I’m going to start on something called Cymbalta (sp?), and I won’t have time to research tonight, as I’m literally falling asleep as I type.  Good Lord…know what this means?  Time for major, and I mean major withdrawal this week.  Thank you Lexapro, thank you terror, thank you disillusionment…you see where I’m going?  I don’t.  I’m drunk with fatigue.  And starting to jones.

So, after the doc, went to my sisters to help her frantically pack for Italy (I’m meeting her there is just under two weeks), then had a strained lunch with my grandmother where I found myself having to apologize for everything and anything including my mere existence.  And then.  And then.  Wine!

It was so chaotic in the store I was placed in today that the manager asked that I not do any tastings (until perhaps the end), and just represent the winery in the aisles and help people with their choices.  My first thought was bloody hell…I got into this business for the tasting itself…wanting to teach…to converse about an actual product…not be a salesperson in the most direct and annoying fashion.  But you know what?  I did better business today than I did on any other day in the last two weeks.  Why?  When you’re leading a tasting, you’re kind of stuck to your station.  You can walk around, but then the wines aren’t being watched over.  And if you’re helping some people with a tasting, you miss customers walking in behind them and around the store.  Sure, people would have preferred a tasting, I think.  But you know what?  I learned that it’s me, the “expert,” the winery rep, the salesperson, who decides what to sell the customer.  If I sound assured, and I consciously choose what to present them, they will buy it.  More times than not.  Amazing.  Just the power of mere suggestion.  Nothing pushy.  Even helping with other products, other wines, beers, spirits…and they trust you.  It’s scary what an art sales really is.  And kind of disgusting.  Because when you think about it, we’re all prey.  If we’re not selling, we’re being sold to.  All the time.  But hey, today, I was really proud of myself.  I got people to change their minds after they went to the register with bottles they had been convinced to buy.  And I wasn’t the least bit pushy or rude.  How could I be?  I’m me.  Miss American Manners.  In Hellish Tel Aviv.

And then, and then, we’re talking 9 pm, I walked half a mile, got a bus home, went to the pharmacy to get my new meds, and the went to my uncle’s with a chicken and four premium bottles of wine, and I proceeded to cook…for the last three or more hours.  Chicken soup (with carrots, onions, garlic, celery, celeriac, parsley root, and leek…and of course the obligatory bay leaves and allspice) is done…as is the ridiculously complicated quinoa salad that I have become famous for this year.  It takes a ton of chopping and peeling and minute work.  It’s not difficult.  Just time consuming.  Tomorrow the matzah balls, tsimmes, and roast beef will have to find themselves being made somehow or other.  I hope.  Because at 9 am I need to be out the door to my last holiday tasting, all the freaking way on the other side of the city…until 3 pm, when I rush to my uncle’s to finish cooking.  Good Lord!

And now, I’m going to hop in the shower.  Oh how I’ve needed to shower.  For like three days.  Please don’t think me gross.  I’ve had other priorities, for the first time in months.  A “feels good to be dirty” kind of high?  Not really.  But it should be at least somewhat satisfying.  And Thursday!  Thursday!  I’m off to the Ashram in the Desert for 5 full days!

Happy Passover to All!  And Happy Easter (whenever it falls this year…sorry, it’s the first time I have no idea)!

127 Days: Better than yesterday

I am sipping a “long” espresso in one of my favorite cafes in the heart of the fashion district of Tel Aviv. It’s a better day than yesterday, that’s for sure.

Yesterday, I did not leave my house. In fact, I barely left the sofa. Yesterday, I ate nothing but nuts — almonds, walnuts, and a few raisins thrown in there — everything that happened to be readily edible in the house.  Yesterday, I looked for anything to distract me from the terror.  Yesterday, I watched several hours of television, including every episode of the new show, “Lie to Me,” online.  Yesterday, I was down.  Yesterday I was really really down, down beyond “the meaning of life” down.  Yesterday, I nearly called my parents for help.  I still might.  And that’s a scary place to be in.

Then something happened.  I don’t know what.  Evening came.  I felt more calm.  I got up.  I straightened things up.  I made a list.  I cooked spaghetti.  I answered a phone call.  I was ever so slightly productive.  I read a manuscript I needed to work on.  Finally, I took a long needed shower at midnight (I still had makeup caked on my face from the day before – !!! – and talk about the fuzzy teeth issue).  I slept well.  And I got up in a more peaceful mood.

I’m perplexed at my state these days.  I don’t know if I’m strong, and I have serious mental health issues, and that it’s all coming out now because of my lack of structure, and my finally breaking away from family, and because of being alone or a combination of these things.  Or if I’m actually allowing myself to be quite weak, that I can be strong, that I have been strong, and that now, I’m allowing myself to be lazy and weak, indulging in depression, like some sort of mental vacation.  It sounds stupid, but I can’t decide.  I don’t know whether I’m strong and I’ve reached my limit, or whether I’m strong and I’m allowing myself to slip.  Does it matter?  To my ego, only, probably.

In either case, I don’t think I’m getting the help I need.  Problem is, I don’t know what that help is.  I know I want to (need to ?) be more closely taken care of.  But without a spouse, very close siblings and/or parents, I’m not going to get any care.  And what do I mean by care?  Not sure.  Certainly not chicken soup in bed and calls four times a day to remind me to do things.  I’m not an invalid.  But one call a day would be nice.  One or two visits per week would be nice.  Help with some basics would be nice.  Maybe I just need to find the money to hire a cleaner once per week.  Maybe I just need to go to therapy more than once per week.  And maybe if I scheduled regular coffee dates with friends, I’d be OK.

But yesterday, lying on that sofa, paralyzed, so filled with sadness, feeling so worthless, all meaning sapped out of me, almost all hope drained out of me, I just wanted someone to come, not ask any questions, and hug me, feed me, even bathe me.  I’m starting to understand what it is to have reached the bottom.  The end of the rope.  Maybe I’m not there yet.  I don’t want to slip any further.  And today is better.  Much better than yesterday.  There are good days.  But the bad days.  The bad days are getting worse.  And I don’t know why.  And I don’t know what to do.  And it sucks.  I hate that I know both sides.  As shitty as life is, I know how spectacular it is.  Being alive is magic.  But it is also a curse.  It cannot be one without the other.  It’s both, simultaneously.  It’s part of the paradox of human existence.

130 Days: Shelter from the storm

The song that’s with me for the night.  Relish the master poet:

I’m in Haifa.  It’s a stormy night.  I’m with my lovely artist friend D, and we shared a dinner, tired as we both were, and then went to a nude modeling session to draw.  I feel safe here in her studio apartment, late as it is, with our makeshift mosquito netting hung quickly as an attempt to ward off these horrific offenders.

I am dying to blog about my first wine gig last Friday, but I can’t seem to concentrate.  Too tired.  Too wired.  Too much chemical craziness inside.  I’ve been having meds issues.  Yup.  The Lexapro (or Cipralex, as we call it here in Israel) hasn’t felt like it’s been doing much for the past couple months.  It was a pretty rotten February.  That or I really do suffer from seasonal depression, as last February was the pits as well.  But Israel’s not cold, really.  Or grey at all.  Anyway, my psychiatrist suggested we double my dose from 10 to 20 (I think it’s mg) per day.  Basically, I was taking one pill per day, and we were going up to two.  Sure, great, fine.  No, not fine.  Day one involved my sleeping for the whole day, and dragging myself off the couch only because I had an appointment I couldn’t not cancel, and I spent the entire meeting high off my ass like I had smoked a couple of joints on my own.  Ya, that’s progress.  I decided, no way, I’m going down by half a pill.  Better, but I’ve been sleepy all week.  Two to three hour naps at weird hours every day.  And I feel groggy all the time.  All the time.  Like in a kind of emotion-less, slow, silent, creepy kind of high-numbness.

And now, all I want is to get off the drugs completely.  Easier said than done.  If I do it, I’m going to endure some pretty bad withdrawal.  Worse than I’ve ever experienced before.  Worse than cigarettes, I imagine.  I had a sneak preview today because I was out of pills and had to run to the pharmacy to refill.  Not something anyone should do with Lexapro.  I’m supposed to take it around the same time every day.  Well, a four-hour delay gave me a physical preview of the jonez-ing I will endure soon, or when, I go off this stuff.  Even a few hours afterward, the balance must not have been struck, as I would have killed for a shot of whisky or a xanax or a cigarette or all three at once.  Yup.  Why?  So, great, I’ve got a slight bipolar problem.  I’ve got depression issues.  One little pill can help immediately.  But temporarily.  And at the end of the day, a drug is a drug is a drug.  Perhaps if I go all-natural, get acupuncture, take homeopathic remedies, eat all organic, spend lots of time doing talk therapy, draw pictures, be positive, positive, positive, and enjoy a glass of wine or scotch every once in a while to dilute life’s shit every once in a while, it would be a decent replacement for psychiatric drugs.  Because I hate to think what this is doing to my liver, to boot.  I might as well enjoy my liquor, as right now, it’s not safe for me to indulge very much at all.  Imagine that I went to a whiskey tasting, had eight lovely glasses before me, and took a miniscule sip of each one, leaving them virtually untouched.  Like, a hundred bucks work of booze down the drain instead of down my hatch.  Pisses me off.

Drugs are not the answer.  I’m not psychotic, and my bipolar diagnosis isn’t all that bad.  It’s a blip.  A minor thing.  I hope.  So, what’s the answer?  Who the hell knows.  Drugs are a temporary shelter.  The roof wears thin pretty damned fast these days.  And it’s astormin’.  Maybe I should just learn to enjoy the rain.

271 Days: One Thing at a Time

I am back in trouble-land again.  Indeed I am.

Last week was a good week.  Ish.  And now.  And now.

I woke up this morning with a headache so bad that I could hardly move.  It was major dehydration.  It seems for the past four or five days or so, I just stopped drinking much.  Mix a bit of alcohol (OK, a lot on the horrid date night), and a couple shots of Bailey’s last night, just for kicks.  I am a zombie.  Might as well change my name.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone off the Lamictal.  I am always tired.  Always.

The Pitiful Shameful List of my life this week?

• No Friends seen in a long while, don’t even feel like calling anyone.
• No dates in longer, even though I’m back on Jdate (hurrah!-not).
• No writing – even though I went to a great workshop, was really revved, wrote a decent article for a magazine last week, and all.  And all.  And I am a zombie.
• No gym – never crossed my mind to go, not even any guilt – which is shameful.
• No resumes sent – even though I’m miserable at work, and the light at the end of my tunnel (other than publishing the book one day soon or getting picked up by the food network) is that I can always get another boring desk job that will be more tolerable than this one.  Yet!  I haven’t sent them out.

So.  What to do?  Another doctor appointment to get yet another second opinion.  Force myself to the gym.  Contact any old loser on Jdate and just go out.  Get out of the house.  Call my supposed friends.  Force myself to go out.  Plan something for the near/medium future.  Like a big Thanksgiving dinner (I went to a hotel last year…ugh, what a sin!).  And write.  Even though it’s scary.  And it’s easier to watch Youtube and keep up with the election and watch House and Start Trek Voyager and Coupling.  Even reading a book, in my situation, does not help me get out of the rut.  Books are just as bad if not worse than television and the internet.  Why?  Books are my ultimate in living vicariously.  Shit.  I love books.

So.  Knock on wood a million times over for tomorrow.  Please be well Mr Obama.  Get some sleep, yourself.  Drink some water.  Try not to freak out.  Take care of yourself.  You can do this.  You can be an adult.  You can clean the kitchen and sweep the floor and mop the floor and scrub the bathroom and do the laundry.  You can find a place to watch the elections tomorrow night.  You can do this.  You are not hopeless.  You are not alone.  Even though it seems that way.  Even though you spend almost all your time alone.  It will be OK.  It is OK.

And just so you don’t all think I’m going off the deep end, here is a link to a fantastically great poem that a friend back in Chicago introduced me to.  Here is William Carlos Williams and Danse Russe.  Who’s to say I can’t be the happy genius of my household, too?

299: Drugs, psychiatric drugs, that is

Escitalopram

I thought I’d share some pretty pictures of the drugs I’m on.  The Cipralex (Lexapro) is new.  Funky side effects the last couple weeks that I’m hoping will end soon.  Nausa, weird swirly head feeling, anxiety actually much higher than usual.  And I’m weaning myself off of Lamictal.  Not sure it’s the best thing, but the new psychiatrist thinks it’s probably OK.  Can’t remember things well, especially words I’ve always known (which for a writer is bad news).  So, increasing the Cipralex while decreasing Lamictal slowly.  And a roller coaster inside while all this is happening.  Jolly fun, this.

Lamotrigine