Half-truths and Secrets

A Post Secret

Sometimes I’ve almost slipped. Facebook and Twitter and Skype and all sorts of other networking status update tools have started feeling so natural.  I started wondering about social niceties and unspoken rules.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I did slip.  If I spoke some real truth, as opposed to the selected truth we use to build up our online and offline identities.  Even casually.

How would the world take it should an acquaintance type up (in 140 characters or less, of course): “Spent a couple hours masturbating this AM before heading to scrummy brunch. Mimosas and crisp bacon really completed my day ” OR “Off my meds, ate a whole pizza, can’t get out of bed, afraid I’m going over the edge” OR “I am so horny for my boss I am this far away from jumping him in the copy room” OR “XXX should just die!  Just jump off a cliff or have a good samaritain pull the trigger once and for all!” OR “Oh God I think I’m a lesbian!” OR “F*uck you world! Just f*ck you up the ass and around the corner and out your nose!”

Etc.  Not that these are in any way my confessions.

A Post Secret

Good grief, right?

Maybe not.  I have friends who are far more frank than I dare to be.  Not necessarily in very personal confessions, but rather in provocative links, daring allusions, vulgar or eye-opening or disgusting photos. Or even in their use of profanity, which I use rarely.

And the world certainly does have a need.  Ever heard of Post Secret? My sister is a new addict.  What started as an interesting contemporary art project (people sending in anonymous post cards spilling their secrets, compiled now into books), is something of an internet sensation. She reads posts on facebook, on the website, and even on twitter.  I think she’s even submitted.

By the light of the Hanukah Menorah my sister regaled me and a friend with tales of the anonymous who just had to reveal their sordid secrets to someone.  A woman was told her fiance was killed in Iraq only to find out later that he had married someone else.  Someone claiming to be a good person, not a racist in any way, finds Hitler irresistably sexy.  A woman admits to putting boogers in her husband’s food when she’s pissed off at him.  And it goes on and on.

Should we be more open and honest? Could this all really harm our online identities, or rather, our real identities? Some secrets protect. Some things may be best left unsaid. But what if you really feel like saying them? We have such a real need to be heard, especially about the things we find the most difficult to discuss.

Image from the Post Secret book

I’m just saying. They say the truth can set you free. Maybe it provides some relief.  But in this world, unless you have a stone facade, are totally confident with your situation, and are perhaps even independently wealthy, the truth seems to be a luxury.  I wish it were the case that the world would come together more, that friends would be more compassionate to each other, that we would push to become our better selves, in light of all this honesty.  We are all human – fallible, petty, hurt horny vindictive bastards.

But no.

Who would hire a bitchy bipolar bisexual Baptist? Any takers? Didn’t think so.  But that’s totally not me.  I’m Jewish, after all…

18 Days: The Old Optimist Emerges

And I hope she’s here to stay.

Cross a good therapy session, a two-week bout of “white collar” homelessness, and a sappy made-for-tv movie, and what do you get? The twelve year-old in me, the girl who dreamt big and believed it all possible, emerges. And why not? The bigger question here is, where has she been? And why doesn’t she stick around for very long?

Answer one: I’ve been living in jaded-ville off and on for ten years.

Answer two: I’ve been trying to stay in the neutral category, just edging out of negative, that the unthinkable (the positive) was just that.

What the hell am I talking about?  See, it’s as if I’ve created a triptych out of my perception of the world:

• A) world as it should be
• B) world as it is
• C) world as it could be

What’s the subtle difference here?

Option A: the world as it should be

There is a template to this world, and we’ve got it all wrong.  We get sadness, pessimism, cynicism, and hopelessness here.  We have failed in some moral, ethical way.  When we think of the world as a series of mishaps, of what was meant to be, and didn’t happen, it’s a major bummer.  We’ve polluted the air, the water, killed off half the animals and plant species, people are still dying of hunger, horrible diseases are ravaging the world, and on, and on.  The world should not have been this way!  How can we ever get out of it?!  How can we get back on track to how the world should be? It should have been cleaner, we should have been smarter, nicer, more generous…bla, bla, bla.  “Should be” in the very best possible sense focuses only on fixing problems, keeping in mind some illusory “perfect world of should be” as a goal.  It’s a constant reminder of a failure.   And something we owe it to ourselves, or more so, owe it to the world, to work toward.  It’s a struggle here.

Option B: the world as it is

There is no blueprint for how we as a species or the earth as a planet are meant to evolve.  On my best days, these days, this is where I live.  No shoulda coulda woulda.  No right and wrong.  No fault.  No blame.  No emotional entanglement.  Sure, lots of things have been killed off.  Sure, we’re choking ourselves to a slow hot death.  So what.  The universe will not weep for us.  We conquered the planet as a species, so if we did what it what we have done, consequences will ensue.  So what.  Is it wrong?  Is it fair?  What’s fair?  We were stupid, we killed off elements fundamental to our own survival…so we deserve to die.  Right?  Right.  No, not “deserve.”  There is no blame here.  We were stupid.  We will die.  Or maybe we won’t.  If we’re smart and we fix stuff and save our skins.  When I’m in this mode of being, which I often am these days, I marvel at human history.  Industrialization, politics and power, economics and wealth distribution, rights and responsibilities.  All, all, all superficial constructs.  Why does anyone have a right to live?  It’s laughable!  One is born if one is born, without consent or permission.  If a baby died in childbirth, it died in childbirth.  If one person is born to a rich family, and one to a poor family, so what?  Are they equal?  Of course not.  What on earth do rights have to do with it?  This is a world of that which is, simply is.  It’s a world of power, of laissez faire, of sit back and watch what happens.  It’s all so amusing to watch people up in arms over issues when nothing actually matters!

Option C: The world as it could be

We’re making up the blueprint as we go along, always adapting, learning, changing.  I wish I could live here.  It takes effort these days.  Perhaps it just makes me sad to think of the girl I once was, so excited about the future, so excited to be alive and have the chance to participate in something so beautiful and important.  The world as it could be, the world as it could be.  It’s an optimist’s haven.  It’s the world of sci-fi, of Star Trek, of admitting, “sure, it’s really bad…but there’s a bright side, and we’re working hard to get there.”  The world as it could be throws out the idea that there was a definite way the world should be working.  It takes the best of the honesty from Option B (OK, this is where we are), admits to a little bit of option A (OMG!  it’s bad, it’s really bad, and we did it), but gets on with it, takes a deep breath, thinks big and way outside the box, and then makes a realistic plan of attack.  This is the world of Disney, Ford, NASA, the biosphere, Apollo missions, the pyramids of Egypt, hovering bullet trains, Asimov, Gregor Mendel, the Pantheon, Da Vinci and Galileo and Matisse and Picasso and Kandinsky and Rothko.  It’s the best.  It’s hope meeting action.  It’s admitting we can’t have a solid picture of where we “should be headed,” but it doesn’t mean that we, “see the world for what it is and stand still.”  It’s keeping your chin up.  And working hard.  With a goal in mind.

My goals have gotten small lately.  I’m so used to being disappointed with myself, I don’t expect to succeed.  And I forget that I used to be so successful, it was embarrassing.  Like a success junkie.  Maybe that’s what makes this adult reality so much the more difficult.  My self esteem is in the gutter quite often.  But no excuses.  Not anymore.

I care about so many things.  So many.  Sure, it’s a little late to become a NASA scientist or a Greenpeace sailor or a Cousteau researcher.  But I’m only 29 years, 11 months, and 12 days old.  That’s kind of young enough to take on a project.  Or take adopt a new purpose to your life.  Enough with getting by.  I need to reach goals.  Big ones.  Because it is possible.  Helping Israel develop its recycling system (which is embarrassingly behind the rest of the world) is attainable.  Getting a complete amount of organic produce here could be done.  Ending childhood poverty in a country as small as this, can be done.  It can be.  Writing about issues that I find important, and get paid to do it, is possible.  It is.

I just need to figure out how to stay here.  Because I still need a day job for the moment.  I still struggle with depression, big time.  Perhaps Lifetime TV and the Hallmark Channel just became my new best friends…

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.

36 Days: The Paradoxicality of Us

Now what is that header supposed to mean?  Who knows?  Who cares?  It’s hot as balls (a new expression of my sister’s…e.g. “I’m sweating balls”) here in Tel Aviv, and although there are breezes coming through the huge open windows, I’m still sticky and uncomfortable…and risking flying cockroaches because of said open windows.

And I’ve got decisions to make. Again.  As always.  Why isn’t life simple?  Well, I suppose if you believe it’s complex, well, it will be.  If I believed in a simple solution, I think I could find it.  Simply.  Where am I going?

I was offered a job.  To sell art.  Fine art.  Aboard a cruise ship.  And I was excited as hell for the opportunity.  Until I did the research.  And found out many past employees have felt swindled, betrayed, lied to, taken advantage of, underpaid, and much worse.  Past customers have discovered their works were grossly overpriced upon returning home, and sometimes even finding that some of the paintings are suspected forgeries.  There are class action law suits.  There are whole websites devoted to how bad this is.  And this is where I want to work?

Back to why it sounds good on paper: 6-12% commission.  Free travel.  Free room and board.  Fine art.  Picasso.  Chagall.  Miro.  Dali.  Yup.  There you have it.  The “love boat,” the finest art the world has ever known, and the chance to make six figures.

But those tales of woe are scary.  And I’ve just come back from two months of roaming in a year when I spent more than 3 months out of 7 outside of the country.  The thought of just being able to amass a huge chunk of change.  Being able to make a down payment on a mortgage.  Being able to write and not worry for another year or more.  And getting this wad of cash doing something interesting and sexy like traveling on a luxurious cruise liner.  Wow.

I’ll tell you a secret: almost anyone reading this blog can qualify for this job.  Honest.  Just go to Monster.  It’s there.  Always.

And I’ve come off my meds.  Experiment.  I was so inspired by my Chinese medicine doc.  So inspired by having felt good for a few days.  Let’s get off of everything.  Let’s take herbs. Let’s have talk therapy.  Let’s work a decent honest job.  Pay rent.  Just live for a while.  Just live.  And it will all be OK.

That was yesterday.

And the existential dilemma crept back in again.  My old friend.  Meaninglessness.  Ambiguity.  Hopelessness.  The fact that life really really really really sucks.  It’s dreadful.  People are hungry.  Starving.  We are killing all the plants.  We are suffocating ourselves.  We are stupid, and we don’t care.  And yet.  And yet.  Life is so beautiful it’s nearly impossible to contain the joy I sometimes feel at being able to smell a strong-scented flower while walking down the street or at seeing children playing in a garden or thinking about a favorite book or poem or television series.  We are stupid, stupid geniuses.  That’s what.  And it’s both.  It’s the paradoxicality of us.  Yes, I think I just made up a word.  Spell checker hates it.  And here I go again:

will I ever be able to love, does it matter, of course it does, no it doesn’t, it’s only important that i can recognize the importance of love, experiencing it directly is a privilege that may not ever be afforded to me, but that’s ok, right?  right.  wrong.  or maybe if I feel love for my sister or for a book, or for life itself, or for my fellow human beings, that’s enough, that’s love.  no.  what the hell is love anyway?  fondness?  no.  too easy.  will I ever have kids?  do I even want them anymore?  they say it’s real true love.  you know it then.  shall I selfishly have kids so that I can know love?  is that how it works?  is having children ALWAYS innately a selfish act?  reproducing one’s face?  one’s abilities?  one’s talents?  one’s blue eyes?  it reminds me of the speech from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, yes, of course, when Viola (disguised as Cesario) is sent to woo Olivia on behalf of Orsino, and she says, “you will leave no copy”…that one could be so beautiful, it would be a sin not to leave a genetic copy on earth to live on after you are gone…is it narcisim?  does it matter….no, no, no, no…nothing matters.  because nothing matters.  we live.  we die.  we are always dying just as we are always living.  nothing alive is alive forever, just as everything dead must have had the privilege of life.  it’s the same thing, right?  right.  no.  no.  no.  I need to sleep.  yes, i need to sleep.  i am forcing insomnia upon myself.  i am doing it to myself.  stop.

Have a mentioned that I’ve a new addiction?  For “The Office”.  The genius television series.  That’s right.  I’m in it for Jim and Pam.  I have to see them.  How they get together.  Because those actors got it.  They are astounding.  It’s so real.  And I can feel the love between them so palpably.  Did I mention I’ve started from the beginning?  From series one?  Yes.  I have.  I know they’re together and engaged and the season 5 finale was awesome for them.  But I have to know, I just have to know how they got there.  Which is why I haven’t been sleeping.  It’s been suggested I should read Angels and Demons or some other good book.  But I think I’ll finish the series.

Thanks for reading.  If you have.  And if you’re reading this.  You have.  So, thanks.

79 Days: Year to date

I was restless trying to sleep last night.  My birthday is really soon.  Under three months.  And maybe it’s just my depressive tendencies.  Maybe it’s low self-esteem.  But I really, really, for a major flash, saw this as a completely wasted year.  In the next flash of a moment, I frantically started listing things that I’ve already done this year.  It went something like this:

1. Quit job that was bad for my soul
2. Went to India, a questionable time was had, but I went
3. I went to Ireland, and it was amazing, and it gave me career ideas and made a good friend
4. I went to Italy and Croatia and Greece and Turkey with the whole family, and even though I “just went,” it was an experience
5. I did complete a real first draft of the novel
6. The first draft of the novel was completely critiqued.  Even though I’ve been petrified to do real work using this severe criticism, I got it critiqued and theory can get it finished and sent out soon…
7. I have been dating.  Kind of.  Without great effort.  But it’s kind of something.
8. Therapy has been good.
9. Blogging has been fun and seems productive, even though I don’t get paid for it.
10. Found a cool part part part time job leading wine tastings
11. Cooked a lot of scrummy family meals for my uncle and cousins
12. Got two great cats
13. Have made huge strides in being a clean, responsible adult who does laundry and makes her bed more than once in a blue moon
14. Have really made a big effort to see friends, and it’s paying off, even though I’ve backpedaled and slumped in spurts.
15. I learned I could draw, really well.
16. Professionally catered one giant birthday party
17. I wrote a small handful of culinary articles for a Jewish magazine (maybe I should reprint them here…I’m not sure, though, any takers?)

I can probably add a bit here and there.  I guess what’s missing here is the “career” category.  Nothing that I can slap a label on that says success.  But it’s been interesting.  And it’s not over.  I have made huge strides in completing many, many, many of my “things to do before 30” list.

So, in order to salvage my silly self and ego and be orderly, here are a few more concrete things I want DONE by July 31:

1. Finish a second draft of the novel
2. Send out samples and intro letters to agents and publishers
3. Find paid work I don’t hate (even if it’s very part time waitressing, I need some self-respecting income to start paying rent because…)
4. I need to move out of my current depressing digs and into a home.  I am supposedly in the works to do so and move in with my sister into an apartment my mother purchased last year, in a chi chi awesome part of town, close to the beach, designer shops, cafes, an organic grocery store, you name it.  Thing is – ties to Mom, and having to live with a sometimes emotionally-unstable sister.  Other thing is, I will be paying rent, so I will technically be a tenant.  With rights.  It’s a much bigger place with a very hip layout and a decked out roof garden with direct access from our living room, which means the the cats will be happy, and there may just be enough physical space to spread out in case my sister goes ballistic.  Then, there are the days when I want to run screaming from the hills, move out of town, or to a crappy far away neighborhood I can afford in order to truly be independent.  But I don’t think this isn’t independent.  I mean, if I pay rent, I pay rent.  And I’m not going to be underpaying, here.  It’s just a gorgeous lot of apartment.  And I don’t have to look for it.  It’s there, because it was bought by my selfish self-centered witch of a mother who intends to use it as her very own every time she’s in town (which means, where the hell do I go…tenants’ rights?).  I’m going to stop here.  No I’m not.  Because I sound like a real bitch talking about my mother this way.  I do love her, and I do a lot for her, believe me.  She doesn’t just come for a visit, you see, when I could fix up a guest bed and cook a celebratory brunch.  She comes for a month or two, takes over everything, and uses the place like it’s hers.  No asking to use things.  Inviting her friends over at all hours.  Leaves her things everywhere.  Doesn’t clean.  Treats us like children.  She’s the roommate from hell.  Read The Drama of the Gifted Child.  That’s my mom.  Narcisist. With a capital ‘N.’  She’s the reason for a majority of my neuroses and major character flaws and huge therapy bills. Period.  We don’t get along, and it’s for nothing obvious that you can put a finger on because the whole world thinks she’s a loveable eccentric.  She just makes my skin crawl.  Now I’m done.
5. Make a longer-term plan for income and creativity balance.  Because I have novel #2 in the works.  Very loose outline.  But I’m excited.  Even if nobody ever reads what I write, I’m a writer, right?  Why do I have to convince myself…

These things seem reasonable.  Yes, they do.  If I work hard.  2+ months?  Piece of cake.  You are all witnesses!  I have to move on this people.  Go ahead and ask me how the editing is going — go ahead — and don’t let me evade the questions…

Have a great day…I am, with friends in Jerusalem.  I love the productivity that time-crunches push you into!

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.

137 Days: How To Cope With Depression

Having been to what I am starting to believe more and more is my pill-pushing quack of a psychiatrist, as well as my cool barely-older-than-me psychologist in the same day, and having read a Judy Blume book cover to cover in between, here’s a fun video to brighten all our days:

140 Days: Xanax Solace

I’m a bit woozy, as I took a xanax an hour ago or so.  Not the best day.  Well, an eye opener.  My writing workshop consensus was that my book, although ridiculously promising at the beginning, needs a lot of work in the middle and end.  I mean, when they gave me the critique a while ago on the first third, it was through the roof.  The kind of stuff that a publisher would have a wet dream over.  And now I realize what a grandiose mountain it is I am really standing before.

I felt really alone today.  Really wanted to cry and be comforted by a mother.  My mother isn’t the type.  So not the type, it’s laughable.  All my life I never realized that I approached her with so much hope that she’d finally just embrace me without opening her mouth.  With pure acceptance.  Without curious, suggestive, self-centered, egotistical, judgemental jabs.  And I spoke with my father today for the first time in what must be over a month or maybe even more.  I think it’s like more like two.  And the weird thing is, I don’t have the strain with him as much as with my mom.  He just doesn’t call and is so busy and in so many countries, I never know when to call and where I might find him.  It was nice to hear his voice.  But it made me so sad.  I wanted to cry, to tell him that it is quite possible I’m terribly depressed and that I’m not sure my meds are working and that I feel that my life is insignificant sometimes and that I don’t know what the solutions are.  But I couldn’t say anything.  We just talked about my travel plans for the spring, and he helped me with his industry-insider knowledge in booking some flights.  And part of me was so angry.  So angry at him that I couldn’t say these things.  So low.  And all we did was “talk business” as usual.  I’m pretty sure I sounded strained.  You know, when someone asks how you are, you always say you’re fine.  Even though you might be the farthest thing from it.  Why open Pandora’s box?  Why tell a parent who can’t do anything to help you and usually gives you advice you don’t care to hear because it’s conservative and insensitive, that you’re lost and scared and miserable?  It would only hurt them.  But then who do I turn to?

I took a xanax, not something I do often, maybe 2-3 times a year…but it’s gotten closer to 4-5…not a dangerous amount.  Because I was sensing myself start to spin.  I called a friend on the phone and she didn’t answer.  I would have called one or two others, but it’s the Sabbath here, and they’re religious and won’t have their phones on or won’t answer.

My date went well.  He was exceptionally smart.  We have a lot in common.  But I sensed I wasn’t quite all there.  We are going to meet again.  But I need to have a heart to heart with myself, if such a thing exists.  My gynecological issues these past couple months have been scary and uncomfortable.  I can’t pretend that the idea of sex isn’t still off-putting.  It is.  I want to get to know people.  Just people.  Sometimes I think I’d give almost anything up to have unbelievable sex just once in my life.  Maybe even pleasant good sex.  Other times, I know in my gut that I’d be more than OK if I’d never have sex again in my entire life.  Funny.  It’s a take it or leave it.  Sometimes I feel (or rather I know) that I’m really missing out.  Other times, I really know it’s not worth it.  Sex has brought me nothing but worry and discomfort and jeopardized my health.  I don’t know what it feels like to burn with desire.  Maybe I’m not capable of it.  But I know I need a partner.  I need to keep dating.  I want to built positive relationships, have strong friendships, weave a varied and colorful and supportive basket of people around me.  But the intimacy thing.  Sometimes I wonder about hypnosis.  I’d really like to dig to the root of my problems.  I was never physically abused as far as I know.  But after all my years of dating, of sexual dabbling, and therapy on top of it, to still be so uncomfortable, so panic striken, seems fishy to me.  Regular yeast and urine infections, along with the worry of STD’s and pregnancy, for crappy sex that feels a bit uncomfortable at best just isn’t worth it.  Keep the dirty knobs away.  For the moment, anyway.

159 Days: Purpose. Survival. Pleasure. Joy.

I warn you now. This will be something resembling a rant. Or philosophy. Or just depressive mumbo-jumbo. But it will only be as long as my crappy laptop battery will allow as I couldn’t get one of the only two tables at this cafe that are situated by a wall socket.

62% – here I go

It’s raining. It’s a good thing for Tel Aviv. It feels something like Christmas when it rains. It’s far more lively. People rushing about. Cars not used to splashing through puddles get pedestrians wet by accident. It’s kind of joyful. I holed up for a while in The Third Ear music and movie place, and then ran as fast as I could across the boulevard to a cafe because it was really coming down.  I’m in a “glassed in” section that cafes tend to build out for the winter here.  I’m kind of outside.  I’m kind of in.  It’s pleasant.  And there are space heaters above us.  And the rain is audibly pounding.  It’s kind of a respite for me.  But I’m still not feeling good.

58%

I lack structure.  I’m not good when I lack structure.  But I knew that this was coming.  When I gave up the structure of a miserable job, I knew there was a big chance I’d flounder.  I knew there was a big chance I would leap for another job, for another course, for something to make me get up in the morning.  But once I establish a structure, I get very tired of it, very quickly.  How does one live with structure and live without structure?  How can one be comfortable in either situation?  I love and hate both.  I need and reject both.

56%

I dream of having ultimate purpose.  I dream of deciding, this is it, I love the environment (or abused women, or tax reform, or crochet knitting, or model rocket building) so much that I will devote myself to making a change in this one particular field.  Nothing will stop me!  I will not yield!  I am an environment saving (or women saving, tax reforming, crochet knitting rocketry) machine!  I will form a company, a union, something!  Or I will get a job with an existing agency and do it!  I will get up every day, knowing that even though I may only be filing today, or only sweeping the floor today, or sitting in boring meetings today, I am ultimately doing something for what I love!  I have purpose!  I am doing my small part in one specific field, and over the course of a lifetime, I will have done something meaningful, I will have helped progress, I will have been able to sleep through the night, have friendships, have a love, clean my house, plant a garden, with the peace of knowing that 9-5, 5-6 days per week, I have purpose.  That I function.  That I do.  That I count.

53%

That was idealistic wasn’t it?  Life didn’t used to be like this.  One existed to keep existing.  Your dad was a silversmith?  You apprenticed, you worked hard, you learned, you took over for him, you made enough money, got to marry, got to procreate and sustain that family because you had a profession.  Or you have land.  It’s your one asset.  You grow food on it.  It sustains you.  You have a surplus.  You sell it, you trade it, you have more under your belt.  You marry.  You have kids.  You survive.  You exist.

50%

So, why do we keep doing it?  Over time, we have gotten to have more and more leisure time.  In other words, we have more time to enjoy ourselves.  And we have more time to think.  So.  What does this mean?  We become more introspective, sure.  And we can become gluttonous libertines, too.   We start to think about meaning.  Why are we here?  Why is life such a struggle?  Why continue?  Because it’s also pleasant.  Because food tastes good, sex feels good, talking warms us in a way a fire can’t, sleep is nourishing and pleasant.  So…do we work hard so we can come home and enjoy the pleasures in our lives?  Love our husbands and wives and lovers and children and sing songs and eat cake and drink wine?  Is that enough?  Has that always been it?  Is that it now?

45%

I’m losing my train of thought.  I don’t know if it wouldn’t just be prudent for me to find any old PhD program who would take me and just fall into the world of this, of books, of depressive philosophy.  But that would be a pleasure in itself.  Painful though it may be.

I’m just struck by the nothingness now.  I feel sometimes that I’m nothing.  That everything that I have accomplished is passed.  That even though I have been productive in the past.  Even if I’ve created great art.  Even if I’ve once worked hard, if I’m not doing it now, I am nothing.  And my goals seem so trivial.  Work as a “traveling chef” while I edit my novel so I can send it out to get published.  Maybe.  Cooking seems so…nothing.  It’s not like saving the whales.  Or saving the economy.  Or even reading philosophy books at a university.  It feels on the one hand quite blue color and hard physical labor and crazily demeaning; and on the other hand it feels really decadent and over the top with the menus I plan and the heights I aspire to and the “world peace” I sometimes feel I can achieve if only I can educate people on how fantastic the history and processes of food really are.  And yet, beyond the one catering gig I had, I have no leads.  Sure, I’ve not done much of any marketing, or asking around, or making of flyers or anything.  But I have distributed some 100 business cards and people were practically offering me work all over the place.  Ah, c’est la vie.  Nobody is true to their word, most of the time.  Or am I just being cynical because I’m having a bad day/week/month?

40%

Joy.   There are beautiful things about being here.  About our existence.  Whether we are base animals, working hard just to feed and sustain the next generation, so they can do the same thing.  Or whether we are these huge thinkers, these pompous philosophs (or should I say sophists), who are so wrapped up in themselves, they cannot see the forest for the trees.  If it’s a matter of work (dare I say, “work will set you free?”) and simple pleasures of home, hearth, and God, or something much larger…I don’t know.

38%

I live in a world of chocolate.  I live in a world where I can sit sheltered from the rain in a glass box, sipping a latte.  I have a laptop.  I have internet.  I express my opinion to millions (or maybe a dozen or so) strangers, freely.  I go to a shrink, weekly.  I take prescription drugs.  I drink whisky.  I live in a world where I wonder about it.  I live a life I cannot understand.  I am continuously in awe of things I discover.  I am continuously puzzled by things I can’t wrap my head around.  Are these not all wonderful things?  Are these not things that in their own way bring me joy?  Maybe even give me purpose?  No, not purpose.  That’s going too far.

34%

I have always, always, always believed that things, all things, only have the meaning we bestow upon them.  A religious person believes in God, in God’s power, love, grace, etc.  An athiest does not.  Yet they live in the same world.  And they are both correct.  Meaning is our attempt to give significance to the things around us, and hence to our lives.

32%

But, if I believe that meaning is an artificial construct, then what am I doing here?  If I don’t believe that anything means anything, can I still care?  Well, sure, right?  Sure, we’re all going to die.  But some people suffer more than I do, some people even starve and die painful deaths.  There is no sense in some of us people being wealthy and some being poor.  That’s the way it is now.  I’m not saying it “shouldn’t” be this way.  But this is the reality.  I can still do something about it.  From giving a small donation in a tin on the street corner, to devoting my life to alieviate poverty in, say, Africa.  I can do something, even if I accept that things are the way they are, just because they are.

30%

50 ways to leave your lover is playing.  I love this song.  I really do love Paul Simon’s work.

So, we are an accident.  Something that happened.  Big Bang — massive expansion — stars, planets, volcanoes, atomospheres, amino acids, cells, and finally us.  Nobody before.  Nobody after.  Nobody watching.  And even if someone were?

29%

Here I sit at a cafe.  Really sad, and no reason to be so.  My tears have no meaning.  If I applied myself, I could be great.  I have that background.  I have that education.  I have that elloquence.  I even hhave the connections.  And I don’t know what to do.  Maybe this is indeed depression.  Massive depression.  Maybe if I took more drugs, I would feel like I was over the moon, clean the house, get a job, finish the book in lightening speed, sell a million copies, move to Paris like I want, eat croissants, go shopping, have a lover who really loves me, have babies, have a vegetable garden in Provence, drink wine, grow vineyards, make wine, write funny stories, sing pretty songs, and die a peaceful death, full of fat French cheese, lush Belgian chocolate, and smiling faces all around.  One more pill a day?  Just one more pill?  Wasn’t this what I thought one pill ago?  Is this more of an existential dillema than a psychological one?  Do I need more therapy?  Or a weekly chat with a philosopher?  Would winning a million dollars change anything?  Would it?

26%

I think I’ll stop soon.  Nobody will have read this far.  I’m not nearly as intelligent as people think I am.  I still can’t get over the feeling that unless I am productive, unless I have a title, unless I am earning, unless I am creating something, I am nothing.  How different would the world have been without me?  Not much.  Or would it?

I am spinning in circles, and I don’t know the way out.  I feel so sad.  I hate not having purpose.  Because in all actuality, I have too much purpose.  I cannot decide.  I can’t.  Why can’t I just go work for Greenpeace?  Go join the Peace Corps?  Get a job at a bank?  Earn a paycheck and drown my sorrows with….simple joys?  I don’t know.  I just don’t know.  I’ve never known.

22% – it’s not safe to go to zero, is it?

Still, I have to remember that I have good days.  So good, it’s scary.  Days when every flower is a gift.  When every new thing I learn is reason enough to have been born.  Why am I like this?