For those who think I’m wallowing in self pity over here…I am. Figured I may as well indulge myself. I mean, I’m suffering from deep, long-lasting depression that has driven me to actual electroshock treatments, I’m unable to write regularly in order to make my living the way I want to, and I just lost the first girl I’ve ever met who I think was an actual near-perfect match for me.
So yeah, I’m gonna enjoy some tiny violins for the moment. I’m entitled to be sad, and I am.
Just a quick update for the concerned…
Kate and I have reestablished contact, at least a little bit, hopefully leading to more. As I care dearly for her, it’s very much my hope we can at least return to being very good friends; my world is a lovelier place with her in it. I’ve missed her terribly.
My heart still breaks to think of what might have been…I think we could have been a great couple. I know, had we the will, we could have been together. But as of this weekend, not only is she not moving here to be with me, she’s moving even farther away. Perhaps I simply fucked things up, perhaps there was never a chance we’d do what it required to be together. I fear the former.
At the very least, I think we had our asses kicked by distance, and that’s a shame. It certainly makes me all the more adamant about not getting into long distance relationships…but it also makes me wonder if I should bother with relationships at all. Two decades of loneliness seems to have settled atop me like geological layers of stone and I just seem to flounder and fuck up when I try to dig through to sunlight. I want it too much, I try too hard, I worry too much about losing…and I lose.
Kate was the best thing to happen to me since my son was born, and I blew it.
Continued from Part 1…
The only thing Kate ever told me regarding one of the factors causing her depression involved the idea of moving.
She had been living with her sister who suddenly announced, just prior to Kate’s two week Decatur vacation, that she was moving, almost immediately. Kate, as I told you, was working a variety of odd jobs without a guaranteed income, and suddenly she was going to be responsible for all the rent. She was going to need the cash she’d managed to gather for her trip to make sure she had her living expenses paid.
But I loved her, and I wanted to see her, and I wanted to help my sweetie. So I told her I’d pay for everything while she was here, and I loaned her the money for the train fare, nearly $300. (At this point, I doubt I’ll see that money again. I suppose, if she looks at it a certain transactional way, she may figure it’s for services rendered.)
So Kate came to see me, and her sis moved out while she was here. She returned to a mostly empty apartment, because it had originally been her sister’s place and been furnished with her sister’s things. Kate’s stuff was in storage. So her first task upon returning to Philly was to go get her things and heave them into the place with no one to help. Somewhere around here in the timeline, she realized she didn’t want to have to move again so soon, that she didn’t want to move to Decatur.
But she’d gleefully made plans with me while down here, and knew I’d be disappointed at that news. So of course she didn’t tell me. I was all excited, trying to make plans with her, and she was getting cagey, trying to avoid the subject. This dissonance likely made me a stress point for her. I can’t say how much this contributed to her depression, but it definitely did not help. It certainly provides a reason for the suddenly cursory interaction.
I tried to talk. She wouldn’t. Naturally I tried to get through to her, and naturally I got frustrated when she repeatedly shot me down. Continue reading
Shortly after it became clear, if not explicit, that Kate was going to leave me, I wrote this in my notebook:
I miss her for who I thought she was, who she said she was, who she might have been. But clearly she is none of those things.
I was going to let my poem on April 21st (“Valediction“) be my absolute final say, Kate’s last appearance in my writing, by name at least, if not by lasting effects. But my mind wouldn’t let me. In my aimless state yesterday (I’m writing this the 22nd, but won’t publish immediately), perhaps a bit lopsided because of my first ECT treatment the day before, Kate and despair had an old-fashioned dance marathon in my mind. And because I couldn’t fix my attention on anything with any real focus, the dance dominated.
It grew worse when I tried to sleep last night. My head was full of thoughts, angry thoughts, sad thoughts, self-damning thoughts. This is called rumination, and it’s symptomatic of depression for a lot of people (it’s one of the reasons depressed folks have problems sleeping, their minds just won’t shut the hell up). I dozed fitfully, never reaching deep sleep, finally awakening around three with the dance reeling still. I coudn’t fall asleep again.
But after suffering a while longer, I realized something. My thoughts weren’t just a stream-of-consciousness parade of feelings and memories, they were self-organizing. My mind was composing sentences and paragraphs, actually editing each thought, polishing it up before moving to the next. I hadn’t planned to write this, but my mind clearly disagreed and wasn’t going to leave me alone until I did. I got up and started trying to capture those thoughts, and as I wrote my mind calmed; it had my attention now, it no longer had to yell.
I wrote until I had to get ready to go to ECT this morning. Those initial captured thoughts are the foundation of this post. Continue reading
This song always gets under my skin.
I’ve spent much of today in the state I was in Thursday, either an aimless zombie or napping.
I don’t think it’s from the ECT. I think it’s just stress and depression.
Heh. “Just” stress and depression, as if that’s not much at all.
Actually I feel like hell.
At this point I’m starting to hope the lightning does burn away some memories.
"Get to work!"
Yesterday proved to be a very interesting counterpoint to the day before.
Whereas Thursday I’d been fogged in and unfocused, after my ECT session Friday I went home and became nothing but focused.
Actually, it started earlier than that. For the second night in a row I slept terribly, my mind racing with thoughts of recent sadness. It just wouldn’t shut up. By three I was fully awake and couldn’t get back to sleep.
But after suffering a while longer, I realized something. My thoughts weren’t just a stream-of-consciousness parade of feelings and memories, they were self-organizing. My mind was composing sentences and paragraphs, actually editing each thought, polishing it up before moving to the next. I hadn’t planned to write anything more about my heartbreak, but my mind clearly disagreed and wasn’t going to leave me alone until I did. I got up and started trying to capture those thoughts, and as I wrote my mind calmed; it had my attention now, it no longer had to yell.
I wrote until it was time to get ready to go to ECT.
When I got back home, I started writing again, shaping all my thoughts into a blog post. I didn’t stop until deep into the evening. The result was a post nearly 3,500 words long (this from the guy who has trouble making 500-1,000 words a day). And it’s a pretty damn good post. I may even post it here, but not right now.
I have, at times in the past, written in journals to deal with tough times, but as far as I remember this is the first time my mind has insisted I do so. And it helped somewhat, especially while I was actually writing, focused on getting everything down. I’m still hurting though; that’s going to take a while to heal.
My brain kept me awake ruminating on the hurts of the past few weeks, then forced me to write as a way of coping. For a writer, that’s not a bad sign. Perhaps it’s a signal that what’s going on in there right now, sparked by the ECT, is reawakening or reorganizing the parts of my mind that make me a writer in the first place. Maybe it cleared some rubble from the passageways and it’s easier to move around in there again. Or maybe my mind just did what it had to do to keep me from imploding fully into despair.
I’m still depressed. I’m still heartbroken. But I wrote. Was it because of the ECT? I don’t know.
Or, to make the reference accurate, Frankenstein’s monster. But that doesn’t have the same ring.
I am just back from my second ECT session, in which they are trying to use lightning to spark life out of that which is dead, meaning my vitality and joy and ability to live fully. So far, we’re lacking an “IT’S ALIVE!” moment, but here’s hoping. We are still at the beginning.
Today wasn’t much different than Wednesday. The biggest difference was the nurse did a worse job putting in the IV and had to dig around a bit to get the catheter properly in the vein. Good times.
So far today I’m more clear-headed and alert than I was yesterday (described here). It’ll be interesting to see how I am tomorrow, if my brain seems to be motoring at a lower RPM, or if yesterday was just a temporary adjustment, if related to the ECT at all.
This footage of the natural world by Terje Sorgjerd is one of the most beautiful and genuinely awe-inspiring things I’ve ever seen. (Thanks to Angel Leigh McCoy)
Aimless Tim
I suspect it has something to do with my brain reacting to yesterday’s lightning strike, but I am utterly useless today.
I’m unfocused. I don’t feel like going anywhere, or watching anything, or reading, or playing a video game. Unfortunately that leaves me spinning pointlessly through the internet on and on and on, not paying much attention. I have far too much day to spend dwelling on things I need to forget.
Well, there’s a reason they don’t let you drive while in ECT treatment. I guess while the brain works to fix things, it’s burning energy that normally would go to other things, like having an attention span or rational thought. I’m managing to write this, but I’m not really focused on it, and the writing’s slow.
I’m still gung-ho, though. This is kinda an adventure.
I release her, though I love her still.
We are not lovers, though we were, and nicely.
We are not friends (epic true or otherwise), though we were, with delight.
To be free, she must build walls, it seems. Some people must.
To be free, she must ravage love, burn its bones.
Salt earth with its tears.
Make sure no part lives, nothing more will grow.
Ok.
Though I love her still, I release her.
Goodbye, Kate.
Survived.
It wasn’t nearly as harrowing as I expected.
They had me fill out some forms (“I agree that if my cerebellum sizzles like a frying egg, I absolve the cook from all responsibility…”). They encouraged me to empty my bladder, and recommended I put on a Depends diaper because sometimes people wet themselves when they’re on the muscle relaxants. I opted for no diaper. I’d expected to have to don a gown, but they let me keep my clothes on. Continue reading
When I’m writing this, I’m up way too early Monday morning. But when it appears on my blog Wednesday morning, I will be at the ZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAP lab, possibly already riding the lightning.
To commemorate this first session (which I’ll try to blog about afterward), here’s some AC/DC.
Thanks to all my friends who are with me in spirit as I undergo this treatment…
The snake is a lie.
And that’s all I have to say about that. Probably.
If you’ve been with the blog a while, you’ll be aware of my depression. It cripples my daily life, and I’ve suffered with it since I was a kid. Wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I realized something was wrong, and I’ve been battling it off and on through various means ever since. Tomorrow I do the biggy, ECT, electroconvulsive therapy, and they’ll knock me out and strap me down and zap some lightning through my brain, hopefully stimulating my hippocampus to do its fucking job.
I’m actually looking forward to it.
A few people, even online friends I don’t actually know, have made a point of being supportive and positive, both in this endeavor and my struggle in general. Thank you. It means a lot to me. I’m completely out of touch with my father and paternal family by choice, and my mother died when I was a baby and I haven’t been in touch with her family since my late teens. Isolation is one of the demons depression sics on its victims, and my friends have fallen away from me one by one over the years, leaving a few I rarely see. The only friend who is around often (and is going to drive me back and forth to the ECT sessions, because you’re not allowed to drive immediately after one) is my ex-wife. And though I walk a tunnel in which I rarely see a light at the end, my son burns bright enough to keep the walls from closing in entirely.
In September ’04, during one extended and rough depressive time, I sent an email to a couple of friends asking for help. I’ve decided to post it, in its entirety, for the sake of those who don’t really know what depression is. It might give you some insight into the life of someone you know, and if you’re stalwart and true, you can stand by them and help. Continue reading
Fat man sitting on a little stool
Takes the money from my hand while his eyes take a walk all over you
Hands me the ticket smiles and whispers good luck
Cuddle up angel cuddle up my little dove
We’ll ride down baby into this tunnel of love
I can feel the soft silk of your blouse
And them soft thrills in our little fun house
Then the lights go out and it’s just the three of us
You me and all that stuff were so scared of
Gotta ride down baby into this tunnel of love
There’s a crazy mirror showing us both in 5-d
I’m laughing at you you’re laughing at me
There’s a room of shadows that gets so dark brother
Its easy for two people to lose each other in this tunnel of love
It ought to be easy ought to be simple enough
Man meets woman and they fall in love
But the house is haunted and the ride gets rough
And you’ve got to learn to live with what you can’t rise above if you want to ride on down in through this tunnel of love…
Recently I’ve blogged about my attempts to optimize my approach to writing day to day, to hopefully become more productive and prolific. A huge part of that, by necessity, is that I have to deal with my depression; if I can’t, I might as well throw in the towel.
This week, I start a course of ECT (electroconvulsive therapy), which will hopefully give me the edge in that fight. I’m assuming it will, so I’m working on setting the stage for the writing I plan once it’s over.
Kate gave me a book about writing for my birthday, Chapter By Chapter by Heather Sellers. Generally I find books about writing to be a waste of time for a writer; most of them say essentially the same things, and once you’ve read one, you’ve pretty much read the rest. If you’re trying to be a writer, your time is better spent writing than reading about writing. Till now, I’ve recommended only two books to writers looking for advice, The War of Art by Steven Pressfield and On Writing by Stephen King.
Chapter By Chapter is now on that list, and not just because it came to me via hot redhead. Kate chose well; Sellers has some fresh perspectives on the work, and her book has been useful to me as I try to figure these things out.
One chapter proved pertinent to this post, the one about “positioning.” Sellers defines positioning as preparing to do the work, mentally and physically, in advance, so that when it’s time to get to work you can just sit down and write. Part of this is making a routine of connecting with your project every evening, thinking about the next day’s writing, staying involved. The other part of it is making sure you’re physically set up in advance so you don’t have to waste time gathering materials and setting up when you sit down to write again. Continue reading
I made this video, with a lovely new song by Steve Earle, a couple of weeks ago, and it was supposed to be the Song of the Week this past week. But as Monday rolled around, it looked like my romance with Kate was splintering, so I went with “Little Red Riding Hood” instead.
All the same, I made this for her, and it reflects how I felt. And I still love her…lover, friend, Facebook pal, whatever, she’s still in my heart, and I still adore her.
I fully support Donald Trump in his quest for the Republican candidacy for President of the United States.
Now, people who know me might automatically think I’m trying to be funny, or that I figure Trump would be easy for Obama to beat, so that’s why I’d like him to be the chosen candidate. But after the last decade, I no longer trust the American people’s ability to make smart decisions in their own best interests; at this point, if Trump won the office it wouldn’t actually come as a surprise to me. And Obama has been such a bowl of gruel, after promising a succulent banquet of hope and change, that I know he’s probably beatable.
No, I support Trump as the Republican candidate because I think he’s the best they have to offer. Yes, he’s a corporate shark. Yes, he’s a narcissistic douche-bag. Yes, he’d probably be a bad president. But I’m more concerned with what he isn’t.
He’s not a religious nut who wants to take us back to the days of Cotton Mather. He doesn’t want to burn witches or books, he doesn’t want to outlaw people’s private sexual choices, he doesn’t want to bring on the friggin’ Rapture by attacking heathen countries. Far as I know, he doesn’t want to teach children ancient fairy tales in school instead of science.
He’s not beholden to corporate interests. This one might seem surprising, but I think that Trump is so insulated in his World of Trump ™, so completely narcissistic, that he doesn’t give a fuck about other corporate douche-bags. As long as he gets his — the power, the money, the attention — I don’t think he’s going to put a lot of energy into protecting and furthering the corporate oligarchy now running things. (Which may make him actually preferable to Obama on that front).
He’s not a tea-bagger. Sure he’s pandering like a flat-broke hooker who hasn’t eaten in two weeks with all this nonsense about Obama’s birth certificate, but surely no one actually thinks he believes it for a second. He’s just stroking them, trying to make ‘em purr, the same way the GOP power brokers have been doing.
If Trump took the presidency, the results would likely be terrible. But he probably wouldn’t do nearly as much damage to our country, and to the world, as George W. Bush did, or as much as the rest of the assholes the GOP is likely to field would do.
[UPDATE FOR THE OBTUSE: Read closely. I say I support Trump being the Republican candidate. I do not say I support him being president, though I do say he'd probably be less damaging than any other possible GOP contender right now.]
