Fin.

You're still here?



It's over. Go home!

The Last Word

Retirement, sabbatical, or just out of words?

Like the weather here, I'm being indecisive.

Honestly, the effort to coherently verbalize my feelings seems to be more tedious than therapeutic. I've become tired of "Fern" - he has become less of an flawed but insightful persona, and more of a whiny brat that needs a swift kick in the ass.

Maybe - with pharmaceutical assistance - I'm better prepared to live my own life rather than existing vicariously through Fern and the other characters I have created in my head. Each character represents individual parts of a complex whole, and have occasionally appeared in writing here. These personae are born partly from an obsession with having control of something when I seemingly had no control over anything. But when things go wrong in the imaginary internal world, I find myself taking on the worries and stresses and drama of the characters - the actor becoming the role, blurring the two identities in an unhealthy way.

So like a tired soap opera character who is no longer integral to the plot, I'm tempted to write Fern out of the script. He has had a good run, but the focus groups tell me his overacting and self-pity is bringing down the whole show. (I've not told Fern about this possibility yet - he is not good at coping with change.)

--------

With this realization comes another ... that perhaps the cost of maintaining this [tragedy/comedy/blog] may be outweighing the benefits. Blogging was therapeutic for a while, but seems to have become a chore and an emotional millstone around the proverbial neck.

Like feeling worse after therapy, I've noticed that I make myself more depressed when I get into the proper mindset for writing about the state of my mental attic, dredging up all the sadness and hurt and anger I can find. A few days ago I wrote something rather painful and overdramatic, but instead of posting it I just saved it; when I returned to it 2 days later, I discovered I didn't really feel that way, maybe only a little, but not as disastrously as I had implied earlier.

Dr. Fred uses a 'stream of consciousness' metaphor that I'm starting to identify with. Thought, feelings, and sensations are a river flowing, sometimes smoothly, sometimes turbulent, but always flowing ... new experience floating towards you while the past is carried away, sometimes leaving a mark but never to return. Dr. Fred says it is helpful to picture yourself standing at the bank, objectively looking at your thoughts and feelings, rather than jumping in the river and being carried away or drowning.

The point? I think it is dangerous for me to stand at river's edge for more than a moment. If I look too close at my own stream of consciousness, I am powerless to keep myself on shore, awkwardly falling into my turbulent inner mindscape where I cannot swim.

At the moment, it seems safer to stand far from the river and only glance briefly at the water, to think in small chunks and not overwhelm myself with the internal drama. Obviously that's not the way this blog has gone - I've written a lot of words here, most of them when I feel the worst.

So, maybe it would be for the best if the story of Fern was left unfinished for now. I think there are other parts of me that are more important right now. As for the fate of this blog, I've not decided yet. I will leave everything posted for now, just in case Fern has more to say.

State of restlessness

I left work at noon, per my new 32-hour schedule. I had some lunch, the wondered what to do. I decided to see some scenery, then made a couple of random turns, and ended up crossing the Ohio River at the northern tip of West Virginia. Six minutes later, I was in Pennsylvania. I circled back along the river, then went back home - a four-hour tour.

I saw some interesting sights along the way, including belching industrial smoke, a nuclear power plant, a navigation lock, a neat old town along the river, and several run-down and dingy towns along the river.

Maybe next time I will bring a map and have a better clue where I am headed.

Memoir of March Madness

I love the NCAA basketball tournament. The madness lasts way too late here in the east, however. I remember back when I could stay awake for all the games. Anyway, the tournament is great. The NBA is unwatchable, and I have a hard time caring about regular season college games, but there is something about a tournament at any level, from Dan's team 2 years ago to college, that creates its own excitement. The intensity of the players, the emotion, the amazing athleticism, cheering for the upsets by small schools like Winthrop and Monmouth, the pressure of lose-and-go-home. Hey, all you need to do is have a 6-game winning streak at the right time. Lots of teams have a stretch of winning – 6-0 in three weeks, no problem. Yeah, but in March, only one team will go 6-0 when it counts.

People can be stupid

Anne and I watched The Crying Game last week. I guess I am the last person in the western world to see the big surprise. I knew that was part of the movie, but back when it came out EVERYBODY was talking about how shocked they were, as if that was the point of the entire movie. Having seen the movie now, I see how shallow everyone's understanding was. That was only a little bit of the movie – it was much more than the cross-dresser having boy-parts where girl-parts were expected. I thought it was a pretty intelligent story, using the misunderstanding for some funny and poignant scenes against a backdrop of the very sad and violent Irish Troubles.

Bathroom issues, chapter 27: Hyperactive Toilets

Sometimes you never know what will happen next. This is why I dread public toilets.

As I enter the lavatory, there is a guy in one stall who seems to be having problems. Bang. Bang. Bang. It sounds like he is bludgeoning the paper holder in his stall, grumbling the entire time while cursing our Lord and Saviour. Bang. Bang.

Meanwhile I have discovered my own nemesis, auto-flush toilets. I have had nightmares about these things, and I will avoid them if at all possible. Thanks to my recently troubled digestive system, avoidance was not an option and tolerance was necessary. (Bang. Bang. Blankety-blank, mumble mumble.) I get in and turn to close the door, and – eeeeeFWOOOSHHHH – we have liftoff. I take off my jacket and hang my computer bag on the hook – eeeeFWOOOSHHHH. I don't know why the 'eeeee' preceeds the 'FWOOOOSHHH', maybe there is a bad O-ring in the valve. Bang. Bang. Already regretting my bathroom choice, I now notice that I will need to clean the toilet before I sit down. This is typical and expected, but it is never enjoyable to clean a stranger's bodily detritus.

I wipe down the seat (Bang. Bang.) and reach for the paper cowboy hat.** You know, the microscopically thin seat covers made from bible pages, provided for your protection but seemingly never cover the entire seat, thereby exposing your ass region to a hundred freaking billion germs.*** I never know which way to put it on the seat – does the flap go in front or behind, is it different for men and women, should I just tear it off ... so many mysteries in life. Installing the ass-gasket is more challenging than normal because of the spastic commode and banging next door. I slowly place the cowboy hat on the seat while the porcelain being watches me.

I see your little infrared sensor - even though it's not in the visible spectrum, I know you are shining that little beam of light at me, waiting, watching for a moment of inattention. No sudden moves, you might scare it. I slowly turn around, start to sit – eeeeFWOOOSHHHH – and there goes the fucking cowboy hat. I quickly get another gasket, tearing the tab off, and sit down while the toilet is still recovering. I sit like a pilot reaching for the eject handle, waiting tensely for the force that will lift my butt in the air ... but it does not fire. I am safe for the moment.

My neighbor has solved his problems as well, the banging finally silent, although the grumbling continues. I start to relax when I feel the plumbing start to shake from a flush on the 4th floor above me. I have this irrational fear that when someone else flushes, something will break, the pressure seal on my toilet will fail, and a blast of contaminated sewage will blast up from the toilet and fling me out of the cubicle****. I know this is totally stupid – I understand plumbing well enough to know this is quite impossible, but the feeling remains. Another toilet flushes on another floor, then my angry neighbor pauses his invective when his toilet flushes, but my throne remains thankfully silent – until just before I stand up – eeeeFWOOOSHHH. It erupted two more times before I could make my escape.

I hate public toilets.

---

Footnotes:
** If you are a cowboy and are offended, sorry, but WTF are you doing on the internet when your cows need to be rounded up and you've got plans to go see Brokeback Mountain??
*** Now I am thinking about the Stephen King book where the ass-worm-aliens eat their way out of the hunters' ass. Great, more pleasant mental pictures.
**** This also reminds me of a scene in Lethal Weapon 3 or 7 or 23 when Danny Glover is sitting on a toilet rigged with a bomb and says “I don't want to die like this!”, then Mel Gibson rescues him and the toilet explodes, flying out of the house and crushing a police car.

Another day, another library

Today I decided to go the Akron library, since no one from work would bother showing themselves here. Just 15 miles up the freeway, but a world apart. The wireless internet is not working here, so I can't get online. Fine, I'll just write and listen to CDs from the incredibly huge collection of music here – there are probably several thousand CDs and several hundred DVDs to be borrowed.

Friend or anemone?

To the people I have met online, friends and bloggers and fellow nut jobs who have become my social life ... I can't put into words how much I appreciate your caring support and friendship. I still distrust most people, but here it is possible to feel a sense of belonging when I never have before, and it is okay to be vulnerable and sad and bruised without being afraid of what everyone thinks.

If I could save time in a bottle, then drink it with vodka and orange juice

Time flies, and I can't. I never feel like I have enough time to do the things I want, and usually not enough to the things I need to. I get so overwhelmed that I end up doing nothing, then feeling guilty because I've wasted an opportunity to do something.

In Office Space, the main character said if he had a million bucks, he would do "nothing. I would relax, sit on my ass all day ... I would do nothing." After staying home from work and doing nothing, he said "it was better than I ever thought it could be." I can totally relate to this.

I'm at the library right now during work hours, the first day of my reduced schedule. When I asked my boss to allow me to work less each week, she immediately asked what I was going to do with that time. I incoherently mumbled something about therapy or family time, but what I was thinking was "nothing, not a fucking thing, I just want to have a few hours where it is okay for me to do whatever the hell I want, without someone telling me I should be doing something else, without anyone making me feel badly for wanting free time, and without having anyone give me nasty looks for doing so."

That is why I am at the library instead of home. I want to be home watching March Madness in all its hi-definition glory. But if I was at home, Anne would expect me to work on the daycare stuff in the basement. When I go home, it is no longer my time. The only time to myself is when I am on the crapper, and that even gets compromised
unless I lock two doors between me and the outside world.

---

Dammit, now I need a new hiding place. Sitting at the county library, one of my coworkers just saw me from across the atrium area. Now he will ask me what I was doing there, and I'll have to make up some load of shit. Great.

Throwing it all away

From an outside perspective, I probably appear to be pretty dumb, or
at least inconsistent and naïve. I have the ability and opportunity
to work at good-paying, highly-technical, and interesting jobs – but I
am never satisfied with them, always looking for an exit strategy. I
have people at home who love me, and yet it drains me so much when I
am home with them. I always want to be doing something else, but when
the rare opportunities appear, I don't take advantage of them, often
doing nothing except sitting in a pit of exhaustion and disinterest.
I want to experience new things and change the boring patterns in my
life, so we move across the country only to find I have the same
boring life in a different climate – no social life, no time to enjoy
new places, no plans to change things, no goals to aim for.

It's my own fault for doing this. Many years ago, my Mom's friend
said "you need to stop setting yourself up to fail." She was right
then (even though I would not admit it at the time), and she is right
still. What makes me think I can change things? It doesn't matter
what clothes I wear, I'm still the same person and always will be.
What possible evidence is there that I could find something here that
I was lacking somewhere else?

I left Forestville and Goldville to get away from the ghosts of
childhood. I threw away a relationship in Reno because I wanted to
prove to someone I could be independent and complex. I left Reno
because I couldn't handle being independent at age 18. I threw away a
relationship with a girl I loved, over an immature mistake on both our
parts. I got rid of as many of Mom's possessions as fast I could,
dumping things at far below their value, in an unsuccessful attempt to
purge sadness and guilt and anger. I threw away two years of college
by leaving Partyville, because it was too close to the memories of
Goldville. I left Humboldt looking to start a career that was
surprisingly enjoyable. I returned to Humboldt because I didn't like
the boss at the job I enjoyed (and Anne thought I should look for a
job near her family). After returning to Humboldt, I wanted to leave
my job there because I was unfairly involved in the PCB incident, I
had no respect for one boss, and I didn't like anyone there. I got
the opportunity to change jobs to something I enjoyed, although I
still wanted to change employers. I threw away the opportunity to be
near (Anne's) family, a good job in a small labor market, and the
friendships of my kids to try something different. (Anne has been an
accomplice through many of these poor decisions, sometimes complicit
and sometimes unwittingly.) We got a dog to cheer up the kids, only
to throw away their enjoyment a few months later when Anne and I
realized it was a mistake, and we sent him away to the family in
Humboldt.

Oh yeah, add to the end of each sentence ... "and because I was
suffering from depression and did not know how to deal with emotional
troubles." Not an excuse, but certainly a factor to consider.

Under Pressure

I had my second sleep test the other night, this time to determine if
the CPAP would help me. I think CPAP stands for constant positive air
pressure, and I can confirm that it is constant and pressurized. I
had a nose mask and a 1" air tube, making it look like I was training
to fly F-18 fighter jets. The strangest part is that if you open your
mouth to talk, air blows backwards out of your mouth. This is
somewhat awkward at first, making it strange to breathe and impossible
to talk. The tech told me that she adjusted the machine while I was
asleep, and there was almost no snoring. My oxygen level increased
from the low 70% range to the low 90%. Then I talked to the doc later
in the day, and he said we would start for perhaps 6 months to a year
on the machine. He said it was possible that longer treatment may be
necessary, perhaps several years.

When I got home, I was telling Anne about it, but I didn't really have
a lot to say, no more than I am writing here – what more is there?
She was acting strange, and (because I'm rather thick-headed) it took
a while before I realized she was upset about something – the CPAP
device. She said it will be difficult for her to cuddle with me at
night having "that thing on your face", and that the whole idea was
creeping her out. She said she had read on several websites that
losing weight was the best way to solve the problem, implying but not
saying that she would rather I try harder to lose weight instead of
having the machine. She asked me if it bothered me to need this
device; I said "why should it? I don't like the feeling of wearing it
to bed, but it's the same as a knee brace or a cane." She was close
to tears while not telling me what she thought I should do (in her
medical opinion?), while I simply accept this as one of several tools
to help me be healthier. She said "how long have you had apnea, just
in the last few years?" (because I have been slowly gaining more
weight in the last few years with increased depression and decreased
give-a-shit). I said "how long have I been snoring – since we got
married, right? I've been tired for 15 years. It is finally more
than I can compensate for."

It was almost as if she wanted me to feel like I had failed myself
somehow for needing this treatment. It's not like taking methadone to
wean an addiction to heroin; I didn't choose to have a medical
condition. Would she react the same if it was something like an ulcer
or cancer or heart disease? I think the doc sees it this way as well.
If I am always exhausted and fatigued and sleepy, is it any surprise
that I am not at all interested in exercise or chores or working on
any projects? She doesn't seem to accept the fact that I am so
exhausted I cannot do anything right now, especially when I am
spiraling but even when I am feeling okay. She is never okay with me
being sick – I mentioned before how she basically gets mad at me
whenever I am sick enough to stay in bed. She was like that again
last night, maybe more upset than mad, but still not a positive or
supportive reaction. I'll bet a quarter that she writes me a long
e-mail telling me why I should do whatever she thinks I should do,
instead of talking to me or helping me.

I think she blames me for being overweight and not doing anything
about it. She tries to shame me into coming to the YMCA with her and
the kids. She said last week that she needs to keep Dan and I away
from pizza places, and delete the phone numbers for delivery. We have
had pizza maybe 3 times in the past 2 months. I agree that we need to
eat more healthy and make an effort to not pig out, but she does not
need to get preachy about it. In fact, if she starts telling what I
can or can't do, it will just piss me off. Perhaps I could put a
slice of pepperoni pizza in the water reservoir on the machine and
dream of pizza all night long.

I can understand her reactions to my depression, which I've talked
about before. I don't blame her at all for being confused or upset or
angry when I cause her stress. But I don't understand this at all. I
believe she cares, but in the way you would care for a child or an
idiot, not a friend or a partner.

Sleep little kittenfish, sleep baby sleep

your eyelids are droopy - bloop bloop bloop bleep bleeeeeep.
--The Cat In The Hat, 1960's TV version

I was officially diagnosed with sleep apnea - apparently I am in the 'severe' category. During my sleep test last week they averaged how many episodes (defined as a 10-second period without breathing) per hour. My average was 71 episodes per hour, over 1 per minute. My blood oxygen level was near 74% - apparently that's not good, since the normal is around 90-95% (I guess - anyone have insight about this?).

I will be getting the CPAP machine, which essentially forces the overrelaxed airway to remain open. I'm told the machines no longer sound like an old vacuum cleaner, and that the white noise can be very relaxing. We'll see, but for Anne I suppose it can't be worse than the sound of my snoring.

In the past, people were often impressed by my ability to function on no sleep or very little sleep. I guess if my sleep has been so ineffective, it doesn't make much difference if I sleep or stay awake. The same is not true now; the last all-nighter I did was a computer emergency at the old workplace about 2 years ago, and I was pretty wiped out for 2 days. Currently, I can't even get through an afternoon at work without almost smacking my head on the computer screen, even though I am not tired in the late evening until about midnight.

Anyway, the doctor tells me that I will be amazed at the difference in energy and alertness, possibly helping the depression and headaches, etc. I'm a little skeptical, but I hope she is right. I could use a little more energy. Maybe I can shake the urge to stay in bed all day every day, and stop thinking about crawling under my desk at work like George Costanza.

And with that ... good night all.

Wake me when it gets exciting

Bleh.

I'm one of those precarious moods, underwhelmed with life at the
moment. If I could do what I want, I would be content and productive.
Since I don't have that luxury, I am being quiet, feeling fragile and
disinterested. There are many things I need/want to get done, but at
the moment I don't really care.

Building Anne's walls for daycare downstairs, taxes, job-hunting, work
stuff, paying bills, buying uncomfortable furniture I don't want,
installing Linux on an old PC, ... all things I don't really care
about.

I am currently obsessed with redesigning the I-76/77 interchange in
Akron and the I-77/90 interchange in Cleveland. Designing horizontal
and vertical alignment, lane drops, minimizing disturbance to adjacent
homes while improving sight distance and turn radii and allowing for
improved traffic flow. Unfortunately, I don't work for Ohio DOT, so I
will need to be creative to get my designs implemented. Also, they
might have a problem when I start hitting the overpass with a wrecking
ball. But I could show them my previous designs on freeways and roads
across the country -– my experience goes back to about age 7.

I also feel a high-tech shopping spree coming on. I have a P4
motherboard just sitting in a box, waiting for me to build a new PC
with it. I also need a film scanner, a new DVD burner, really big
speakers, a wireless media center, and a laptop for Anne so I can get
mine back from her.

New rule for at work: I refuse to talk to asshat clients who think
they have the right to bully their way through and treat me like crap
because they are not at the top of the stack. Fukkem.

Whee -– I just found out I will get to do some field work tomorrow.
This is part of management's attempt to help me stay productive while
I work through my problems. Thanks, but I will still be looking to
leave if the right opportunity arises. In the meantime, there has
been no agreement with management about my working a reduced schedule.
I will write a short note to my boss to speed up the process.

Finally I have seen enough evidence to accept what I knew all along:
Barry Bonds is a cheater. As of about an hour ago, Sports Illustrated
has published excerpts from a book by two SF Chronicle writers. This
appears to be to most detailed and evidence-based account of Bonds'
steroid and hormone usage. Then again, perhaps all the evidence one
needs is the size of his enormous cranium. I didn't want to believe
it at first, but now I must. Baseball is great, but drugs suck.

Speaking of drugs, the Wellbutrin might be making me a little loopy.

Rapid mood changes today

2:00 – satisfied because I knew I had designed my detention pond correctly.
4:00 – sitting in the stairwell, hiding from everyone, almost crying, thinking about the futility of it all, wondering if I will ever escape this or ever be happy about anything.
4:30 – discovered it was snowing, making me happy.
5:30 – loopy and fidgety, almost a manic state, thinking about 17 things at once while making Dan laugh at me pantomiming smoking cigarettes with multiple orifices
6:30 – understanding, because Anne appears to want no part of the kitchen tonight.
8:00 – philosophical, discussing with Nikki about the possible existence of God, spirits, or love, all things which are not logical and cannot be explained by science alone; discussing with Anne the psychology of baseball.

Dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer

you put your head in your hands, oh no!
-- Supertramp

Yesterday, Anne said she would enjoy a little vacation from Mister Raspy, the organ formerly known as the uvula (or as the Merck Manual calls it, the 'dangly thing').

So much for the cute nurse. When I got here and was greeted by a guy, I thought he was on the cleaning crew. 'Jack' was friendly, professional, and (surprisingly for me) pleasant company. Not pretty, but look who's talking ... pots and kettles.

To start the test, Jack puts stick-on contacts on both legs, under the ribs near my heart, my back, and several points on my face, and a pulse meter was taped to my finger. Then he located points on my scalp using a tape measure and what felt like a marker pen. Using a water-soluble paste, he connected 4 or 5 leads to the points on my head (my thick, lustrous hair caused minor problems). All the wires led to a box with a single cable connecting to the equipment in the next room.

Picture yourself as a puppet, all tangled in your strings, trying to sleep normally. Every time I moved, one wire repeatedly came loose. After several applications of spackle on my head, he realized it was a bad wire - problem solved.

My room was small, with just a bed, night stand, and a TV mounted in the corner. There was an infrared video camera pointed toward the bed for video, and a baby monitor beside the bed for sound. All trussed up, I read for a while, turned out the light, and put my head on pillows that were less comfortable than 3rd base in little league.

So I slept, waking up once when wires stopped me from rolling over. Jack woke me at 5:30 said "oh yeah, you snore pretty good... I'll bet your wife enjoyed the rest."

I was able to shower the grout out of my hair at the clinic, so I didn't bother going home. Jack was headed for vacation in Phoenix today, and I headed for breakfast - I'm at IHOP, writing this on my Palm. Work in 20 min ... toodles.

Blue

It's just a mask I wear
I'll never let you in

One face for the office, another for kin
None of these faces reflect what's within

But if you're lucky enough to find it,
love is the best paint stripper

it's okay to be yourself
when you wear fuzzy slippers









(okay, that was really stupid, but it goes with the blue man...)

Poo.

The last few days have been below-average. Not due to depression issues, but rather a stomach virus. Tons O' Fun - bloating, muscle cramps, constipation followed by its evil cousin diarrhea, etc. Manica does not have a monopoly on gastrointestinal issues.

In other health news, I saw an MD last week who seems to look at the big picture and connects related maladies instead of treating individual symptoms. I am now taking Wellbutrin plus Zoloft - that's THREE neurotransmitters, count 'em.

Also: Wednesday night I will be doing an overnight sleep test to see if sleep apnea may be contributing to my constant fatigue. Yay, pajama party with cute nurses! I assume they will videotape the proceedings, and I know the kids would love a video of me snoring.

Anne gets mad at me when I am sick. I don't think she means to, but she does. On Sunday she was giving me the silent treatment and folded laundry on the bed (which she never does) with me in the bed, throwing the folded clothes down and making my stomach and head hurt worse with each jolt. By Monday she was less pissed and more caring.

I'm not a big wuss when I am illin - I usually just stay in bed or on the couch and sleep or read. But if I stay home, I really am sick - I don't fake or exaggerate. I don't need constant sympathy, I just want to get better.

I guess this tangentially related to my depression issues because she sometimes made me feel like it was not okay for me to be sick, pressuring me to keep quiet about my problems and pretend things were okay. I use the past tense because I think she understands better now about the depression ... but for illness I get no quarter unless there is puking involved.

Guest post from Nikki

I found a printed paper on my computer desk at home maybe a year ago. I love Nikki so much - she saves me every day. -- fern

Once upon a time , a little girl known as the nature helper walked on a path made out of dirt. The little girl had magic flowers to make dark , spooky places into bright , sweet places! Everyone loved her so mutch that everyone knew her! Her magic flowers made green grass , blosom trees , rainbows and waterfalls! People thought she should be in newspapers every day!WOW! Now people come to places where she has tosed flowers on the grownd.

Curious facts about Fern

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Fern!

1. Americans discard enough fern to rebuild their entire commercial air fleet every 3 months!
2. You should always open fern at least an hour before drinking him.
3. 99 percent of the pumpkins sold in the US end up as fern.
4. Until the 1960s, fern was not allowed to enter Disneyland.
5. Fern is the world's largest rodent.
6. Fern can only be destroyed by intense heat, and is impermeable even to acid.
7. Humans have 46 chromosomes, peas have 14, and fern has 7!
8. Fern cannot burp - there is no gravity to separate liquid from gas in his stomach.
9. Red fern at night, shepherd's delight. Red fern at morning, shepherd's warning.
10. Neil Armstrong first stepped on fern with his left foot.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

I don't wanna work, I wanna bang on my drum all day

Last Friday was a very messy day professionally and personally - not ‘bad’, just a bit complicated. By chance, it was the day for performance review, setting goals for the future, and comments/suggestions for improving my performance. (Ummm, yeah, that would be good if you could move your desk to the basement. Oh look, a red stapler.) So my boss asks if I had anything to add. I pause, wondering if I should tell her:

I am looking for another job?
I have significant depression issues that have been affecting my work?
That the snowflakes are pretty?
that some days I want to run away instead of coming back from lunch?
That I have significant philosophical differences with her and the company?
That the big bunny wants me to impale her with a range pole?
That I cannot handle working full time right now?

She sensed the pause, and wondered what it meant, so I closed the door and just decided that I would be (mostly) honest, for better or worse. It is so damn difficult to talk about things that make me feel like such a failure - the inability to balance and manage home and work and self, the idea that I just cannot handle things effectively, or that no matter how much coaching I get from people it is virtually impossible to care about myself. I even started crying a little as I told her about it.

She was much more sympathetic and understanding than I expected, which was a relief. She has had depression herself, and helped a friend and a family member who were hospitalized in the past. She even shared a few tears - she said that hearing my problems and seeing the hurt I was feeling reminded her of the problems she had gone through. So while I won’t let her inside the defenses, at least I can be pretty sure she won’t attack me for having problems. (In the past I have thought of her as Miss Driven-With-Stick-Up-Butt, a self-made superwoman who constantly expects everyone to work at her obsessive level - perhaps that is a coping mechanism.)

Anyway, after talking a while, she will consider finding a way for me to work reduced hours for a few months, maybe 28-30 per week, and adjustments will be made to pay and insurance costs and other benefits. She said “you realize this will cost you some money?” I told her that at this point for me, the financial cost of cutting back is likely much lower than the non-financial costs of going totally nuts or running away or worse.

So this next week, we shall see how this turns out. I was telling Anne that I have no idea if this is the right course of action, but I really have few choices at this point that allow me to continue supporting my family.

In the meantime, I will beat the drums.

Didya miss me?

... or did anyone even notice? For the record, I’m still here.

For several reasons, blogging has not been a high priority. There was the frightening spiral, the cautious recovery from the spiral, a potential job interview, a few days of being very unsure of myself, a few days of unproductive and frustrating work, news from a couple of distant friends, reading several books to help me understand myself.

Friday, I was cornered into letting my boss know about my baggage, and how it is affecting work. (see next post)

Saturday I went for my regular therapy appointment … except I didn’t really have one. I just drove around for a while, went to the downtown library, read books, and tried to think about stuff.

I bought a drum kit today. I know, another mid-life-crisis toy to set up next to the big-ass TV. Bite me. It will be fun, therapeutic, and maybe I will be good enough at it to eventually play with people. I won’t bother with any lessons, I will just find exercises and practice routines on the web, then play along with music. Maybe Dan, who played drums in 5th grade, will be interested enough to play again, and maybe even join band at school.

Finally, I was not chosen as a finalist for the local township job I applied for. Bummer, but not a big deal.

Postcard from inside my head

Well.  Several days of fun later ... The Beast is back in his cage for a while, and my logical mind is back in the big chair for now.  That was a particularly nasty spiral, and I’m not “normal” or okay, but at least I am not in the mind-crushing depths as I was for several days.

I won’t pretend I have things figured out.  Obviously I have much work to do, and I am a little scared of the unknown results.  I guess I can do no more than keep trying.

This was an example of absolutely needing to go away for just a day or two, get the poisonous feelings out, then come back and make repairs.  Of course I didn’t do that, and instead suffered through days at work and trying to hide everything at home.  I guess that whatever it costs in money or work is preferable than the costs of visiting the bottom of Wingfoot Lake.

About friends:  The things you said did get through, and did give me something to work from.  I may not be ready to listen, I may not believe everything, but caring words (and ass-whoopin’ words) really do help.  I wish I could meet you guys in person to thank you.

True colors

You asked for truth, here’s some fucking truth.  

I constantly feel like I let my family down because of all the things I cannot give full-time - time, energy, affection, help with chores and kids and bills and details and projects.  EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY.  I used to be dependable, but now I am not - 'single parent' - and Anne can not rely on me to be there for her.  I have not been fulfilling her emotional need for stability, attention, caring, being a man, sharing the work.  I am always distant, distracted, divided.  I neglect family because I am stuck in my own head, my past, and all the voices screaming at me keep me pinned down.  She is scared I will die or kill myself soon, and she is probably correct.  She doesn't deserve for me to put my problems on her.

They want and need so much from me.  I have nothing left for myself.  If I do something for me, I am taking time or money or effort away from my first priority, my family.  I should be willing to put their needs first, but lately it is difficult to think of anyone besides me.  That's not fair to them.  I don't want to share this burden with anybody - I’ll take it all on myself.  Anne says I should let her help, but she could not handle it if I let it all out.

I disappoint her constantly, and she is letting me know more frequently now.  porn, laziness, sports, being arrogant and controlling, boring or no conversation, not listening to her needs, avoiding people, being cheap but wasting money on my toys, being a messy slob, not helping her enough with household chores or with kids, procrastinating, my volatile and unstable moods, not caring enough to get decent or meaningful gifts for special days.  She deserves so much better.

What do I really want?  Here’s an idea, and you can see how much of an ungrateful shithead I really am.

I don't want to be married, I have wanted to separate for a few years now, and I feel tremendously guilty about that. I had a delusional fantasy about someone else a few years ago, never acting on it, but Anne found an e-mail I never planned on sending.  Yet another disappointment from me to her – happy fucking valentines day.

I wish she would get mad enough to leave me, but she never will.  If I disappoint her enough, or disrespect her, or cheat, or just give up on life, maybe she would give up on me.  She would be able to grow as a person without me.  I would feel less pressure to be responsible all the time, but I could come visit and be with the kids anytime.  It would be hard at first, but she would be okay without me.  She would no longer need to worry about my daily mood swings or put up with my problems.  All the benefits of suicide without the emotional debris.

But she never will do that.  All she has ever done is love me and commit to our future together. At this time, all I am giving back is money and part-time love - I don't have the energy or will or strength to give any more.  

Really I just want to be alone and have some freedom from my life.  This seems uncaring and selfish and insensitive.  I can never act on this desire - she needs me, it would hurt her and the kids too much, I would be leaving her alone (just like how Mom needed me and I felt guilty thinking about leaving home), and I still love her too much to hurt her like that.

Okay, what’s worse?  What the fuck do I do?  Hide it all inside, building resentment from never being able to express these thoughts, and eventually burn out?  Or drop all the bombs, destroy at least four or six people’s lives,  worry the damage later, and create a trust fund for my kids’ therapy bills?  How the motherfuck do I get out of this prison that is my life?

Having an “accident” sure looks appealing right now.  Icy roads, deep water ... very believable.  Don’t tell, ok?

Imminent flameout

I'm at the Toyota dealer getting an oil change. They have wi-fi here, so I can blog. There is a cute toddler next to me smiling; his mom is pretty cute as well.

It's raining, but it will turn to snow in a few hours. I had nasty food for lunch, a burger called the Big Buford. It occurs to me (belatedly) that people named Buford are never skinny.

I had a therapy session this morning, and I have been fucking miserable since then. I drove around for an hour trying to calm down. I'm tempted to drive south and never return.

I'm not sure what it means, but apparently I have a "duality". No shit, Sigmund. He says I am disconnected, that I feel separate and isolated from everyone, including my family. Yup. I don't give myself permission to take care of myself, because any energy or money I spend on myself is taking away from Anne and the kids. It seems selfish to do things for myself, but I resent having demands placed on me by others - even those I love most. The only place I can restore or heal myself is by stepping outside my life, taking a break from reality, then I resent hving to come back to my life.

The me everyone sees is fake, a body double I keep running to distract everyone while I hide and watch in the background. I can tell my double how to act at the appropriate time and place, but it is very rare that the actions are true to my feelings. As a result, I feel like an emotional fraud all the time. I love my family, but I don't want to be with them. I want to be friendly with people, but I can't be myself with anyone.

Mr. Rogers said that I need to identify the things I value the most, and consistently work toward those values. The problem is that the things I want the most would hurt the people I love the most. So I continue to ignore my needs to work for others while hating it, and I will go until I burn out completely, spectacularly, pathetically.

--

Wired News:Shock Therapy 2.0

There is a new article about ECT. Very interesting.
-- fern
--------------------
Shock Therapy, Version 2.0

O-tay

I'm okay. Not feeling very sociable, down but not spiraling ... I see this as just a phase, someting I need to get in writing and explore. Last night I was able to feel crappy while writing, then put that aside and relax a little when I was done. Small steps.

The Loss Column

One possible reason for the depression is the fact that I can never let go of losses. I think the normal, healthy way of dealing with losses is that you cry, you grieve, you go through the range of emotions ... then you let go, and move on with life. The past cannot be changed or modified or 'nudged' or altered in any way. The only change we can effect is that of perspective. How do you look at past events, memories, losses, setbacks - with bitterness and regret, with anger, or with understanding and compassion?

My PsyDoc (mr. Rogers) has emphasized the importance of allowing myself to feel things and remember things from the past without judging them, even if my own mistakes are involved. It is okay to feel sad or angry or betrayed or jealous or compassionate about things in the past as long as I don't judge my present self for events that my past-self may not have been able to totally control. (I'm not sure how consistent this argument is when you extrapolate to the extreme - how can a murderer look back at his actions without judgment, unless he is insane? Mr. Rogers would say 'apples and oranges', meaning I am not a hypothetical situation, and to play with my cards and not someone else's.) But isn't it possible to objectively see yourself as disillusioned, disappointed, and frustrated without it being a judgment?

Often I catch myself living in the past or future, not the present. I obsess about the what-ifs, wanting to change something I said or did, or did not do. We all have moments we look back upon, maybe 2 or 3 or 10, where deep down you know that decision literally changed everything in your life. I want to imagine the parallel universes where I did the opposite, the ramifications of changing those pivotal moments in time, mentally playing out a narrative from that day to the present. Everyone thinks about those moments occasionally, then puts the memory back on a shelf and continues living. I can't put them away - I feel a compulsive need to keep thinking about seemingly insignificant moments whose meaning has grown over time.

For me, all those moments are negatives - things I wish I had done differently. I understand the many problems with this, both logical and emotional. I'm well aware of the fallacy of thinking that changing one event would not affect everything else. I'm aware of the hurt that it causes other people (specifically Anne, but others who play a role as well) when I enter this mental time machine. Acting out or revealing these thoughts to Anne results in her feeling that my obsession with changing things is a rejection of her love. Subconsciously, maybe it is a rejection of everything in my life, of which her love is a part. Just as bad would be the effect on someone who has moved forward from that time, living their own life unaware of my alternate reality, who without warning is sucked back into my delusions.

I just can't forget things. Every loss I have ever had remains attached to me, pulling me further under, making it increasingly difficult to stay afloat. I think this goes hand-in-hand with the deep-seated sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction with everything I have ever done, and lack of confidence in whatever I would do. Because I am so disappointed in myself, everything in my life loses its value. This is reflected in my career, my attitude toward accomplishing things, my relationships, my own self-destructive behavior. The only reason I am able to stay with my family is because I value myself even less than I value them. I don't care about doing anything for myself - short-term plans, long-term goals, whatever - I just don't care what happens to me. I want to get away from it all, but I don't want to hurt everyone by doing so. So I can't run away or kill myself - it has to look like an accident, or maybe just an illness that takes me slowly so I suffer immensely. I'm strange that way - I would hurt myself to keep from hurting those I love the most. I wouldn't kill myself by jumping in front of a bus, but I could do it slowly with pizza and burgers and lack of exercise.

Again, the losses. Not devastating or spectacular at the time, more like rust or metal fatigue or cancer, something that eats from the inside-out, concealing the extent of the damage until it is too late.

My grandpa. My favorite cat who had a heart attack in front of me. The baseball playoffs in 8th grade, stolen away for a vacation I didn't want to take. The friend I let drift away without making her realize what I truly felt. Mom's and my own happiness, stolen by the evil, manipulative old bitch. Playing with the dad I never had.

Little things, stupid inevitable things that everyone loses. Bigger dreams that can never be reclaimed. Simple mistakes I could have avoided if I had tried or cared. Wasted opportunities, paths not taken, days not seized, choices poorly made. Great challenges I never had the chance to face, failure at the simple tasks put before me.

Confidence, energy, drive, grace, passion. Potential. Confidence. Potential. These things are lost.

-----

I want to be free of depression, but I am so afraid that there is nothing I care about enough to replace the depression. If I ever was "well", it would basically destroy my life as I know it.

Mr. Rogers says that in between the cluttered thoughts, beneath the din of all the clashing voices, behind the curtains that partition my mind ... that is where the real me is found, that is my foundation, that is the center of my inner universe. I told him truth is a matter of perspective, based entirely on what one believes, no matter how irrational it appears to a different perspective.

I told him that place was at the bottom of the well, the last alien objects in the last box in the corner of the attic. He did not believe me when I said those things there are fear, distrust, anger, sadness, disappointment, exhaustion.

That is what is left when I relax, when I forget to keep the mask in place, those frighteningly quiet moments when your conscious mind clears and the deepest truths are visible in the depths within. The light shining into that last box reveals a love of nature and science; caring for the few loved ones I allow to be close; a deep mistrust of other people; disappointment for myself and my failures, and finally, a heavy sadness for the lives me and my imaginary family might have had in a different reality.

I don't believe him when he says these are feelings and not the ultimate truth. How is a positive emotion any less abstract or artificial than a negative emotion? We are what we think we are. We are how others see us. We are nothing, or anything, or any random possibility in between. We have no control over any of it. No wonder life feels so confusing.

Crazy from the heat

Sometimes people or events pull you back from an edge and remind you that there is life outside the darkness.  Other times it is just a self-realization that things are not necessarily the way they seem.  Maybe it is allowing yourself to believe that the therapist has a few tools in his bag, and one of them will actually relieve the pressure in your head if you can temporarily set aside egotistical disdain and cynicism.  Whatever the reason, the Beast has lost a little power in the past few days.

I have declared myself back on the job market.  I’m applying for a job with a local township, and I will look for other opportunities, but I won’t leave the current job unless something really good is offered.

I have lost my $400 voucher for getting bumped on Southwest Air.  If I find it, I will visit the Cactus League in Phoenix in March.  If I don’t find it, I will have to wait until next year.  I have it all planned out, 8 games in 5 days, seeing all 7 Phoenix ballparks (sorry, Tucson) and 11 of 12 teams (sorry, Rockies).  I REALLY hope I find that voucher...

Bring back winter – 40’s and 50’s in January suck ... Go Steelers.  I loved watching them smack the Donkeys around ... Someone gave David Lee Roth a radio show, and he has ideas about things other than zebra-striped spandex and green m&m’s – but he is still craaaazy (from the heat, perhaps?) ... eehh, eject.

Humpty Dumpty

I thought self-help books were supposed to help, as in attempt to convince me that I am not as messed up as I think I am. Instead, not only does it confirm everything I’ve ever thought about myself, it shows me new ways to understand why I am this way.

I ran away at lunchtime. After a few u-turns and missing a turnoff, I made it about 8 miles, all the way to the south end of Canton, before caving in and heading back to work. The shame of letting everyone know I cannot deal with my life outweighs the exhaustion and frustration and anger from forcing myself to continue.

No sympathy please.

Slightly better today...

After going home and hiding for a couple of hours I felt a little better. That was quickly taken care of by a conversation with Anne in which we disagreed on a few moral issues. She was hurt, and I'm an insensitive sleazeball.

This morning I left early and drove around in the snowstorm before heading to work. For me, snow is better than Zoloft.

Apathy

Sucky day, nothing good at all.  I’m not spiraling, just flatlining I think.  I keep hoping that doing relaxing or fun things will carry over to other times, but they don't.  I don't want to work, I don't want to do stuff at home, I don't care about writing or playing or enjoying anything, at the moment I don't even want sex.  Everything is just blugh.  I just want to eat and sleep and maybe drive to the Yucatan and sit in a chair with books and liquor.  I'm so tired of the roller coaster - it never stops.  Family understands and tries to be supportive, but they can't really do anything because I can't take time off from life. I still need to work and be responsible and dependable.  Whatever minimal energy I have lately gets used up so quickly just from keeping up appearances.  I wish I were invisible.

In case anyone asks a question...

Choose the answer that best fits your current or future question.

No, I have not posted in a while.
No, I have not had anything worthwhile to say.
Yes, I will post when I have something worthwhile to say.
No, I am not overly depressed.
No, I am not terribly happy.
Yes, I am doing okay.
No, I can’t seem to stop thinking about a million irrelevant things in the past.
Yes, MS Word did hose my Blogger toolbar, but I will restore it soon.
Yes, we are shipping the dog to California Sunday.
No, we have not told the dog yet.
Yes, the kids are fine with it.
Yes, Nikki wants a replacement, specifically a kitten.
Yes, we will probably cave in.
Yes, I am still enjoying living here in Ohio.
No, I am not ready to move back to California, although you never can tell what the future will bring.
No, I will not consider this moving adventure a "failure" if we return to California sooner than I expect, unless it is caused by stupidity on my part.
Yes, I will send those prints for the mobile home park.
No, I have not yet ran the detention calcs using orifices in the outlet structure.
No, I am not happy about the lack of winter lately.
No, guys don’t listen unless it involves sports or tools or sex.
No, I didn’t want to help plan the company bowling day.
Yes, I will help plan the company bowling day.
Yes, I think the appropriate taper rate for ending a center divider is 20:1 for high speeds, and probably 10:1 for slow speeds.
No, I am not awake today.
No, our office has no plans to observe Martin Luther King Day.
Yes, I typically take MLK day off, but not this year.
No, I don’t think most people feel MLK is worthy of a holiday.
Yes, I do think he is worthy, and I tell people so, although I think it might be appropriate to commemorate April 4th rather than January 15th.

Yes, I will do this again, but not necessarily in this format.

YES, I'M HUNGRY.

Obrigado ...

as bitchy and whiney as I can be sometimes, I can also be touched and thankful when you guys are supportive and empathetic. So, thanks for being good peeps ... and I hope I can return the favor when you need someone.

Damn, last night was weird. Even more weird is when someone tells me that my bizarro world makes perfect sense! (mehos y mehas, you scare me)

We started a marathon game of Risk 2210 on Sunday, and it took about 7 hours over two days. Just be assured that whever you read this from, I will be a benevolent dictator. However, I get to have space for myself on every continent.

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