Holy Shit!

I don't usually use objectionable language in my posts...certainly not in the title, but the words in the title was the first thing I thought after reading my posts that I composed before my hiatus. Mostly because I was shocked at how bad I was doing at the time, and partially because I want to avoid feeling this way again at all costs.

I'm on the same pharmaceutical regime that I was on while I was going through, according to what I wrote in my posts, utter hell. I'm at the same job and in the same marriage. I still have the same job. Hell, it's the same time of year. So what's the difference? What's to say that, now I'm back on the same drug cocktail, I won't slip back into the abyss?

I've got to figure this out so that I can keep doing whatever it is that I'm doing that's keeping me on the functioning road. To that end, I'm jotting down a quick list of the differences that first come to mind.

• I'm practicing art, in one way or another. The results are all over my apartment. When it was last year, and I was in the seventh level of hell, I wasn't even thinking about art, much less doing it. That was something that changed during the time spent in one of Chicago's finer mental institutions; one of the mandatory attendances was art therapy and, from what I can remember, something woke up when I started using oil pastels on a blank sheet of paper.
  
  
• The husband and I have attended therapy, and are making small, but (hopefully) significant changes. My work and his work is still hell, and we still rarely see each other during the week, but I am making a concerted effort to do things like getting up to meet him at the door, or sending him funny stuff throughout the day. And we have two mandatory, scheduled, unbreakable dates on Saturday and Sunday...during which we do whatever we want, but together.
  
  
• Roscoe has, for the most part, gotten over his anxiety. Or we've managed to, in a throw-stuff-to-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks fashion, figure out what cures it. Basically it's a combination of food-stuffed Kongs, acepromazine for thunderstorm days, leaving out the back door instead of the front, and a miraculous invention called Dog-On TV...basically a doggy day-care experienced transferred to DVD and looped for continuous play. Roscoe doesn't watch it like most of the dogs mentioned in the link, but he has a tendency to curl up on the sofa near the TV and nap while it's on. I think just hearing the sounds of other dogs while he's in his own home soothes him. Also I've adjusted his walking schedule so that I no longer race home to walk him during the day. He's a grown dog with a grown bladder; i've come to the realization that yes, he can hold it until I come home from work if I walk him right before I leave for work as opposed to the minute I wake up. And if he can't, well, that's what Clorox wipes are for.
  
  
• Daily consumption of (and this came to me as I was preparing my daily fix) green tea. Specifically Tazo's Zen tea (Tazo apparently runs entirely on Macromedia's Flash so I can't post a direct link to the aforementioned brew). I know that green tea is high in antioxidants; this blend also contains lemon verbena, spearmint, lemongrass and 'natural flavors'. Perhaps some of those 'natural flavors' are contributing to my mental health, such as it is.

That's all I got for now. I'll definitely post more when I have them, as I'd like to avoid a return trip to the abyss if at all possible.

Begin Again

It's been a while since I've checked in on this blog, much less posted to it. Good thing that the spammers have politely taken over that job for me, making sure to post every so often with helpful tips about maximizing one's, er, potential or locations to visit in order to receive discount priced software. Good thing too that blogspot has a handy little delete button for unwanted posts.

There are probably a billion reasons why I haven't kept this blog updated, most of them probably subconscious. It's hard to muster up the energy to formulate something to commit to text when most of the energy is expended by surviving the days, weeks and months. I'm also trying very, very hard to write consistently in my private journal, something that is difficult to do when I'm posting what amounts to the same thoughts dressed up, online. Then there's the stressful job, which had only gotten more stressful, meaning that the last thing I want to do when I come home is look at a computer, much less sit down and actually touch it. And the painful fact that sitting down and posting about depression tends not only to clarify the feeling, but intensify it. Virtual emotional mutilation, as it were.

There are good reasons for my lack of involvment. I'm trying to take to heart what I heard from one of the art therapists I had the good fortune to encounter during my stint in one of Chicago's finer mental institutions; an artist that doesn't practise their art gets depressed. To that end, I've pretty much filled my dining room with pieces that I've created...some acrylic, some watercolor, mostly oil pastels. If all goes well, I should be exhibiting the best of the work in a coffeehouse my husband frequents. It's not much, but for someone who wasn't doing art a year ago, it's not such a bad start.

Mostly I'm posting again because I've come full circle on the medication merry-go-round. I'm back on Adderall, after explaining to my shrink that the only time I actually looked forward to work and the problems therein was the times that I was taking Adderall in conjunction with Effexor. After checking his notes from that time, he's agreed to put me back on the dosage that straightened out my mood in the past. I wonder if I actually was meant to feel this good, with my mind buzzing with ideas to implement, and making short work of problems that arise, but that's another post entirely. Suffice it to say, I'm fairly sure that the reintroduction of Adderall into my treatment regimen will infuse my brain with the ability to handle several creative ventures at once.

Then again, I could be completely wrong and my next post will wind up being a year later. We'll see.

test post from pocket pc land

from the spiffy new diarist utility

Well That Explains It

I'm currently recovering from a go-round with lithium and just now found...after watching my thyroid levels, along with my energy and cognitive abilities, plummet through the floor...this informative article. Which presents the staggering realization that I could have avoided most of the past months's mess had this information had been more readily available.

Of particular note:

Red Blood Cell (RBC)/Serum Lithium Ratio

"The distribution of lithium across cellular membranes is controlled by several membrane transport and countertransport mechanisms (7). Among these, the sodium- lithium countertransport system appears to play a particularly pivotal role. The status of this membrane transport system is clearly under genetic control and is strongly associated with the risk for hypertension (81). This system also is significantly less active in African-Americans and African Blacks than in Caucasians, which might contribute to the higher prevalence of hypertension among Blacks (7). More recent studies have shown that, in addition to its hemodynamic implications, ethnic variability in the activity of this system also leads to significant differences in the RBC/serum lithium ratio (59, 60, 77). This ratio is likely correlated with the intracellular concentration of lithium, which might have important meaning not only in terms of the genetic control of cell membrane permeability to lithium, but also in terms of the clinical and side effects of lithium. Thus, the difference between Blacks and other ethnic groups in the RBC/serum lithium ratio might have important clinical significance. Such a possibility has been recently demonstrated by a study conducted by our group; this study revealed that significant differences in the lithium ratio exist between African-American and Caucasian bipolar patients, and it further demonstrated a higher rate of central nervous system (CNS)-related side effects in African-American patients, suggesting that the higher lithium ratio in this group might indeed lead to higher central toxicity (77). "

Emphasises mine.

Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding!!!!!!!

This response to a letter from a lady posted on Salon contains the textual description of what my brain refused to do in the midst of the worst of last years depression.

"And never do you let the coming year rise up like a monstrous wave and crush you with unimaginable tedium. Never do you let the dread sink in until you feel cold and dead inside; if you find yourself staring into the abyss you switch seats and think of ice cream. "

For some reason, the ability to see the present day and only the present day, to limit the perspective to the future 24 hours only was completely gone. Which would have been fine if I had been planning for retirement or buying a house 24-7 but I wasn't, which means that the coming years until eternity were rising up like multiple tsunamis and pounding me under the ground.

Incidently, I like Salon very much.

I Can Quit Any Time

I have a new addiction and it is brutal. I think, in the past week and a half, I've rented just about the entire first season of this show. I'd. like to come up with some smart, intellectual theory of how criminal forensic science relates to depression as an excuse to why I crave this show but I can't. Sorry. Maybe my insatiable need to figure out the "why" of depression somehow ties into the science fanatics on this show, but I'll figure it all out later. I've got two episodes left on the DVD I rented.

I will say that I am fully aware that some or all of the show glamorizes criminal forensics to the nth degree. Not that I really care when they manage to pull DNA out of a fragment of a fingernail left in the groove of a 9mm grip. Schweet.

Careful.....It's Addictive.

The Panda Cam that is. But it is excellent stuff if you're feeling down, or angry, or if your boss has just yelled at you for no particular reason. Just don't say I told you so if you get caught watching the panda cub roll around while taking a nap.

I am a Japanese School Teacher

I'm not, really, but someone else is and they've decided to post all about it. After reading The Cow's Worst Enemy and Japanese Kids Say The Darndest Things, this now goes straight to the top of my Things To Read When I Desperately Need To Stave Off Depression

The index of this goodness is here. It's actually a mirror to spare the original site the overwhelming amounts of traffic this has generated.

There Is A Good Reason

...for my lack of updates over the past weeks. Turns out that the lithium my pusher....er, pdoc, gave me as a booster to the Effexor basically wrapped some iron bricks around my thyroid function and pushed it into a bottomless pit. Along with the constant sucking fatigue, the other symptoms of low thyroid function are dry skin, feeling cold all the time and, ironically, depression. This black dog just wants to hang around my mental house.

The good thing is that I can feel little glimmers of normality underneath the black eye-circle fatigue. I notice flowers and scenes that would make an excellent painting and there's a new mental daemon that is picking apart the despairing thoughts and replacing their arguments with lighter, more hopeful alternatives.

I've got the Synthroid (my doctor actually called me with results from my bloodwork the next day), if it works and my thyroid starts churning into gear so this utter exhaustion goes away, my mental state might turn out as something resembling normal

Mental Noodling

This article made me look up nihilism, which yielded this Wikipedia entry, which made me wonder: What is the difference between nihilism and depression?

I only skimmed the article, so from what I gather nihilism is more active than depression. However, given how I was feeling the weeks before my hospital visit, it's definitely a precursor to.

Here Again

It's been almost a month since I posted and I've discovered something. I am less inclined to post if a) the depression is really kicking my butt AND/OR b) the medication is kicking the depression's figurative posterior. The first because when the depression has hijacked my cognitive functions, I am tunnel-vision focused on getting through a day or staying alive. The second...I think it's due to the fear of jinxing a good thing while it's going; it's as if I fear as though exposure to anything related to depression will result in the death spiral all over again.

The doctor has me fixed on 450mg of Effexor and 1200mg of lithium taken throughout the day; I tried the twice daily dose and felt as though my brain had up and left on a trip of it's own, leaving me fogged over and stupid. I still feel that way, but intermittently, and I'm crossing my fingers and toes and my dog's toes that it will stay that way.

One odd effect is a periodic, random anxiety that makes me feel as though my nerves were being gently massaged with a cheese grater. The good doc won't make any changes to the meds to alleviate this...for fear of screwing up the good groove I have going, so my solution is to have a sketchpad and various forms of media on me at all times. For some inexplicable reason, the doing of art...even if it is making random swathes of color on paper...damps the cheese grater effect.

Speaking of art...my efforts to maintain the flow I had going in the hospital has resulted in a front room that is almost overflowing with various sculpture, paintings, oil pastels, random bits of art material and the like. I'm going to have to start giving stuff away if this keeps up.

Oh and one thing that has definitely not changed, as you can see by the timestamp on this post, is my sleep...or lack thereof. Tonight has been particularly bad; usually I am able to fall back into slumber after being awake for twenty minutes or so, but so far I haven't had such luck.

Off to try again. The sleep that is.

The Hand Of God

is something I remember reading about somewhere in the Old Testament area. The idea, horribly paraphrased from my none-to-accurate memory was that if you were going in a direction opposite to God's will, he would put his hand down upon you, presumably to stop you. It was implied that all manner of things would go wrong in your life as a result....the idea being you would, after seeing your life completely wrecked, return to God with a renewed understanding and appreciation for his omniscence, grace and love

If there is any truth in this, then God's hand and foot are upon me and not just upon me but repeatedly stomping and smacking and pounding. Only I am not having the predicated response; instead of feeling the desire to turn back to God, I find myself sinking deeper into depression and despair with each almighty blow. Every part of me feels heavy and bruised and my brain has shut down to the most basic functioning in order to buffer the agony. I can barely find my way to standing, much less back to Him, if He is still there. I am increasingly having my doubts as to that matter.

Random Madness

Some times...okay, most times...the killer thing is the not knowing why. If I had a reason that I'm sitting in the bathroom at work trying to get my nerves to stop sizzling from anxiety that would be reassuring. I could tell my self 'self, you are anxious because of x; once it passes, you will be fine.' But it could be y, not x or both or neither, or the subconscious trigger I'm completely unaware of that just went off. Not knowing the cause, and therefore not knowing how to prevent, infuriates and exhausts me.

Is This All There Is?

To life, I mean.

My therapist, as an exercise, has me writing down incidents that bring me happiness. A good idea, yet it has made me painfully aware of a) how few and far between those incidents are and b) just how hard I have to work for them.

Is this normal? Maybe everyone experiences life like this, an emotionally gruelling existence broken up by brief illuminations of happiness. If that is the case, how do people wring enough out of those moments to keep on? What is it that I am not getting?

'It could always be worse', a little voice inside my head is saying. 'You could be starving. Or homeless. Or both. Maybe you should quit your self-indulgent whimpering.'

And now I feel worse. For having a lot, comparatively speaking, and still feeling like this.

No easy answers today...

Coffee Spoons

I wonder sometimes, while shifting from one chemical cocktail to another, if I'm simply trying to medicate away a universal human condition.

Meaning: maybe everyone else feels an elevator dropping feeling at the sudden, unexpected glimpse of the endless days until they pass.

Meaning: maybe everyone else feels an electric shock of panic in the middle of an enjoyable moment...knowing that moment will inevitably pass and the grim reality of living will return.

Meaning: maybe everyone feels a quiet panic whenever the realization that truly happy moments in life are only obtained by muscular effort and the only lasting peace comes with death.

Or at the realization, in the middle of a calm, peaceful interlude, that that interlude is only momentary and inevitably life and it's grinding pace must start up again.

Are these collective human experiences that I somehow need to learn to suck up and swallow? Maybe I'm having such problems with finding a combination of drugs that suit because what I'm experiencing was never meant to be medicated away. I don't know.

Interesting

I miss the hospital.

I also regret that I didn't realize how much it was helpful to me during the time I was there. I think I knew it in little bits and pieces, but a lot of me was busy being discombobulated and generally freaked out.

I felt calmer there, very peaceful and green, like an Irish countryside (or what I imagine an Irish countryside would look like). Which makes sense considering that every single decision that I normally would have to make was being made for me.

Now that I'm out, I wonder if I'll ever get back to that Irish countryside green way of feeling.

Chemical Soup

I saw Constantine the other day, and something he said reminded me of a theory I had weeks before going into the hospital.

When I was a child I saw things. Things a child shouldn't have to see

Constantine was talking about demons and the like. I am thinking about demons too, but demons that are thoughts. Thoughts that are real and true, but that are so horrifying that they are normally shielded from the average human mind. Constantine tries to cut his life short from the sheer agony of facing the truth of what he sees; maybe he, with his apocalyptic vision, was never meant to live that long.

Maybe I, with my mutated mental chemistry, was never meant to live as long as I have.

Yes, the doctors and the research says that the depressive mind thinks distortions, but what if they aren't distortions, but deep, dark demon truths? Truths no person should be revealed to for too long?

Something to think about

Busy Little Anxious Bee

I've been lumbering about, dutifully accomplishing things that should staunch the onflow of depression. I found a meet-up group that gets together walking distance from my work. I've been drawing and oil pasteling and crafting like crazy. I've gotten in touch with an advisor to get my spirituality back on track.

Yet these unexplained attacks just keep attacking. Along with the dull hazy stupid feeling and the additional weight. I cannot shake the guilt I feel when thinking of my next appointment. "You're doing something wrong!!!", I picture him shouting. And I yill have nothing to say.

Once More Into The Breach

I suck at telling anyone, even my doctor, how I feel. Mostly because, before this depression, I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it. Now, even though I spend more time doing just that, I still suck at describing the various moods I pass through.

I'm best with putting them in terms of colors. When I was in the hospital, minus the times I was horribly missing my husband and dog, I felt very green. Like numerous hillsides in Ireland sort of green. Once I learned of my discharge day, the green developed spiky flashes of red and orange around the edges...that only increased when I was discharged and started going to the Intensive Outpatient Program on a daily basis. The weekend before starting back at work, the colors were all over the place...a violent roiling dark, dark green with murky black undertones and sharp bits of red and orange all around.

Now? It's grey. A thick grey with occasional pulses of red like a supernova in a very dense cloud bank. Muffled. I may be way off base, but it seems to me as though I am feeling all of the same mess I did before I checked myself in, but at several thousand degrees of remove, and through an extremely thick layer of gauze and cotton batting.

Much as I hate to admit, it's time to call the doctor again. I feel guilty, as though I've done something on purpose to arrive at this state, which is something I'm just going to have to get over. Anyway, I've been doing just about everything I laid out in my discharge plan...chief among them being keeping up the art. Which I think I mentioned. I'm not sure. Which is exactly the reason why I should phone the doctor.

Sigh.

Will this ever be over?

Wondrous Strange

I am finding that, either because of or in spite of the new cocktail of meds, inexplicably striken with waves of some mysterious emotion. It bashes then goes too quickly for me to identify, but I know I don't like it.

I'll try to catch and hold it on the next go round to see if I can make sense of it

Recuperation

I have officially been cleared to go back to work. I actually could have taken another week, but I prefer to bank it in case of a future meltdown.

Seeing as I am fit to work, I called work and spoke with Greg who responded exactly the way I thought he would; he had an issue that needed solving right away. To his credit, he did say he was glad to hear my voice and he was extremely short on help...but I guess it would have comforted me more had he asked how I was and asked if I was okay enough to take care of this, seeing as I really wasn't cleared to return until Monday.

Perhaps it is a sign.

Another tiny little wrinkle in my mental landscape is the continuous revving of anxiety that happens throughout the day...usually without warning, mostly at the most insignificant occurrences. It's almost as if my adrenal system was sensitized by my meltdown...amped up so that it dumps adrenaline and cortisol and all sorts of other chemicals...into my system at the slightest provacation.

I'm not sure what to make of it. I don't know if it is due to the radical adjustment between hospital and outpatient life, or a reaction to the impending return to work. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough and, of course, will post results here

Addendum

Apparently skipping a dose of Effexor whilst on an Effexor/Lithium combination is a guarantee for strange dreams of the episodic flavor and seriously wicked headaches. I'm not sure why this is, but the headaches alone are enough to convince me to never do this again.

Thoughts

Even though I didn't slit my forearms as I so desperately wanted to do...even though I put myself in the hospital before I grew too tired to fight that overwhelming impulse...I still feel as though I have crossed some invisible line drawn in intangible sand. As if committing to hospitalization forced me to admit that I am capable of self destruction if pushed hard enough. Or as if bowing to the obvious need for inpatient treatment has finally made me see that this depression is not a phase but an illness that requires not only medication, but careful observation and behavior modification.

At first I didn't take the fifty million packets of paper that I got almost daily about depression and it's causes. And I have no idea what changed my perspective, but it did change and I still have those fifty million pieces of paper and I'm working on incorporating them into a program that I can use to track my progress and symptoms daily. Maybe that's the line....the realization that these fifty million papers are saying something that I really, really need to pay attention to.

Perchance To...Sleep

Another effect that has become painfully clear is the inability to sink into deep sleep. The result is a fitful, restless, tossing sleep that completely negates the point of remaining horizontal. I would stay awake and do something productive but I am tired enough that it would be pointless; basically not tired enough for real sleep, but too tired to accomplish anything.
Hopefully the doctor, for whom I left a message yesterday, will have some sort of solution.

Sea Change

Nothing much has changed...my mental state is still a bit tender around the edges.

I have noticed some changes, chief among them the insatiable desire to flex my artistic muscles, such as they are. This craving seems to primarily express itself through a viceral need for oil pastels; I went straight to Pearl yesterday and bought two boxes of the thick, chunky kind along with ample toothy paper.

Not sure what to make of it...for now I'll just keep at it.

Till Human Voices Wake Us...

This is my first attempt at posting since my stay in Chicago's finer mental institution and as such will be brief as I am still feeling a bit bruised and swollen about the mental edges.

I was discharged yesterday with a prescription for an ample supple of Lithium and Lamictil, my new best friends until further notice. They're to hurry the Effexor along, which they did while I was entombed in the worst of the depression, and hopefully will continue to do so.

More when the bruises have faded.

...There Will Be Time. To Prepare A Face To Meet The Faces That You Meet...

I cannot prepare a face any more.

Today while I was preparing, going through the endless little rituals to stave off the darkness, I caught myself tracing the groove in my forearm just below the wrist, where the veins are blue. A little later, while filling a glass of water, I looked a little too long at the serrated edge of the bread knife.

I cannot constantly keep myself occupied, which I now must do if I am to keep myself from falling. It is time to check myself in. I'll still make the trip I spoke about yesterday, but I cannot pretend that it will help.

Signing off for now. I'll pick this up again providing that where I land has decent Internet access. In closing, this came to mind.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons

Thanks to this link for the popup free (I think) transcript

...And We Drown

Unfortunately, the relief from my ongoing dance with the beast that is depression, has proved to be only temporary. Lamactil, the latest drug I am guinea-pigging, has failed. Or it isn't working, or it is taking it's time to reach the therapeutic dose, time that I no longer have.



I've spent the past few mornings battling with all of the strength I have, to not harm myself. I have extendep my workouts, bought and read numerous books and magazines in an attempt to drown myself in them and, in so doing, kill the pain. I've surrounded myself with the color green, said to be a soothing shade, taken 5-HTP, said to increase serotonin levels, and have filled the car on my drives to work with alternately distracting and uplifting music.



Nothing is working.



Today, at work, I could feel the knife in my hand, the lateral cuts on my wrists, the slow, oncoming wave of unconsciousness and the peaceful state of the absence of thinking before the ambulance charged in. And so I've tidied up some work loose ends and have made a deal with my logical mind: if tomorrow's trip to visit human and canine friends does not alleviate this black state I am checking myself in to a hospital before my fear of committing an irreversible act dissipates completely.



Oddly enough I feel the need to apologize, probably for my percieved lack of strength. Completely illogical, yes. But it is still what I feel.



If I do wind up hospitalized, in a place with WiFi access, and if they don't take away my handheld, I will continue to post, in the hopes that someone out there will benefit from a blow-by-blow account.



All for now. I can still feel the cuts gn my wrists, and since a protracted stay at Starbucks...accompanied by calming tea and soothing oatmeal (said to stave off winter blues!!) has not helped, I am going to try napping with the dog.

Dog Knowledge

During this ongoing struggle with the beast that is depression, I have often wished I could be my dog. Or at least behave like him without fear of repercussions. It seems as though he's got quite a few things on straight.

• If you're tired, sleep. It builds up valuable energy for later
  



• If you're bored, sleep. It passes the time and keeps sadness (i.e. depression, for humans) at bay



• If you don't like something, go elsewhere.



• If you need something fast, make some noise. People will work to figure out what you need.



• At least three times a day, take a walk around the neighborhood and leave messages for those like you. Let them know where you're at, what you like to eat, stuff like that. Pee is good for this purpose; it's free, and if you run out you can use water to refill your stock. Which is also free.



• If someone threatens you, stand up to them. Barking is good for this. If that doesn't work, you have carnivore teeth for a reason.



• Play really hard. Race after that ball as if there were a pack of dogs going for it, wrestle for that rawhide as if it were the last one you'll ever get. Hard play leads to good sleep...and sleep is always good.



• If you want pats, ask for them.



• If you're excited, show it. Jump up and down, bark, pant. Humans, for some reason, like it that you're happy to see them.

I wonder if there's some way I could switch places with him, even for a day. Problem is, I don't think he'd survive life in my head very well...

...I Must Scream

One thing I've noticed lately, as my psychiatrist comes closer and closer to nailing the magic combination of drugs that will cure my depression, is an increasing intolerance for the various slings and arrows of interpersonal communications.

Example: I work for a motely crew of techs of the male variety, all with their unique ways of asserting their alpha male control issues. The other day I just so happened to threaten the status of one such specimen and have been paying for it ever since...in the form of pointed, i'm-taking-control emails. Unfortunately for me, he has a unique way of linguistically whipping others into a frenzy, so that my immediate boss...a relatively easygoing guy...comes down on my head like Willie Coyote's ACME anvil instead of hearing my side first.

This stuff used to roll off my back, when I didn't have feelings other than perpetual numbness or deepest darkest despair. Now? Well I started crying out of sheer frustration at not being heard during my last conversation with my supervisor. At work. So that should tell you something.

My shrinker says it's a sign that I'm healthy. That's great and all but my newfound health is screwing with my work and making me feel like a black bunny in a snowy flat field with wolves around the edges

Well that's enough for now. I've hidden in the bathroom for far too long.

Obligatory yes-this-really-is-a-blog link: My latest trial drug

Random Thoughts

In no particular order:

• After having a tearfully spectacular breakdown at the last appointment with my head shrinker, I am now guinea-pigging a new mood stabilizer, the name of which escapes me completely. I am tentatively positive regarding its effecacy; I am curiously anxiety-free this morning, but that may be due to the fact that the most taxing thing I did all weekend was taking the laundry in for laundering

• Working in an environment that consists primarily of men isn't a problem per se. It's working in an environment of men and subsequently having your work questioned at any and every turn that sucks the life out of you. That, and the numbing realization that any other IT department you make the jump to will be, most likely, exactly the same.

• Screaming in the car is a wonderful way to vent off rage buildup. Bonus: no one can hear you.

• I am in desperate need of a vacation or short term disability leave. I am still trying to figure out which of the two options I need the most, the only thing keeping me from checking out.

More of the Same

This whole post title thing is beginning to frustrate me beyond belief.

More Random Testing

More Random Testing

Still more testing. I'm going to figure this post title thing if I have to hunt down the Blogger creators to do so.

Random Testing

Random Testing

Pay no attention to that man behind that curtain.

In A Minute There Is Time

Quick, random thoughts and updates in no particular order since the starbucks I am in is playing round after round of slit-your-wrists music and, although figuring out how to manipulate this PDA program to transmit Blogger formatted posts is helping my worn out brain, expending any additional mental energy...say in developing a narrative flow for this mess in my head...will push me over the edge.

• Hospitalization is becoming an inevitability rather than a possibility. Having two completely different reactions to the exact same type and dose of medicine is a signal, to me at least, that something is desperately, desperately wrong. To me it signals the first falling stones of a complete structural collapse, and I'd rather get the architectural team in now while the building is still standing
  

• On a tangential, yet similar note, the utter unpredictability of my moods is what is driving me insane. That, and the maddening Concerta side effect of anxiety; it is a torturous combination that is causing quick, violent mood swings and accompanying fast-moving thoughts.
  

• Also tangentially...if genetics really does play a factor in depression....I am completely screwed. Out of sheer desperation I emailed my mom and sister to ask if and when they'd had experiences with the beast. Both responded in the affirmative, one is still wrestling with it. Not doing to good either, if recent interactions are any indication.
  

• Okay, what the hell is with Starbucks and wrist-slitting music? In the past hour or whatever I've been here, they've played a steady stream of Kate Bush, Sarah MacLaughlin and The Indigo "Blood and Fire and Prince of Darkness" Girls. I'm all for these singer-songwriters and I distinctly remember TIG's "Gallileo" as being funny in a quirky sort of way, but come on!! An overcast Sunday morning, on the eve of a Monday workday no less, is no time for dirges. Maybe it's just this particular location.
  

Thus endeth the randomness.

Lightning Fast Post

Between the handheld meltdowns, work insanity and other variegated craziness, I haven't had much chance to update here. I still don't have much time, so this is going to be quick and dirty.

The Drugs
My supplier has determined that the anxious, agitated, impending doom jitters were caused by taking all of the meds at the same time. His solution? Splitting the dose between two times in the morning. Hopefully it will work...but having gone through this infinite times before, and it being ten minutes shy of five am (meaning that my blood levels of happy drugs are through the floor)....I'm not holding my breath.

Work
I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to find another means of employment...preferably at a place where the availability of a computer system that I am responsible for isn't a "life or death" (and by "life or death" read: loss of cash to owner) situation. I'm nosing around the online application boards of universities, since "institues of higher learning" sounds peaceful and stress free unless, of course, you're there to learn higher.

Other Oddities
My head shrinker insists that the calming effects of the various Snoop Dogg, Wu-Tang Clan and Eminem I listen to are due to the fact that they (the rappers) are expressing my (me) anger for me. I pooh-poohed that idea then, but now I may be eating that pooh because think she's right. Only it's a bit more complicated; it's not so much that Eminem is angry in his songs, it's that he's frustrated...with himself, with people, with the world at large...into that anger. Also the kooky way that he vents that anger. I mean, come on...who can't listen to something like this and let loose a small chuckle or two?

I'm harder than me tryin to park a Dodge
when I'm drunk as fuck
Right next to a humungous truck in a two-car garage {*CRUNCH*}

Apologies for the language. I'm off for another crazy, crazy day.

Like A Patient Etherized Upon A Table...

This, right now, right this very instant, what I feel....like the deep breath you release after a tense situation at work has just been resolved and you've hung up the phone and now have a few minutes to relax before rushing into the next fray...and you feel like you can handle the next fray and the one after and all those after...this is how I want to feel. All the time would be good, but right now I'd settle for half a day.

Incidentally, "Forgot About Dre" is an excellent song for keeping the grey matter occupied enough to bypass the experience of depression. Something about the baseline/rap slow/fast rhythm throws the brain off balance and keeps it there so it can't settle into the steady gray despair. Or at least it does for me.

Do I Dare Disturb The Universe?

It is steadily becoming clear to me that either I find a treatment for this depression that actually works or I need to find a new mode of employment...one that involves little to no stress. Which, given the input I've received from some aquaintences, may be close to impossible due to the foul nature of economy and corporations these days.

I'm still doing the 54, 54, 20 (that's two 54mg Concerta tablets, one 18mg of the same and one 20mg Ritalin tablet for those of you just joining the narrative flow) dosing all at the same 6am time. I've started to take the two 150 Effexors at the same time as well.

To this I've added the following:

• one omega-3 capsule

• one zinc tablet

• one multivitamin, formulated for active adults

• 2 tablets of milk thistle

• 2 tablets of triple ginseng

The fish oil and zinc are for depression, and the milk thistle for good liver function, or so says British Vogue. I forget what the ginseng is for, but right now none of it seems to be working. I can't believe I feel this way and no one sees. There should be a gaping wound somewhere, preferablely of the chest-sucking variety for me to be in this much pain.

Back to the salt mines. I don't know how I'm going to make it through...I have no more tricks up my sleeve.

More Title Testing

Ha! This actually worked. A small, much needed victory for today

Random Thoughts

In no particular order, with no definable relation to each other.

• I am not a crazy. I am a person of reasonable intelligence whose biochemistry is just more than a little off. I know about neurotransmitters and synapses and the synaptic cleft and the amines that are purported to influence depression. I know tryptophan is an essential amino acid and that 'essential' means that the body cannot manufacture it and that this particular amino acid is a precursor to serotonin, which is one of those neurotransmitters said to influence depression.
  
  I taught myself about computers; what processors are, what they do, how they interact with the motherboard, what the motherboard is and how it coordinates interactions between different components. I taught myself VBScript and wrote numerous scripts to automate tasks that previously would have taken hours. So I am NOT CRAZY.
  

• There has got to be a way to de-stigmatize the more obvious behaviors of and more radical treatments surrounding depression. Make it parallel to physical illnesses of similar magnitude. People know what to do when they hear, ?She's in the hospital for cancer.? They do not for ?She's in the hospital for ECT.? The former is more likely to be announced for prayer at church or emailed around at work to gather efforts for flowers, visits or meals. The latter isn't mentioned at church...except for in whispers...and I've been advised to, under no circumstances, divulge any information about either the nature of my illness or the type of treatments without getting signed papers from doctors and consulting with an EAP therapist specializing in these matters.
  
  Which basically rubs the ingrained idea that I should be ashamed about this further into my head.
  

• Does a support group exist for spouses or partners of individuals suffering from depression? If so, I need to find one for my husband, and yesterday.
  

• One of the many infuriating things about this is the inability to prep your significant other about major upcoming changes in your emotional landscape. I'm not talking chart level detail here, but a general sense of what to expect. A 'head's-up' call in case of sudden mood fluctuations would help, but what if you forget...or just don't think to? Or if you're going with the flow and know that deviating from that subconscious navigator, even for a cell phone call, even if you have the number on speed dial, would throw everything off and you on to the slippery slope down.
  

• Seriously consider moving to a place with substantially more sun. More sun and no snow at all, period.
  

This Is A Test. I Repeat: This Is A Test

Had this been a real post, you would be reading depression related, hopefully witty content with bits of wry sarcasm and inappropriately timed black humor. As it is, I am just trying to get title tags in BlogsInHand working so, once again, this is just a test.

1.22.05 7:27: State of the Mental Address

This is going to be a quick ass post because I just took my 54, 54, 18, 20 combo (Concerta, Concerta, smaller Concerta, Ritalin) and if this is any indication, I've got about fourty minutes to an hour tops before I start hitting the skids again and in that time I've got to finish up this home acid peel, take a shower, get dressed, dig out my car from 12 inches of snow and be on my way to work. It's like some lunatic game show only not so happy and without the giant prizes.

Haven't found any practitioners of EMDR, SAD light therapy yet...mostly because I'm still waiting to hear back from my therapist and shrink whom I haven't...for some bizarre reason...been able to reach. Have tentatively added a zinc tablet to my cocktail of multi-vitamin and fish-oil capsules and am really, really, really making an effort to smarten up my diet which frankly sucks. That is actually harder than it seems because when I'm depressed, doing anything is a huge chore and searching out and finding healthy non-preservative food falls under anything. There's also way too much choice in a place like Whole Foods (where one usually goes to purchase healthy non-preservative laden food) and when you factor that in with trying to find the best deal so you don't spend all of your money, and a seriously anal-retentive personality (I'm raising my hand here...you just can't see it) and it's just a losing battle before you even start.

Time's up for now, but...for something completley random...my husband found this which looks very, very, very interesting and diverting.

What The...????

Well, I've gone from the solution-oriented state that I was in when I
wrote this post to taking forever to get out the door out of a dread
of the cold and the snow and the work ahead of me, to a sort of mixed
state of grim humor, near crying, despair and patches of enthusiasm
here and there.

I have a firm enough protectiveness towards myself that I'm okay with
going home sick if I have to, but I don't want to return calls to my
shrink's billing department. I think that if I turn on some music
with a vigorous beat I'll be okay and I'm so cold that I'm feeling
mild despair over ever getting warm. I also feel tears at the back of
my eyes and my hip, back and knees are aching.

I'm really in the middle of hating this throwing darts at a dartboard
method of treating whatever the hell is wrong with me. I know that
there's no other way really, but I'm beginning to believe what (I
think) Nitchze said about if there are numerous cures for an illness
you can be sure that illness is incurable. Since I'm not up to
searching for the exact quote, someone else can correct me.

Two Roads Diverged In A Wood, And I

Time to take the less travelled by.

After yesterday and the day before's crying breakdown, and the completely random periods of blinding rage, wincing and tender, enthusiasm and purpose and relentless despair between, I've had it. I'm not ditching the drugs....I'm a little too leery of getting rid of the pharmological scaffolding however rickety it is...but I have just got to try alternative methods of treatment because I am feeling worn, my mental state or status or whatever your frame of mind is called is feeling frayed and worn and I need it to not get holes. I need it, in fact to weave back together or get stronger...whatever.

I'm still deep in to Solomon's book The Noonday Demon, (neat website, I'll have to go back and investigate more), and there is an entire section on Alternative Treatments that I've bookmarked extensively with toilet paper of all things. I'm going to go after the ones that jumped out at me, EMDR, light therapy used for SAD and craniosacral massage therapy being among the few. I'm probably going to have to go through my primary therapist or GP for referrals...my insurance is not alternative medicine friendly at all, but I have just got to do something.

As Robert Frost would sort of say, and kudos to him for the post title, I hope it makes all the difference.

Tangential Off Topic: I cannot pimp Solomon's book enough if I mentioned it in every single post I make from now until the end of the following year. It's dense and meaty and has a lot of good, useful information and a lot of helpful, first person stories that remind you that you are not alone in this hell, and a ton of mentions of treatments that I certainly never heard of. Its a maze, but a good maze...you can head down one chapter and make a couple turns into another different aspect of depression and you don't feel lost but as though you keep stumbling across more little treasures of things that may just be the thing to help you crawl out of the pit. If you don't have it, go get it. If you're leery about shelling out the dough, download the first chapter for free (right click on that link and do the "Save As" thing), read it, and then go shell out the dough. Borrow it at the library, whatever. Just get this book.

Some Thoughts, In No Particular Order

• This cold is brutal and relentless. Logically, I know that it is not
  personal, but because of my state of mind and the constant demands of
  my job it feels as though it is. I do not know if I can take another
  winter here.

• If only I could just stop for a while...have nothing to do but lie in
  bed with the dog, or read at Starbucks or think or sleep for as long
  as I needed to...and not have to worry about the apartment getting
  clean or earning an income from work. And if it could be for an
  indefinite amount of time; so that I wasn't dreading the end of the
  respite, or feeling the impending drudgery of taking everything back
  up again, putting it on my shoulders and trudging onwards.

• What are we doing to this poor dog? He's apparently sensitive by
  nature and the time in the pound definitely didn't help. Now he's in
  a household with a volatile depressive whose moods are definitely not
  stable and privy to whatever marital discord blows in. I fear that he
  would have been better off with a different couple or family, that
  secretly he wishes he were. I wish there were a way I could know for
  sure that he did or didn't think that way.

• I don't know how I am going to make it through this day. I'm trying
  to pull myself together out of nothing and it is not working. Maybe
  in an hour I will be completely different and this will seem just a
  bunch of maudlin navel gazings but right now I feel at the end of my
  rope; I'm scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel and I am
  coming up with zilcho.

• Energetic music is helping. Snoop Dogg, Wu-Tang Clan, Dr. Dre,
  Eminem...the off rhythms are giving my brain something to cognate
  about. So it is helping. Not much, but some.

Flayed

I may have mentioned this before, but my short term memory isn't what it never was so if this starts to sound familiar you can check out and come back on the next installment.

I'm finding out that one of the hard things about depression is that when the drugs and the therapy, and the numerous little tricks you do during the day to keep your mind level start working and the depression starts to lift, your emotional state picks right back up where it left off. And it never seems to coincide nicely with whatever is going on, life-wise, right at this moment.

An Example:

I work. With computers. At a truly grueling, demanding, ball-busting, thankless job. It's not the work that's so bad; I actually love the work. It's the fact that the work usually only gets noticed when there's something goes wrong. Or that your average user or manager or CEO doesn't understand how complicated a system is, and therefore asks for or promises to, a system or to someone a completion date that goes beyond unreasonable and into fantasy.

Right. So, back to the emotional state picking up.

I could be a little frustrated with the sheer volumes of work on my plate, but the fact that my emotional state is picking back up where I was in high school and completely overwhelmed with homework and keeping the family running smoothly, that little frustrated turns into complete basket-case type overwhelmed and I find myself sobbing uncontrollably over the prospect of going back to work after walking the dog and cleaning up whatever mess he has happened to create while I was away.

Or I might be a little angry at the fact that Joe User has sent me an email AND cc-ed my boss AND his boss...an email in which he uses the most condescending, patronizing tone and expounds at length on exactly how I should do my job...but my emotional state is picking back up where I watched some overpriviledged kid make an offhand off-color racist joke to his friend and I so wanted to reach over the table and throttle him but couldn't because the teacher was talking about word problems up in front. So a little angry becomes incineratingly furious.

I'm not knocking tears or righteous anger here, I'm just having problems with them and my work world crashing into each other. It would be great if I could somehow take leave for a few hours when stuff like this happens, but I'd have a tough time explaining it to my supervisor. If you can think of a way to convey "had to leave before I stuck a letter opener in his ear" with a professional spin that would also net me a couple of hours in a warm room with a blanket and a cup of tea, by all means email me.

1.17.05 10:26 A.M. - State Of The Mental Address

This is one of those mornings that, in spite of doing all of the
recommended things...Schoolhouse Rock instead of angsty Frou Frou in
the car CD player, adding a green slipcover to the couch (green being
one of the calming, soothing colors according to a magazine article I
read)...I still cannot shake the feeling that just behind or to one
side of my existence there is a deep black hole that I am going to
fall into.

It is a bright, sunny day outside. It's about 17 below with the wind
chill, but the sun is shining and the sky is blue without a cloud in
sight. But I swear I can see the grotesque, distorted faces of
monsters pressing against whatever fabric that is keeping them in
their black abyss.

Insanity

I've figured out why I constantly feel as though I'm on the edge of
losing my sanity. Instead of being locked in an psych ward with 24-7
psychiatric drug monitoring, I'm working in an understaffed,
overloaded department at backbreaking projects with few resources and
punishing deadlines.

And trying to pass for normal at the same time. Which means that a
minimum of 45% of my energy and brainpower goes towards covering my
craving for indefinite oblivion while the reserves are eaten up by
figuring out how to achieve the impossible out of string, paperclips
and spit. As the impossible grows, the mental stockpiles shrink until
I find myself in a situation similar to this afternoon: driving in
deadlocked traffic in crappy weather to pound a server back into
working with tears involuntarily pouring down my face.

Completely unable to stop them.

Needless to say, my shrinker will definitely be hearing from me this weekend.

Insanity, But Not Really

Edit: Removed crazy support notation from completly unrelated issue from post. Post was duplicate of one that was already in existence...due to bad third party handheld email client so basically, no post. Have a nice day.

Addendum: Sea Change

This thread, from a forum solely about Boston Terriers, is how I can tell that I have stepped off the cliff of normal and am plunging fast. Under any other circumstance, this would be absolutely hilarious. Right now, however, I look into those eyes and see bottomless grief, inconsolable sadness, complete wounded-ness over having to refrain from eating the treat placed upon one's head. Also the wounding shame of being photographed in such a compromising position.

I only wish I were exaggerating, but the fact that I'm going to get up from the computer so that I can avoid looking at this picture from here on out (I'm leaving it up so that my husband can laugh at it, at least) is pretty firm evidence that I'm not.

Sea Change, Among Other Things

Had another appointment with my head shrinker Thursday...during which he asked questions, took notes and fiddled with my Concerta doses. Three is proving to be too much; I find myself to be just a little too furious when crazy events happen at work...which is always...a little too brittle mentally. Two is too little, so the happy medium for now is to gradually add 18s to the 54s one at a time (Concerta comes in 18, 36 and 54mg parcels) plus a half tablet of 20mg Ritalin to cover the lag time it takes for the Concerta to kick in.

So how is this all working? Well...this is the first day of the 54, 54, 18, 10 combo and while the morning and mid-late afternoon was actually filled with something resembling enthusiasm, around five or six or something I came across the makeshift cage for our singularly unique hedgehog Calvin who passed away last year in the most excruciatingly drawn out way possible. And that led to the couch, where I cried for a bit, then the bathroom where I came across an O article on loneliness and connecting which led to the realization of how utterly baffling it is for me to know how to initiate the most rudimentary of connections, let alone an entire friendship...which led to this post and Prairie Home Companion which I just reached over and dialed down because Garrison was talking about a lady who had the nerve to have a filthy bathroom. Which reminded my of my filthy bathroom and the lack of time I have to clean it.

In short, I think I'm going to have to bump up the 18s. I'll give it a day or two and account for the grief factor over Calvin, but I'm betting on the additional 18.


EDIT: I was looking for the elegy I posted when Calvin died. I couldn't find it, but came across this one about our saga with Stewart (also a hedgehog). The way I feel now after skimming it, I kinda wish I hadn't.

On Anger

I'm a practising Christian. Which means that I do my level best to walk my talk...i.e. I don't commit adultery, murder anyone or steal from stores or little old ladies. It also means that I do my level best to behave towards others the way I read about Jesus behaving...having compassion on those who want to kick my ass, helping out the homeless people on the street with a few dollars without asking if they're going to buy alcohol or drugs, doing random acts of niceness for complete strangers...you get the idea. Christianity, or actually God, has gotten a bad rap lately what with all of the disasters and complete idiots fronting as being one of the true believers...but i've seen enough to keep at it for a while longer.

One of the reasons is this: anger is not a sin. It says it right there in the Bible...in fact I think that Jesus himself does the saying. This is a gross, probably completely inaccurate paraphrase and I don't even have a book, chapter and verse, but the quote goes something like this:

In your anger, do not sin

It doesn't say NOT to get angry....just don't go mowing down a busy sidewalk with an AK-47 while in your blinding rage. As I am a person who, at this phase in my life, finds myself frequently infuriated...probably having something to do with the fact that I recently started driving, this is a relief.

However, I'm finding it hard to figure out what to do with that anger that wouldn't constitute "sin". When my temples are pounding and my blood is boiling over in the blood vessels just underneath my skin, and the red tinged haze blooms in front of my eyes, my first instinct is to throw the nearest sharp object at the catalyst of my rage. All that stuff...blood boiling, red haze, pounding temples...is energy and it has to go somewhere. And as I mentioned before somewhere in this site, depression is sometimes referred to as anger turned inwards, so the last thing I want to do is sit with this volatile substance until it seeps into my innards stews them into a dark, dank soup.

I'm not including any solutions here because honestly, I ain't got them. Venting to friends would be the first thing that comes to mind, but what if you don't have any. Depression...especially the major and lasting kind...is not the type of thing to win friends and influence people unless you're paying them for their hour of time. Screaming or pounding a pillow is another, but doing either of these in the workplace is just not a way to maintain gainful employment. Plus...when's the last time you saw a pillow in your workplace? Thought so.

If I come up with anything, believe you me I'll share it here....but right now I got zilcho. Desperately looking, but zilcho.

Addendum To A Future Post

Because the post this is addending (?) is still on my handheld, in a nifty little program called WebIS Mail...a sort of beefed up Inbox for the Pocket PC. I also have Blogs In Hand, but that has some issues with subject tags and I wanted to not have to go back and re-edit.

At the time of that future post, I was insanely anxious. Also stressed. And not a little depressed. Now I'm not. Such is the nature of medication regulation. I'd like to think that my current pharmeceutical of choice is working, but it's probably due to the fact that a) it's Saturday and b) I'm not working nor do I c) have group to go to.

Also d) I'm trying yet another means to level out my moods slash stress...that being music therapy. I'm not busting out the ScentSounds...or whatever that horrid contraption is called...I'm putting together songs that, for whatever reason, sort of yank at my ears a little...tunes that have odd little twists in the melody, or are punctuated on the off beat. Hard to explain, easier to throw out a few examples:

Oh, and sorry, but these are iTunes URLs...I don't think they'll resolve in anything but an iTunes wrapper.

Drop It Like It's Hot, by Snoop Dogg
serious props, by the way, for putting tounge clicks front and center as a major part of the song.

Gravel Pit, by Wu-Tang Clan

My Name Is, by Eminem
bonus because the numerous asides in the song are funny as hell

Yep, all of the e.g's are raps...but for some reason the more lyrical of the songs that are odd enough to distract me from my funk are the ones that make it worse. Case in point:

Yes, Anastasia, by Tori Amos

Let Go, by Frou Frou

Stupid, by Sarah McLachlan.

Beautiful, emotional, melodious songs...but depressing as hell. I save them for when I can handle them, or when I'm so out of it that I just don't care.

But since I'm off to nap now, it's Frou Frou...cause as much as I love me some Wu-Tang, I can't doze off to them.

It's The Little Things

I swear on my production servers....which for me as a systems admin for a bunch of very finicky computers is a very, very, VERY big deal...the only reason why I skim the celebrity gossip pages on MSN or MSNBC is to clear my head; I utilize the colorful pictures and even more so language as a sort of sorbet for my brain. Given that a good part of my day is spent picking over the most obscure OS bugs, or fighting with VBScript over a task I desperately need to automate, a brain cleanser is a much needed thing.

That's why it bothers me to infinite end that this little matter actually got a gasp out of me. These are celebrities, for crap's sake...I don't know them, nor would I want to. But for some inexplicable reason I find myself dissappointed, in a motherly "too bad, they looked like such a nice couple" sort of way.

And I'm pretty sure it's not the meds wearing off either...it's only early afternoon and Roscoe's poor-me look isn't stabbing my heart the way it does when the mind has hit the skids.

Slinking off to read something virtuously intellectual...

Mermaids Singing

It's been a rough start for this relationship with Concerta. I've learned that taking it any time after 10 am means surface sleep only, and taking just one any earlier then ten doesn't do much of anything. I'm warily taking two the minute I get out of bed...that was today and so far so bland. I'm functional with a few poignant patches here and there but no electricity yet. Also no bottoming out yet, and if I have to forgo creative sparking for now to avoid plunging past rock bottom I will do so gladly

So I was cleaning house around the bookcases the other day and came across something that smoothed over the roughness a little. It was a small box, containing a smaller box labeled "A Box of Thoughts on Joy". I remember my husband giving this to me last Christmas or so, and I remember thinking it was heavy on the cheesy, sunshine-up-the-butt factor, but I opened it in spite of all that and one of thoughts jumped out and lodged in my head

"There is a dawn in me."
-Henry David Thoreau

I started this post 48 hours ago, and even though the bottom did fall out that evening of the 2 Concerta day, and it's snowing cats and rats and elephants outside, that thought is still glowing in my head like a small stubborn ember.

Straws

At 6:40 am this morning I drove across town to pick up my latest attempt to kick this depression for good. Which should give you an idea about my current level of desperation.

I'm in the valley of a peak right now, or else I'd actually be optimistic about this latest experiment. Based on the theory that the double-bead delivery method of Adderall is being shot all to hell by my eccentric metabolism (or that my liver goes through amphetamines like a kid through Halloween candy)**, my shrinker has prescribed Concerta, which is basically Adderall by way of Ritalin with a nifty little delivery system.

"CONCERTA? uses osmotic pressure to deliver methylphenidate HCl at a controlled rate. The system, which resembles a conventional tablet in appearance, comprises an osmotically active trilayer core surrounded by a semipermeable membrane with an immediate-release drug overcoat. The trilayer core is composed of two drug layers containing the drug and excipients, and a push layer containing osmotically active components.

So, what does this fancy-schmancy, new-falutin' contraption do?

"There is a precision-laser drilled orifice on the drug-layer end of the tablet. In an aqueous environment, such as the gastrointestinal tract, the drug overcoat dissolves within one hour, providing an initial dose of methylphenidate. Water permeates through the membrane into the tablet core. As the osmotically active polymer excipients expand, methylphenidate is released through the orifice. The membrane controls the rate at which water enters the tablet core, which in turn controls drug delivery."

Cool, hunh? I thought so. Anyway, I took my first "barrell-shaped" tablet about a half hour ago...we'll see what happens. If I'm in a good mood in spite of the current chick-angst music they've got going here at Starbucks, we may just have a winner.

**I have my own alternate theory about the Adderall non-effecacy...something that ties my insatiable curiosity and hunger to know the why of everything in with the low level of either a) feel good neurotransmitters or b) receptors for said neurotransmitters. However, I'm sure that somewhere, a neuroscientist is either all over this posit or is reading this and sadly shaking his head.

I Have Heard the Mermaids Singing, Each to Each...

There is a feeling, a sense of gravitas mixed with dark colors and an ache and regret, that wells up when I hear, read or see certain things. Like this story from This American Life.

Or this song, by Tori Amos.

Or this poem, the partial inspiration for this blog

It's a sudden sense that I am an adult getting older, or the realization that this ongoing battle with depression has taken a chunk out of me, or the feeling my awareness has made an unexpected shift in a different direction. And its all mixed up with bittersweet and weird pangs for intangibles and things I know not what. I'd use the paradigm word here but the meaning has been thoroughly sucked out of it.

Maybe it's poignancy. Or simple melancholy. Whatever it is, it usually heralds the depression to come. Here's the thing though: I don't necessarily want to lose the capability of experiencing that...whatever the feeling is called. I just want to have it separate from the feeling of despair that follows soon after. I have a faint idea that this fugue, or whatever the heck this emotion is, is an important, normal thing to feel...that I should be experiencing it at different points in my life and maybe missed it numerous times before because of the depression.

Or I'm completely wrong and it's just a sad song, poem, book...and I've got a bad case of PMS. Or I'm just overly sensitive. I don't know...and that's just part and parcel of the frustration.

Signing off...