“Every two minutes, ‘Who ate the top of my muffin?!'”

romantic road

I depleted my recent candy acquisition.  I see a mouth full of cadaver donations in my future.  I hope lots of people who avoided sweets all their lives choose to donate their teeth when they die.  (Thanks in advance.  😁)  More candy arrives tomorrow.  Heh.  I have to admit to a fascination with having dead peoples teeth in my mouth.  It’s a Stephen King novel waiting to happen, yo.  Imagine what Jordan Peele would do with it.  I may even take a stab at it.

I believe the above paragraph qualifies as a warning against reading further.  I’m having a cognitive kaleidoscope kind of day.  I would elaborate, but it’s presently beyond me.  It involves thought loops that spontaneously capture my attention.  After the first few rounds, I start playing with it.  It’s mental jazz or something.  I’m not really into it, but I can hang.  (This paragraph counts as an example.)

I know why this is happening; it’s a fragmented focus.  The Depression Monster has been low-level messing with me for a long time, and I’ve been ignoring it.  Sometimes it feels like walking across a minefield.  At any moment, I could buckle under a mountain of despair atop me out of nowhere.  An interruption to my ability to do more than exist while questioning why.  Thinking about it seems dangerous, so I don’t.

there are no rules

Instead, I double down on known counteractants.  Exercise and laughter are most potent in my experience.  Both are difficult to attempt when depressed.  They’re the last things you feel like doing.  But they help, so I usually manage.  It’s brutal because the necessary effort is always astonishing.  I can’t even bitch about it, because I know I’m more skilled at living with chronic depression than in the past.

I have a deep sadness about the state of humanity on my back, as well.  I feel horrible over the massacre in New Zealand because the atrocity was deliberately committed by a fellow human, resulting in the loss of fifty of us. We are less now.  I hate reminders of our collective insanity.  I don’t like thinking about impending self-destruction on a species level.  I’m too literal for this game.

I sighed when I read Aunt Becky was supposedly arrogant when appearing in court recently.  It would have been weird if she wasn’t.  We all know she knows she’s merely the one who got caught doing what we all know is so common it’s a freaking tradition among the privileged.  Character stopped counting in America at a point I’m unable to pinpoint.  Perhaps it never really mattered.  I still believe Mr. Rogers knew what he was talking about, though.  (Despite all the evidence supporting Dr. Ford’s theory of the human intellect being like peacock feathers on Westworld.)  And on that cheery note, I’m off to read.  ✌🏽💜

“And I had won by so much, a myth began to grow about my speed.”

Weed Lounge Logo

I’m myself again.  Aside from insomnia and hot flashes, I don’t detect any more menopause symptoms at this time.  I’m so relieved to be feeling better, but I have wasted a lot of time worrying about how I’ll cope when The New and Improved Depression Monster returns.  I hate how surprised I am over surviving the last encounter.  I should be celebrating the victory and talking shit about how depression is too pathetic to kick my ass.

Instead, I’m still tripping out over how low it’s possible to become so quickly with no warning.  It’s how I’ve felt after getting my ass kicked literally.  Afterward, I’m shaky and stunned over how weak and vulnerable I am.  Everything within me is screaming to find the nearest rock and get the hell under it.  Well, almost everything.  There’s also a part of me that’s livid and wants a rematch because I’d like nothing better than to take The New and Improved Depression Monster out after a sound and satisfying beat down.

One of my chosen sisters reminded me we’d get through and survive.  Another recently faced down the GRE and laughed in its pitiful face while flexing their brilliance.  💪🏽  I have to admit; it makes the idea of hiding under a rock seem a bit sad and silly.  And then there’s the fact that Fleetwood Mac is coming to Sioux Falls in 54 days.  (!!!)  Anyone who knows me knows I’d rather eat worms than miss seeing them perform live.

Nettie from The Color Purple

Nothing but death can keep me from it!

Nettie- The Color Purple

I’m still studying the HBO series, A Game of Thrones.  I’m on season 4, and at the episode where I bailed last time:  The Mountain and the Viper.  I don’t think it’ll trigger me this time.  I’m getting good at reminding myself it’s FX, not real violence.  Finally.  Heh.  You wouldn’t believe how many movies I plan to watch now that I’ve acquired this skill.  (An 8-year-old taught me. 🤫)

M asked me to reconsider using weed last night.  He knows it would require us to move to a weed-legal state since South Dakota sucks ass considers it illegal (af.)  He made some excellent points and surprised me by how much he believes it will improve my quality of life.  He’s a surgeon, so I figure he knows.  It’s been a while since I experimented in Denver.  I did discover the tour I went on recently got busted by the police in a sting.  Everyone faced fines, the driver briefly arrested.

I would have been pissed if I paid $99 only to get fined and roughly handled by the police.  In hindsight, I shouldn’t have trusted strangers about what is and isn’t legal.  I was so stunned to have legal access to weed, I didn’t think it through.  For the record, it’s illegal to ride around on a party bus while getting high, no matter what random locals claim.  My tour was years ago, but the bust was recent, so I’m a bit shocked it took this long.  I suppose in bigger cities, this sort of thing isn’t necessarily a priority.

cannabis plant

I’m disappointed by the lack of imagination regarding weed tourism in Colorado.  Yes, you can go there and buy an ounce legally.  But here’s the kicker:  Unless you know someone who lives there, has private property where you can partake and allows it, there’s no point in buying it.  If I worshipped the almighty dollar, I would put forth earnest effort toward creating smoking lounges for tourists, along with sober transportation to and from hotels, and lots of wickedly overpriced junk food.  Stoned people would pay $9.99 for a rice-crispy treat, easily.  I just don’t get it.

I’m sure it would require lobbying and the like, but when you’ve got major cash from selling something as easy to grow as a weed, you’ve also got influential power.  You can buy anything, including the freaking presidency, much to my disgust.  So I have no idea why they’re half-assing in Colorado.  It doesn’t make me want to live there.  I’m also floored by the fact that established greedy bastards like banks aren’t capitalizing on it.  (It’s virtually a cash-only industry.)  But, whatever.  It’s not my problem.  I’m certainly considering using it to cope, though.  We’ll see.  I’m off to band practice.  ✌🏽

“Rain and sleet may not stop them, but lets see them get past these bricks.”

"Shall we play a game?"

The Depression Monster showed up a few days ago.  I haven’t bothered resisting this time.  Resistance is futile.  I’m not wasting any more energy fighting a battle that won’t end until I do.  Bring on the devastating sadness that makes me weep until I’m exhausted.  Go on and increase gravity until I can no longer hold up my head.  Staple me to the floor, like you always do.

Take my appetite, my laughter, my desire.  Tell me joy has fled for good.  Remind me of the atrocities occurring throughout the world today, yesterday, and tomorrow.  Prove to me I’m powerless to prevent suffering.  Trace my blame in all that’s wrong with the world.  Show me my overwhelming vulnerability.  Sing The Rains of Castamere.  Taunt me with logic, like you always do.

I’ll feel it all, and ache to the depths of my soul.  Like I always do;  until the chemical chaos ceases, and I finally fall into dreamless, exhausted sleep.  Then eventually awaken to pick up the pieces and begin again.  Until you return, like you always do.

capitalist's carrot and noose

 

“He’s even curtailed his auto-erotic activities.”

Woman reading the news and shouting, "That baby was mowing the damn lawn!"

I need to stop reading the news.  It’s killing me.  I don’t know how I slid back into my old habit of perusing and cross-checking multiple sources online a few times a day.  It doesn’t matter.  I need to refrain entirely for a while.  I looked at my face in the mirror today.  I’m not very visually oriented, probably because my vision sucks.  I usually glance without seeing, but today, I saw.

I look like I haven’t slept in a few days.  I’m dehydrated, nauseated, and depressed.  I’m also excited about upcoming concerts, hella resilient, and an expert at functioning despite discomfort and despair.  I sometimes wish I could find solace in sleep at these times, but it’s no friend of mine.  Instead, I must push myself to engage in specific activities until the issue resolves.  Fortunately, I’ve had lots of practice.

It used to frighten me whenever I felt this way.  I resent how long it took me to overcome the fear.  Now, it annoys me at most.  I’m usually reasonably good at training my brain to do what I want, but sometimes, I need lots of repetition before it clicks.  Fighting off depression is one of those times.  It took a long time to train myself never to presume humanity in others.  It was painful to learn, but not nearly as much as not knowing better.

I forced myself to practice my drums earlier.  I love to play, but when I’m depressed, it’s incredibly difficult to make myself do it.  I had fun, just as I knew I would.  There’s a new mix of Solo by Clean Bandit, ft. Demi Lovato.  I hated it the first time I heard it, but when I accidentally played it again, I discovered I love it.  I also enjoyed drumming to Ghost by Jaden Smith.  depression

I’m rehydrating so that I can hit the treadmill later.  Running in place is remarkably helpful when I’m so low.  I used to be able to throw a pity party and wallow a bit before I fought my way out from under a mountain of despair.  Eventually, I reached a point where I recognized feeling sorry for myself is also hysterically funny, which ruined it.  Heh.  (Pretending Wanda Sykes and Jerry Seinfeld were riffing off my negative thoughts did the trick.)

Now I work it out as quickly as possible and get back to my life.  I slept beneath my weighted blanket last night.  It felt like cold water and central air after crossing a desert.  M is out of town with his cousins, geeking out over the world cup.  They were astonished I can’t name a single team and wasn’t confident which sport.  I told them I enjoy watching sports exactly as much as they enjoy listening to me talk about AI.  I’m a wee bit embarrassed to report they grokked that immediately.  😂  (Noted.)

It was hot yesterday; my pink Puma’s melted.  I thought I stepped in some gum or something.  Then I realized the soles of my shoes were sticking to the concrete and melting off.  They were old enough the white treads were turning a bit yellow, but damn.  So I threw them away and ordered a new pair.  (I have a one out, one in policy with most things now.)  New shoes are almost as mighty against depression as viewing I’ma Be Me by Wanda Sykes.  🙃 💜

 

Puma sneakers

“Death is number two!”

garbage or junk food

A letter to future me:  Please read this whenever you think perhaps you can get away with it just this one time.  You cannot. You cannot get away with it.  You’ve forgotten the consequences because it’s been so long since you last attempted this foolishness.  Stop it right now.  Read the whine-fest below, and remember where it leads.  Dammit.

I’m a strong woman.  Sometimes I make poor decisions and regret them later.  Apparently, I’m also a bit of a sadist, because I’ve made this particular error repeatedly.  I know better.  I guess I forgot I’m autistic and have PTSD or something.  Oops.  Tut tut.  There are rules.  I can’t eat garbage without paying a hefty price. It’s due to consequences that usually take at least a week to resolve entirely, and sometimes far longer.

The universe is laughing at me.  (Not the fun kind you can join.)  I put the wrong fuel in my body, and now it’s acting up.  I need a priorities intervention, stat.  I get tempted by junk food every so often, and instead of analyzing why, I give in and indulge.  I need that data because the results are once again kicking my ass.  (Perhaps some mild public shaming will finally put an end to this folly.)

It hit me just before 7 AM.  I awoke later than usual with no desire to get out of bed.  Just the idea of rising made me whimper inside; a red flag because I’m not big on sleep.  Unless I’m unwell, I’m ready to get up when I wake up.  Then, The Depression Monster showed up.  That bastard went straight to a commentary about politics designed to raise my blood pressure.

My mood did a backflip over the cliff, while simultaneously flipping both birds at half mast.  It happened so quickly I was stunned.  It probably worked in my favor by causing me to question what the hell just happened.  I realized The Depression Monster was involved and slammed on the brakes.  Then I figured out why and launched directly into beating myself about the head and neck for doing this to myself again.  Sigh.

garbage

I didn’t manage to shower and dress until 4 PM.  I didn’t spend that time in bed, though.  I spent it pacing around my apartment while debating with myself silently.  Some of that time was spent experiencing awe over how long I’d been doing it.  I tried so hard to stop.  I even wrote out the one step I was trying to take on my whiteboard, (then passed it over and over without it registering for a long, long time.)  It said, Get in the shower.

These are hours of my life I can never get back, (and this is day one.)  All because I had to eat some freaking garbage.  It’s not worth it.  Memorize this, Alison.  You’re in training for menopause, and it could start anytime in the next decade.  Get your shit together, or it’ll end you.  Dammit.