I had fun hanging out with M. and throwing a Stevie Nicks party this afternoon. We’re going to watch Stevie Nicks Live in Red Rocks, next. M. has decided he’s also a fan. I almost said, “Performing music is totally how she got all her fans,” but I caught myself. Whew!
I even wrote a poem. M. wrote one too. He won’t let me share it, though. (It’s excellent!) Mine is far less impressive and perhaps a bit heavy on the Negative Nancy. Saw that coming, did you? Heh. Ah, well. Here it is:
The Depression Monster got me. It took all of the last night and most of today to take back control. I feel like I just finished playing professional tag for three hours. I’d kinda like to cry, but I’m too stingy with what little energy I have remaining. At least my thoughts are slow for a change. Time certainly seems to pass more quickly when I’m fighting a bout of depression.
I just wish it wasn’t because everything takes far longer to pull off in this state. M. suggested we have a Stevie Nicks party this weekend to send the Depression Monster packing as quickly as possible. I’m totally going to marry him. I know I agreed already, and all that. But this was precisely the moment I knew with all my heart he’s The One.
Geez, I’m grossing myself out. Heh. (Mostly because I mean it.) I don’t know what this feeling is called, but it’s the same way I feel about four chapters into every book by Stephenie Meyer. I always think to myself, “Dammit, she did it again! She tricked me into reading a romance novel disguised as speculative fiction!” (Please note, I’ve read everything she’s written, and will continue because I love her.)
I pay close attention to the way M. says things. He’s never put his foot in his mouth that I’ve noticed. He didn’t fall into the trap of suggesting a way to “get over my depression.” Just a way of getting through this round more quickly. With him. This is two new things to consider. Usually, I send him away when I get depressed. He figured out how to invite himself to hang out.
Damn, he’s brilliant. I’m sure there are several ways he could have accomplished this, but a Stevie Nicks party is a home run. Or maybe a touchdown. Whichever one is better. I’d be printing out Stevie Nicks quotes on pretty backgrounds and hanging them all over the place if I could get up. Tomorrow, I’ll gather some hardcover notebooks, my best pens, and my favorite blanket.
Then we’ll sit on the blanket in front of the TV and watch my ocean scenes Bluray, and write poetry. (M. will probably write poems about surgery.) Then a live concert DVD or three. Yes, this will send the Depression Monster running in tears. Perfect. I love reading poetry written by people who insist they can’t write a poem.
They don’t know the rules, or what’s expected. It frees their creativity. Some people are naturally poetic. I think of them as graceful minded. I like being near people like this. I’m probably hoping it’ll rub off on me. I have a lot of faith in osmosis, apparently. I’m off to read. 🙃
I’m having a decent day. I made a big decision. I’ve decided not to seek medical care in the future. As a service connected, disabled veteran, I’m entitled to health care at the VA Medical Center. I’m also still on the health plan for my software company. (I no longer work there, but I still own 50%.) I’ve never used it. In the past, I’ve gotten all my care at the VA. I’m no longer willing to put myself through the experience. I’m hoping this will make the nightmares stop. At least the VA nightmares. I’m confident it will work as I usually have them the night before an appointment, or if I’m having an episode of depression.
When depressed, my mind recalls every terrifying or soul crushing experience from my life and plays them back like a really fucked up movie. Good times. All my life I’ve bent over backward to avoid stepping on others. It’s my default, and so it shall remain. I know I’m naive. I don’t see it changing at this point. I acquire more information, but my mind still processes thoughts from a compassionate viewpoint. I value life. It hurts to care. But pain is the only negative consequence I’ve discovered.
Seeking medical care is a nightmare for me, every single time. It’s illogical to subject myself to trauma when I have a choice. I’m tired of the astonishing ignorance of some medical professionals, who in 2017, still believe African Americans don’t experience pain as strongly as Caucasians. It taught me how to cope with physical pain intense enough to render me semi-conscious. It taught me to be wary. It taught me never to rely on medication I can’t purchase at a convenience store. It proved my military service doesn’t count because I have a vagina and brown skin. I’m no longer willing to enter such a hostile environment.
I realize I’m shortening my lifespan by this decision. I have a week of medication remaining, both for depression and hypertension. Eight days, to be exact. Prozac has a long half-life. It will stay in my system for a while, but as my body transitions, I’ll have the random brain zaps from quitting cold turkey. Honestly, when I consider how long I’ve taken it, that’s getting off incredibly easy. I know you’re not supposed to quit a beta blocker cold turkey, but oh well. My body can handle it. I’ve had hypertension since I was a child. I sincerely believe it’s a physiological reaction to my environment. It’s like White Coat Syndrome on steroids. When I’m running, my blood pressure is lower than when I’m walking into the VA. I eventually refused to have my blood pressure checked at the VA. It’s like checking for a fever while in a sauna.
The positive changes will include a return to writing poetry and songs. Prozac stifles creativity in a noticeable way. It’s probably why a lot of famous artists and writers die from suicide. The tortured artist is such an accurate term. Creativity has a cost and usually exacts its toll in tears. I entered a poetry contest when I was a Private (PFC) in the Army. It was the first and last contest I entered. I won first prize, and it deeply disappointed me. It wasn’t my best poem, just my latest when I entered. It wasn’t very good. For it to get first place depressed the shit out of me. My Commander was excited I won, and I was in The Army Times, and the newspaper at home. I didn’t go to the ceremony in D.C. I stopped writing altogether for a few years.
While on Prozac, it’s rare I’m inspired to write a poem. I’m looking forward to being a tortured artist again. At least it’s the type of torture I can endure. I’m getting ready to go on vacation. I’m in the planning stage (which usually lasts as long as the vacation.) I probably enjoy the planning more than the vacation most times, but I’m aiming to have a lot of fun this time. Off to the whiteboard.