I've been depressed since at least May. I didn't realize how bad it was, though, until I quit my job last month. (Long story short: Fucking boss went off the deep end, accused me of doing some shit I didn't do, and cussed me like I was a dog in the process. I don't know if she was off her meds or what, but I live with one crazy person--me--and the last fucking thing I needed in my life was another one to deal with, so I bounced. Which set off another round of cursing and nasty emails that I ultimately ignored because fuck her--ain't nobody got time for that.)
She said some pretty horrible shit to me, TBH. Normally, I would probably say something about "crazy, jealous bitches" and let it roll off like it wasn't a thing, but, like I said, I've not been in the best shape for months. It didn't help that all the awful shit she said to me is the same awful shit the demons that live in my head say to me, too. Intellectually, I know she said it because she knew it would get to me, but knowing something intellectually doesn't mean it won't still affect you emotionally.
On top of that, I've had a couple of "friends" do some pretty shitty things to me lately, too. I don't feel like getting into the specifics of it all because what's the point? But I'm right fucking tired of being used as a therapist/free place to stay/fallback when people have nothing better to do by nearly everybody in the goddamned world.
I realized I was getting dangerously depressed when I realized that I didn't even want to eat anymore. For a fat bitch, that's always indicative of a problem. Combine that with my complete inability to read or write more than the absolute barest minimum required for life, and I knew it was bad. Then Robin Williams killed himself, and it was kind of a "There but for the grace of...something...go I" moment, and I knew it was time to do something.
So I talked to my friend Wazoo (B. in Huntsville, who I decided needed a name for me to use here that's not just his fucking initial, and since I call him that half the time, anyway, we'll go with it) last Sunday night and came to the conclusion that I was going to swallow every last bit of pride I had and ask my mother to take me to the doctor.
Surprisingly enough, she was not a total asshole about it.
So she came and got me last Tuesday after she got off work because I was too broke to even buy gas to drive down myself. She only works half a day on Wednesday, so after she got off, she wanted to go get a pedicure and then ride dirt roads in her Jeep with the top out (because that's something she fucking does--don't ask). I tagged along because she likes company when she does it. And now I have a pedicure. Like, a professional one. It's only the third one I've ever had in my life. Thursday, I went to the doctor, where I got a refill on my Lamictal (I was out), my Wellbutrin raised to the maximum dose that they're allowed to give people, and a prescription for trazodone because my doctor's not writing prescriptions for Ambien anymore, alas. She recommended the trazodone because it's an old-school antidepressant that has the added effect of making you sleepy. So antidepressant plus sleep aid in one, basically. For those of you keeping score at home, I'm now on the max dose of Lamictal that my doctor will prescribe, the max dose of Wellbutrin that's safe for human consumption, and now another antidepressant as well. *Sigh*
Friday, I pretty much just fucked off until my mother got off work; then, we went and got haircuts. I now have a wonderful cut that, while a tiny bit shorter than I would've liked for it to have been, is still pretty much exactly what I wanted. Saturday, my mother wanted to go Jeep-riding again, and she offered to take me to Flat Rock because I'd said Wednesday that I would like to go. It's the only lake in the entire world that I'm not completely disgusted by because, as the name suggests, the entire "beach" and bottom of the lake is granite and therefore not muddy and vile to me. Barring some amazing and miraculous circumstance, that's probably as close as I'm going to get to going to the beach this year, so I took her up on it. I didn't swim or anything; we probably only stayed about 10 or 15 minutes. Long enough for me to wade out ankle-deep and most of the tension in me to ease, I guess. (Water does that for me, and the bigger the body of water, the better it works.) I also took this picture while I was there.
We rode around most of the afternoon, and then when we got back, Daddy came in. All three of us ended up going to the top of a mountain in Clay County that night in the Jeep again to look for meteors. (And that is, hands down, the best fucking place I've ever found to stargaze. I will be going back.)
Apparently, they, too, realized I was in trouble because they didn't give me any shit and actually humored me for the most part. So yeah. It must've been pretty bad.
Yesterday, Mother brought me back, and I did my work and shit. I took the trazodone for the first time last night. I only took half of one because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up until next Tuesday otherwise. But...it didn't really do anything. So tonight I'm going to take a whole one. If that doesn't work, I'll take two tomorrow night because the doctor said I could take either one or two. If that doesn't work, I'll probably call down there and sob on the phone until someone writes me a prescription for something else.
Today, I went to Walmart, bought groceries and hair dye, and worked. I dyed my hair earlier and am waiting for it to dry before I take that trazodone so I can touch it up before bed in case I missed some spots. I stepped up my game a notch and went for "Natural Blue-Black" this time instead of the usual "Natural Black" because fuck you, that's why.
Once all the dye that I smeared all over myself in the process of dyeing my hair (because I'm a fucking spaz) wears off in a few days, I'm probably going to take some new pics of myself. Not because I feel particularly pic-worthy at the moment, but because of the new haircut. Its perfection must be documented for posterity because I now have 100% bitch hair.
Unfortunately, though, the step up in my Wellbutrin dosage hasn't seemed to have any effect yet. I hope that changes soon. Usually, I can tell a difference in just a day, but...maybe it's because it hasn't been this bad in a long time, so it'll take a little longer to get better? And maybe the trazodone will help, too, after a little while? I think it takes it awhile to, like, build up in your system to be effective or something. Fuck, I don't know. I just desperately need to believe that it'll all get better soon because the alternative is...ugh.
I have to go back to my phone work tomorrow. Not thrilled about that, but I'm even less thrilled about having my lights turned off, sooooo...yeah. Back to work.
I also intend to reorganize my writing blog in the next couple of days and start using it as a dump for things other than my terrible poetry. Short fiction, my own thoughts on writing, and perhaps some discussion of other people's poems or something. Pretty much anything to guilt myself into writing again, since I haven't updated that stupid blog since March. I've done a few things that I haven't posted anywhere, but not a whole lot. FangBunny has overhauled her writing blog and is doing weekly prompts, book reviews, and such, so I'm going to try to overhaul mine, post stuff more often, and maybe even try to write something for her prompts. Maybe.
If it'll ever stop raining, I'm also going to start walking at night again. Exercise is supposed to be good for depression, right?
*Sigh* It's gotta get better. It's just fucking got to.
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