Will the baby stay asleep a little longer? Who knows!
Thank you all for your kindness and information in re: my addled and jumpy brain. Truly. Madly (intended). Deeply.
After that post, things took a turn for the very much worse. I know! Who knew I had it in me? Turns out I did. And, while I wish to stress that I am not suicidal, after the weekend I had two weeks ago, I have sympathy for people who might consider that while caught in unremitting panic. You know that bit in Infinite Jest about people hanging from the windows of burning buildings? Yeah.
I spent Friday morning through Sunday night plus large parts of Monday through Wednesday feeling like I do on a plane. You may have noticed I don’t fly much. When I wasn’t in an actual panic attack, thinking I might well die in the next minute, I was millimeters away from one, wondering angrily how everyone else could walk around in the beautiful spring weather (etc.) as if we weren’t all one misfiring neuron from the abyss. Good fun, that.
Meanwhile, I’ve also been experiencing this thing I’ve forgotten the fancy word for, a prominent part of earlier bouts of bad depression, where I feel like everyone else is real and I’m not. Like there is a clear but unbreakable film between me and the rest of the world, me outside, looking in. Steam on the windows from the kitchen, laughter like a language I once spoke with ease, you might say, only minus the nostalgic charm.
On Wednesday, I went to see my internist, whom I do love. I was convinced she would shrug her shoulders and ask why I’d come to her, particularly if I wanted anything other than a quick SSRI prescription, but Sugar insisted that she is smart and a good person and would I just go already? And actually, she was amazing. And should probably bill me for a therapy session. She does not think I have heart failure, you’ll be surprised to hear, nor that I am just doomed to be like this forever. All parts of the body get habits they like, she says, and that my brain is currently in a very bad rut doesn’t mean it can’t get out. She did not mention SSRIs until I did, at which point she said she did not think they were the best thing to try first for me. (Once again, all my marshaled research is wasted because I have a doctor who already knows her field. Humph.) She sent me on my way with the name of a CBT therapist and a prescription for a small number of tabs of Xanax.
Oh Muse, sing of the power of benzodiazepines! Surely the mightiest of drugs on earth, for they need not enter the body at all, nor even touch the skin, to work their calming magic. Their very aura is curative. I have yet to take even one, but carrying on around with me, I feel so much more in control. Perhaps there is something in homeopathy, after all.
I am far from cured, that is obvious, so I will follow up on this whole therapy thing, I promise. Sigh. I hate therapy. Or anyway, I hate finding therapists, and I have not had a great run with the ones I have found. It’s consternating, the very fact that one must do this very difficult job of seeking help at exactly the moment one is least equipped to do so. (I know half of you are wondering if consternate is a word: it is, first written use 1651.) And so not what I’d like to spend my babysitting budget (ha) on. Blah.
Incidentally, my bid to use choral singing as a therapy replacement for garden variety depression did work out pretty well, as evidenced by this shit not hitting the fan until after the big concert. There’s evidence for that in the literature, apparently. But no one does anything organized in New York in summer. So.
In WHOLLY UNRELATED news, my father’s Dumb Wedding is in less than a month. Sugar doesn’t want to use her vacation time for this, so one of my aunts has agreed to ride the train out with me and the kids (madness?) and then road trip back with us, so that we can have my mom’s old car (MADNESS). I do think the car, while questionable from a budget perspective, will be an overall boon to my mood, in terms of being able to leave the city and go pretty places more easily. But pray for us on the drive from Little Rock to Brooklyn with the Very Angry Baby.