Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Me - version not good

Remember the cat I found? Sprout? Cat blogging sounds nice – how he really liked the feather toy that Unnamed Friend brought him. He purrs constantly when I’m in the room. His ears look good finally. The fur is growing back over his sore spot. He eats well but is a bit messy. He meows only when he needs something and always rises from his sprawl in the window when I come through the door.

I don’t love him. (It's not going to be the good kind of post.)

I found him when I was hurt over the first phase of this loss, and he’s been around – though rarely seen – through this new phase that doesn’t appear to be ending, though I have moments where it eases. I wondered, as I watched Unnamed Friend pet and play with him on Sunday night, what the hell was wrong with me.

“Will you take him?” I asked, because… I don’t know. I don’t love him for some reason – it’s like my heart is rejecting any newcomers. And I’m left befuddled over the sensation, or lack thereof. It’s completely foreign to me. I don’t decide to care about an animal – it’s automatic and immediate. And I acted upon what I expected to feel – gave him milk (which, yes, not a good idea. Sorry, cat people.) and tuna and water. Put him in the guest room and bought cat supplies. I scoop the litter twice a day and find the Fresh Step clumping kind smells like laundry soap. I’m fond of it. I’m taking care of him, and I pet him. But I don't spend much time with him. I don’t talk to him.

That might be it – what concerned me when Unnamed Friend shook her head and informed me that I now have a cat. I’m silent when I’m in the room – am silent as much as possible, actually. So instead of my typical friendly chatter – asking how he is, what he’s doing, his plans for the evening, complimenting his pretty coat and paws – I’m quiet.

“Hey.” I say when I walk in the door and pause to let him scamper across the bed to greet me. I’ll sometimes offer a “Don’t” when he tries to rub against the scoop as I’m cleaning his litter, then pet with my left hand while I work with my right. I offer food and fresh water while he stretches to put his paws near the top of his plastic food bin. And with an “OK, then.” I generally leave the room. If his family called, I’d give him back with a sense of relief, I think.

It’s just so strange. So unlike me. Yet it’s real. I can’t summon the love and I’m bothered on an abstract level.

I went for ice cream with Unnamed Friend yesterday afternoon. She walked to meet me in the place I knew rather than a much more convenient spot that left me confused. I’m hardly sharp lately though and could see myself wandering, lost, alone, looking for something I wasn’t sure I could find. It made me sad. So we met near my office, then backtracked to find ice cream.

“What did she give you? If you don’t me asking.”

“I don’t mind. I’m not sure I remember though.” I frowned, trying to bring something from memory as I dug my spoon into more Chocolate Therapy as we walked toward a bench. “Celexa?” I asked. “Does that sound right?”

So we talked for another minute and I told her I’d dropped off the prescription. I sat in the chair in the exam room earlier that day, told the doctor I didn’t like having blood drawn, wasn’t big on these exams. I’d likely cry – I cry when I’m nervous and pathetic. She was sympathetic, and we continued to talk for a little while as I tried to relax.

“I’m not very stable.” I finally confessed. “I, um…” Shaking my head, I swallowed against the constant lump in my throat. If I’m not holding back tears then it’s nausea. It’s becoming rather normal, though it’s still unpleasant. She cocked her head at me and waited.

“There was this guy.” I finally whispered. “And we ended things, and I’m sad.”

“Were you serious?” She asked quietly.

I opened my mouth, closed it, wondered how to explain. I finally shook my head and nodded my thanks for the tissues. But I’d brought my own.

“It was for me.” I said quietly. “I thought…” And I shrugged because I was still working through what I thought. Smiling involuntarily when I wrote out how happy I was. Nodding in understanding when I explained why I hung on. It makes sense to me. Still. “I wanted…” I tried to continue and looked at her, confused.

“No.” I finally said more firmly, gathering my composure. “I don’t think it was.”

“Do you think you’re depressed?”

I nodded, hating myself for admitting it for some reason. But I am. When I’m curled up on my bathroom floor at least once a day, weeping, in such pain that I can’t really comprehend it? Holding on to furniture as I pace after reading an email to stabilize myself against wracking sobs? It’s rather difficult to deny. I’m not doing well at all.

“What would you like to do?” She continued, softly. For the sadder I become, the worse I look, the more fragile I must appear.

“I don’t like therapy.” I whispered. “I cry a lot.” Then I choked out a laugh and wiped my eyes, momentarily grateful for the Bare Minerals that resists water quite well. The dark circles under my eyes are quite impressive lately. I tried hard to cover them and didn’t want that powder to wipe away. “Apparently I cry with any sort of doctor.”

“How about antidepressants?”

“I didn’t like the idea before. I’m a little afraid of them, I think. Will I be less me? I like me. And I want to be able to quit relatively easily. Someone told me Paxil was a bit tough to stop. The man I… Anyway, I don’t want to have to take it if I start feeling better.”

So we agreed that she’d write a prescription and we’d start at a very low dose and see how it felt. I didn’t even have to fill the prescription until I was ready, she said, rubbing my shoulder and telling me I’d be OK.

I decided – on the drive to the office – that I’d fill it. Take them. I’m so miserable, after all. Not coping very well at all. I remember thinking that I had shattered. There were pieces of me lying all over the place and I had to find the energy and hope to put myself back together. Find the good pieces, probably save the bad pieces because they provide interest and balance, and try to remember how they used to fit. Focus. Work without having to put my head on my desk and grasp for any sort of acceptable professional behavior. I need some help.

But what if I’m not me? I wondered, worried. Then blinked with pain when I answered myself with the thought that being me is working so very well lately. This huge capacity for love of which I was so pleased? I can’t find it. Can’t connect to it. That was the part I liked – the emotional connection to everything around me. Without it – feeling disconnected and flat – what exactly was I trying to save by avoiding the pills? I was going to take them.

And I cried and cried – sitting at a traffic light - as I realized that part of me may have died. Or at the very least was so wounded by my decisions and actions that it’s hidden away – I hope it’s secure and safe. But my rational side failed to protect it. And if it wasn’t gone, I couldn’t muster enough hope that it would return. So I’d take the chance that the SSRIs might kill or diminish that Katie-ness. Not because I wanted to – I loved being me – but because I couldn’t do it anymore. Wasn’t strong enough. So I whispered my apologies to myself and wiped away tears as the light changed and it was time to move forward again.

I stared at the prescription bottle last night, having picked it up yesterday while Unnamed Friend waited with me. There were moments where I felt normal – brief conversations when I was distracted. Email from friends who were unaware of my pain and with whom I could tease and laugh. I just talked to Charlie and as I listened to his news, I was fine. Felt like me.

“It only happens once.” My officemate said as I slumped at my desk yesterday afternoon, blinking back tears of her own at years-old pain. “It’s only this bad one time. Then you’re smarter. You protect yourself, don’t let people in. They just hurt you.”

I frowned, but nodded at her. I hadn’t meant to make her cry. I was like a painful disease – infecting everyone with whom I come in contact. I don’t mean to – it just happens. I’m quiet – not all there. And people notice and ask, and I can only deflect the questions for so long. The pain, you see, is all there is. There are moments of normalcy – where I can laugh and talk and think. There are sparks of anger, but I haven’t felt one today. Not a real one. It’s basically this giant cloud of misery that presses on me from every side. It hurts – even physically. I open my eyes after trying to sleep and I see it, remember it, moan and try to escape it. The moments of escape become vital. So very important to try to regain any sort of recognition of who I am right now. I crave them. Am apparently willing to hurt people to get them.

I've brought up bad memories for Unnamed Friend. Found myself gasping with indignation at my thought that she could handle them. I was the one suffering now. I needed company and if she couldn’t handle me, she should say so. Wrote a pretty brutal post this morning and waited with narrowed eyes for him to read it. I wanted him to know that I found him vile and malignant. Perhaps I could transfer some of this pain he caused. After I firmly pushed back tears waiting for church to begin on Sunday, I found myself unmoved at receiving communion. What was wrong with the bread? I thought as I moved back to my pew. I hate the wafers.

And I don’t love my little cat.

I made Jill cry later yesterday afternoon. Stopped by to get a phone message and asked how she was.

“How was your appointment?” She asked, because I’d let her know I was coming in late. “Sit.” She said when I shrugged then tried to leave. “Are you doing OK?”

I shook my head. “It’s too much.” I told her, swallowing hard and blinking back more tears. “I just can’t take any more. There was Winnie and I miss her and think about her and it’s sad. And there was this guy and I hoped, but he wasn’t, and I can’t. I miss my parents – being home. I wanted my own family, but I don't think... Can't hope... I don’t know how to do this. So I’m taking something to help. I think.”

“You know what I think?” She asked, and I stopped staring at my shoes to meet her eyes. Shook my head, took a tissue.

“You don’t know who you are.” She told me. And I blinked at her, unable to process such a thing. I know myself. Or thought I had. But maybe he was just mirroring back this confusion that existed in me. The insecurity and self loathing for not being good, pretty or loving enough. I couldn’t make a relationship work – nobody loved me and there had to be a reason why. I can’t stay steady, I thought. Keep bouncing around trying to figure myself out.

“Maybe not.” I whispered. For if I hadn’t known myself before now, this new creature that seemed willing to do anything to avoid further distress was certainly bothersome. I didn’t know her – didn’t like her.

“You need to look in a mirror.” She advised. “See yourself. See what we see. You’re beautiful. Confident. Intelligent. Loving. Sweet.”

“I’ll try.” I said because now she was wiping her own eyes. I didn't want to upset her further by confessing my inability to do such a thing in the near future.

What I see when I look at myself now though? I’m broken. But I’ve watched my family fix things for years. I can repair myself. Carefully search for the pieces, puzzle them together, then carefully glue. It won’t be the same – not exactly – but I think I’ll be OK.

In the meantime, certain traits have defined me over the past days - they must be controlled. I sat today and thought about him and I understood. If his story was true and he had been wounded so deeply – much, much worse than I am now – then he might have been suffocating. So desperate for air that he was willing to push me under so he could breathe for a moment. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s evil – certainly don’t want to believe him to be so. But if he was looking for an escape, I can understand that better than I wish I could.

I told Unnamed Friend to stay home tonight – I’d be fine. If I needed her desperately, I’d call because I know she’s willing to help. I’m unwilling to be the person who uses her – who disregards her pain and the consequences of said pain so that I can avoid being alone. I edited this morning’s post after I experienced the satisfaction of seeing him read it. Hoping he understood me – that it hurt him. That isn’t what I want, I decided firmly – not for him or for me. I told him to stop reading if it was painful, and sighed with relief when I realized I meant it. Don’t hurt. Just be OK. I would like that. And I picked up little Sprout and kissed his head for the first time.

“I’m working on it.” I told him as his pretty green eyes peered up at me before he jumped to the bed and lifted his head for me to stroke. I’ll find all my pieces and keep them safe until I’m ready to glue myself back together. I’ll take the antidepressants to see if they help, not because I’m punishing myself for making a bad decision. I will forgive him – not just because I read Matthew 5 aloud this morning, as directed by my devotional, and nodded along. I think it’s right to forgive – soon – because I know my own flaws. Am displaying them quite vividly here lately. The desire to do that is there, though the ability isn’t just yet.

“I want to love you.” I told Sprout and he continued to purr. “I will, I think. Someday.” I scratched under his chin and smiled at him. “Soon. I hope.”

9 comments:

TitleTroubles said...

Once more, dear--right here, up front where you can't miss it. My memories are not bad, they're merely mine. I own them in their entirety. That was the point where they ceased controlling me--the day I owned them. And I promise, I can handle them. I may not always do so perfectly, but I'll be fine. Nothing you've done, nor can do will make them any worse. If anything, causing me to examine them is good for me. And as I said shortly after we met, I don't do things I don't want to do, nor make offers that are insincere. If I felt used, trust me, I wouldn't offer. The real Katie is still in there, though she's been badly hurt. I for one would like to really get to know her. And for the record, Jill is right about the view in the mirror.

And now I've said it here. In type. On a blog. So, you know it's true. ;)

Terminal Degree said...

I'm sorry you're going through this.

I was there, too, about 6 years ago. Has it been that long? I can still remember how bad it felt. How weak I felt. And how utterly miserable.

Don't try to force yourself to feel for your little cat right now. It will happen if it's supposed to. With depression comes mixed-up emotional reactions, and dulled reactions, too. I'm a musician, and when my depression was at its worst, I stopped being able to hear music. Oh, I could hear the individual pitches, but I couldn't get my brain to string them together to form meaningful patterns. For someone who was getting her third degree in music, it was devestating.

But depression is weird that way. I had lots of memory slips (a typical symptom when someone is depressed, by the way), weird reactions to things that don't usually bother me, weird sleep patterns, and a weird lack of ability to feel anything but pain or a dull ache.

Meds aren't for everyone, but I can tell you that I feel more like the real me than I ever did before taking them.

I don't know if it helps to hear that others have "been there," but I'm here for you if I can help. Feel free to ask about meds, etc., either here or privately.

You write beautifully, by the way. I'm just sorry it's coming from such a painful place.

life_of_a_fool said...

It sounds to me like you're being very self reflective. This is good. Both anger and forgiveness are good. You'll do everything on your own time, and regain your strength. While you may not feel this yet, the way you talk about what you're going through makes me confident you'll make it through just fine.

Vinny said...

Wow. I feel terrible for you, but I have to agree with 'life of a fool' and say the reflection is good. I'm concerned that it may become wallowing though.

I struggled for a while at two different times in my life. Both were a result of losing jobs. Apparently I define myself by where I work, which is problematic for someone like me, who pushes the envelope. My ambition makes my work life volatile, which means that from time to time I piss someone off.

In any case, it's the loss that makes you sad, introspective, and depressed. Being alone doesn't help, because you have all that time with just you. At a time when you don't particularly like you.

I wish I had considered therapy. I'm still not over the last one, and wrestle with the thought all the time. It's admitting that I need it that makes it so difficult.

ceresina said...

Don't be afraid of the meds. Let me explain that. The depression is already blocking off your favorite Katie in a way that no meds will ever be able to do. The meds will help keep the depression at bay, while you go find your defenses, and find that door to your favorite Katie again, and clean up your internal house that the depression has despoiled. Once you're ready, once you go off the meds, favorite Katie will be there, waiting for you.

Therapy might help, if only because a good therapist will help you find those weapons, defenses, doors, and internal cleansers. So to speak. *You* know where they should be, but that depression is a nasty beast that moves everything around; therapists are useful because it tends to move them to the same place in everyone, so therapists can offer suggestions of where is best to look after the rampage.

And just in practical terms, for most people meds take a while to kick in, and most people are better if they titrate off them. It's not a question of emotions, and it's not impossible to just stop, it's just more comfortable if you do it slowly so your body has a chance to get used to the difference.

{{{{{katie}}}}}

Anonymous said...

Dear Katie,
I haven't been reading your blog that much lately due to work, but I was became really sad about your situation after I read these past few entries today. I just want you to know that I care about you and wish the best for you. Below is something by one of my favorite authors/poets that I hope you can find comfort in.

On another note, maybe your missing home is a good thing that you can follow up on?

-soon-to-be post-doc

-----------------------
Pain (from The Prophet)
by Khalil Gibran

And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."

And he said:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

H said...

I know a number of people who have started antidepressants under similar conditions. ALL of them have said, once the medicine started working, that they felt like themselves again, or able to finally be themselves.

It sounds like your doctor is a good person.

Take care of yourself, and let others help you too...

*smiles*

post-doc said...

Thank you - the advice and support and good thoughts. I'm taking it all in. Today is better. I slept last night. Feel a bit stronger in some moments. It's coming along.

Anonymous said...

Katie - I'm sorry that you are having such a rough time. But I know from reading your posts that your internal strength is in there and you will be OK.

Cats are very soothng creatures and from all that I have read from you so far, you have a great kitten there. Cats have an amazing sense for when their "people" need comforting. My boys always know when I am sick in body or heart and they get their protective gear. They sit purring in my lap, though they normally hate that, they cuddle with me at night and sleep on the outside of the bed so I don't fall out ( thats left over from the FIRST CORNEA episode). So you and Sprout are going to be OK - and thats a cool name by the way.

Hang in there, we are all here for you. You are brave strong woman. You got something and some folks to help you through a tough time and that's the first step. One day at a time. And when that's not really working, go with one hour at a time.

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