I need to be productive...
I need to ..
I need to...
So much I want to say and sometimes I feel like it won't come. The difference between being depressed before the zoloft and after was before was a frantic depression/mania that made me want to get things OUT -- however I could. It was active, it was pacing, it was biting my arm in frustration, it was panic attacks on the airplane and after seeing GT in Starbucks.
This, though, is different. If you drew a thought balloon over my head, it would be empty. I want to ... want to write, want to do anything and I keep thinking I'll type myself into it.
I have my obsessions because they are nice warm comfortable places. I have my Watchers. I have my characters that appear in and out of short stories. I have my kids to think about and muse about and to print off communication cards and picture schedules for. I have my writing and my research for my writing, when suddenly, something clicks. I have my comfortable places inside my head, whether they are inhabited by Queensryche or other fandom or some project or lj friends.
Tonight, though, they are just failing and things are just blank.
I forgot my predisone so I've probably shocked my kidneys into failure. The only thing I've eaten today is a Wendy's out of a bag as I sped toward school, late. I had 2 Dr Peppers. I had a bag of candy. No wonder I feel like this.
I'm just searching for that comfortable place in my head and I cant get there. My Ryche obsession seems silly and childish. Research -- unproductive way of wasting time. Cleaning -- do I really think I can even make a dent? What I usually do when I feel like this, losing myself in some stupid TV show, seems unbearable. Yesterday I napped while A&E played that Flight 93 movie and I had terrible dreams about being interviewed because I put someone on that flight and said bye to them and I didn't know who I left. Then I was in the front seat and got my throat slit.
Then, after shaking it all off, being up for a few hours, I went to bed and that shit was on AGAIN! And I watched it this time.
I watch TV NOT to feel. A manipulative made-for-TV drama about the last hours of some people's lives isn't fair to spring on me, bastards. I kept thinking of what my phone call from the plane would be.
Is that what's behind this? That movie? It is February, after all. I heard "Wish You Were Here" on my drive home. I was really into Floyd when all that happened...
How I wish
How I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
year after year.
Running over the same old ground.
And how we've found
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
Same old ground.... ten years ago, I was listening to that same song, trying to figure out how grief can be so impersonal -- how it's not about him anymore, but about my loss and this sort of void that sometimes, especially in February, creeps in and makes all of my comfortable spaces, well, uncomfortable. That's what I don't understand and that's what seems so selfish... how it's not about HIM, or even ME, or anything else, but just this shadow.paperflowers
and I once talked about the hole in the middle of the floor that is deep, "this might break me" grief and how, having fallen in it once, we do whatever we can to avoid it. There's a rug over my hole in the ground and most of the time, I walk around it. But in February, the corner of the rug gets kicked around a little and I have to be careful not to trip.
She says that for her, just knowing the hole is there is enough and the awareness of it bugs her. I can see that, see how the carpet over it, the wallpaper, the couch, people talking and acting like it's not there, can just seem like a terrible lie. I used to feel like that.
But most of the time, I'm okay with the rug there. I can accept that it covers something horrible and still appreciate the beauty of the room.
Except for days like today, usually in February, when it's easy to trip over the corner, pull back a little bit of carpet, and see just a shadow of what I know is there.