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October 8th, 2009
11:26 pm - Birthday in limbo
Today is my 31st birthday. I think choosing to write in this journal is sort of arbitrary on a conscious level, but maybe my subconscious wanted to do this again.
I've really lost faith in my ability to write. I don't feel I have a good vocabulary. I don't concentrate or enjoy books or movies or ideas as much as I did in some mythical fairyland (well, geekland) personal past.
I remember being caught up in books, unaware of time going by, passionately engaged in the story...
Well, that's a thing of the past, and has been, more or less, for the past decade.
It is an incredible loss for me. I used to be a Reader with a capital R. A Reader of the Avid species.
And now, what do I do? I watch TV. I play Facebook games.
The interest in my life comes from what I'm eating next - usually something prepared by my boyfriend who lives with me - or what's on TV. Lately, I've been slightly piqued by whatever dish I finish "cooking" in Cafe World on Facebook; I play a mean game of Word Twist; and I was finding myself studying the words in Scramble (the Facebook Boggle clone), which studying consisted of me skimming briefly -
Skimming. That gets to the crux of it. I don't concentrate well. I skim, without really getting engaged or learning. But back to the main narrative here, if I can call if a narrative.
The interests in my life are muted, and the feelings associated with them are vague. When I read a book, I have to focus very hard and specifically to understand what it's saying. I feel like it's a chore, that it takes too much mental energy to devote myself to reading.
I try sometimes. I try for a while. I'm halfway through Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness right now. But it's a slow go, it's nothing like it would have been in the before-days...
Reading was candy. I did it at the dinner table, in the car, in class, everywhere I could. Candy.
I guess I can relate to those children who were perpetually bored in school, because I'm perpetually bored now. With almost everything. And it's not that I don't do anything. I signed up for an astronomy class at the planetarium with my friend Bill, and I sit there feeling sooo unengaged, yet this was a passion of mine as a child. I volunteered at a local event, and I was just glad that I made it through the evening. I go out with people and don't feel engaged by the conversation. Again, all I care about is the food. The food before the astronomy class. The snack after the volunteering. Coming back to the apartment and my TV.
If I can't read and enjoy it, I can't write well and enjoy that, or so I believe. I am tired of those Parade of Misery websites. It's not that I judge people for expressing their grief or pitying themselves - god, when you have it bad, you ought to have the right to express it and not be made to feel guilty or manipulative for it - but there seem to be so few solutions out there. Many miserable, sick people, who've had many miserably unsuccessful experiences with therapies, sharing their stories of continual struggle and their vague guesses as to what might help someone who may or may not have anything whatsoever similar going on for them.
Even more than the Parade of Misery sites, I'm also tired of the Totally Treatable, i.e. "mainstream" information sites (such-and-such is a completely treatable illness, sufferers have normal lives, etc.), which imply that scientists and doctors actually KNOW what's going on inside of people and have actually analytically constructed therapies based on that knowledge - both of which are false, as far as I know.
Finally, there are the Do It Yourself sites, which also imply that everything can be hunky dory as long as you follow some alternative Totally Treatable approach.
Part of my problem is that everything blurs together. Everything I read. Everything I see. It's all sort of blah. So one of those sites may be great. It may be THE site I need. Who knows? I don't, and probably never will.
I'm not sure what the point of writing is. I'm tired of everything being all about "therapy" - too much of it out there, both in abstract (general information) and specific (anecdotes, postings on support boards, etc) form. So I guess I'm just writing to write. And I guess I'm going to post this because... well, because I don't sound like a total wacko (right now I'm very sensitive to seeming abnormal) and probably won't regret this later.
Should I say anything else about my birthday? Went out with my mom, boyfriend, brother, his girlfriend, and my uncle. We had Thai food, and then a trifle we bought at the grocery store. The food was good. I mostly tuned out the conversation. I got a few presents. All in all I could say I was a lucky person - nice, free dinner, caring family and all - but the overall context puts a dimmer on things.
On Saturday, for my birthday party, I'm having friends out to see a matinee of Michael Moore's new movie, followed by a visit in a bookstore cafe. I could say, "Good for me (pat pat), I organized something," but that's not the kind of blog I want this to be - if it even is an active blog at all.
I don't know what kind of blog I want this to be, because I don't know if I even want to blog anymore anyways. It seems like there are already a surfeit of blogs. The market is flooded with blogs. Everyone is blogging, whether in traditional long-form or status updates on Facebook or Twitter or goodness knows what else. Who needs me? That's a big reason I'm so silent. I'm like that farmer who can't make any money from his grain because the prices are so low, and the prices are so low because there's just too much of it.
But who am I to complain about free and open access to communication media? Far be it from me to suggest that fewer people use these technologies. And I'm serious here - no sarcasm in the tone. Far be it from me. But it seems as if the result here is this great big merry-go-round that goes, and goes, and goes... where I keep getting caught up in stories that don't seem to apply to me, types of lives I'll never have, abstract subjects I don't have the interest for and skim on by, health articles I skim in a worried frenzy, and, at the end of the day, when my two feet are back on the ground and there's that gate between me and the merry-go-round, I have a feeling of emptiness and sadness and futility.
Some world this is for me. I guess I'll end this there and get back to my networked FreeCol game with Mark.
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May 24th, 2009
01:52 pm - thermometrics with my thermometrix
I can take two temperature readings in a row (like 30 seconds apart) on my digital thermometer and get considerably different readings. Like, just now:
37.0 degrees C (98.6 F)
37.0
36.9
36.7
36.8
36.6 (97.9 F)
36.9
36.6
37.0
I suppose each time I put the thermometer into my mouth it goes into a slightly different part. I'm trying to make sure the metal tip is under my tongue, and trying to keep my mouth closed while it's taking its reading.
I usually take my temperature in Fahrenheit, and have had differences as much as 0.9 degrees between readings within 30 seconds to 2 minutes of each other.
The thermometer is supposed to be accurate to 0.1 degree C. Either there's something wrong with the thermometer, my technique is rotten, or my body temperature is really wacky.
I have a glass thermometer too, but when I use it, for 3 solid minutes it pokes me underneath my tongue whilst I have to close my mouth in a really peculiar and painful way around the stem.
Anyone have any ideas about this? Should I be getting a better digital thermometer (say, 2 decimal places accuracy) or is the answer behind door number 2 or 3?
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May 18th, 2009
03:13 pm
I didn't actually explore turgid in my paragraph yesterday. It was more about pompous. In fact, I think I totally side-stepped turgid in my imagination exercise.
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03:50 am
“Generality is the enemy of all art.” -- Konstantin Stanislavski
In the book Style: Lessons in Clarity and Grace (Joseph M. Williams) the author writes, paraphrasing a quote from James Cooper's The American Democrat:
We should discourage those who love turgid language. A well-bred person speaks simply, in a way that is neither vulgar nor exaggerated. No one can claim to be a man or woman of the world who exaggerates sentiments or deliberately speaks in ways that are turgid or pedantic.
As I've been learning new words lately, I started pondering what he means by using "turgid" in this context, because turgid actually has several meanings (categories in parentheses are my own, though I do not think they are adequately precise yet):
turgid - from Latin turgere to swell
- (girth) Swollen or distended, as from a fluid; bloated: a turgid bladder; turgid veins.
- (over-complex) Excessively ornate or complex in style or language; grandiloquent: turgid prose
- (high-sounding) pompous, bombastic, boring, and hard to understand
- (colour and viscosity) unpleasantly thick and brown
Before looking up the word, I had the vague images of thick, swollen, and muddy. I was trying to apply thick, swollen and muddy metaphorically to "turgid" speech, but I didn't feel I really "got" the meaning. Now that I see the 2nd and 3rd definitions, I have more social information about the word.
pompous -
- (person) foolishly dignified or self-important -
Characterized by excessive self-esteem or exaggerated dignity; pretentious: pompous officials who enjoy giving orders
- (style) foolishly grand in style -
- (speech) Full of high-sounding phrases; bombastic: a pompous proclamation.
- (occasion) Characterized by pomp or stately display; ceremonious: a pompous occasion.
bombastic - Alteration of obsolete bombace, cotton padding, from Old French, from Medieval Latin bombax, bombac-, cotton; see bombazine
- ostentatiously lofty in style; "a man given to large talk"; "tumid political prose"
- synonyms: pompous, inflated, stiff, faustian
I decided to stop following the word trail at this point and go with my feelings about the word "turgid". It helps to have feelings if you're going to make a word make sense to you. It helps even more if these private meanings (i.e. feeling-thoughts) accord with some precision with the actual definition of the word. (making idiosyncratic definitions of known words really limits communication)
So here is what I envisioned for "turgid" (you can see that the physically swollen part creeps in too):
A balloon-bodied man stands in the middle of the green, feet planted heavily, yet head and neck stretched up and back like some gangly bird. Like a stern, mean bird, he glares at the crowd. He coughs, delicately covering his mouth with his hand, and unfurls a royal proclamation. He sucks in a ball of air, filling his mouth from teeth to uvula, arching his palette, retracting his tongue. He starts blowing out syllables in a low, even rumble. I am so unmoved by this pompous official that I cannot hear the turgid words. After all, he is only saying: "You must listen to me."
(He's just the civil servant - Perhaps he has no choice but to be pompous and say turgid things - but the exercise is done.)
The above may well be turgid prose in its own right.
At one point I was trying to come up with a word for how he was talking. The word "officious" popped into my head because, hey, he's an official, right? Turns out that word has a totally different meaning! In fact, one meaning is "unofficial"! *shaking out my foggy idiosyncracies*
Okay, enough editing. Post and go to sleep!
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May 16th, 2009
03:32 am
Here I am again. I'm thinking of using this journal the way I used to, to actually recount my life and thoughts as best I can. It's just that I feel radically incapable of thought right now. I'm convinced down to my core that there is something very wrong with me that will never get better.
In the past few years, despite trying different drugs, I still haven't regained much creativity, and my mental faculties are slipping, if anything. I'm trying to reinstate my ability to think complex thoughts, but honestly, I don't know if it'll come. Again I'm thinking about the whole thyroid thing (see March 24, 2005), except from reading the Wilson's Syndrome website, I see that his theory is not that people with his supposed "syndrome" (I don't know about the whole notion that he's found a new condition) actually have underproduction of thyroid hormone, but that there are problems converting it from the inactive (T4) to the active (T3) form. He bases his theories very heavily on the idea that the body temperature must be very tightly bound to 98.6 degrees F - too low or too high and enzymes can't work properly (too low, and apparently they're "tight"; too high and they're "loose").
I got myself a thermometer yesterday. Actually, I got another one today - I was resetting yesterday's thermometer by swinging it around in a sock (yes, that actually works - I could not get the whole wrist flick thing to work) and smashed it up (luckily it was in the case at the time and my dear, thick, warm sock isn't full of glass). Actually, I got two today - maybe it was stupid, but I bought both an analog and a digital, thinking that I could try to see how close their readings came to one another. Of course, after a little while I started just using the digital - it hurts me to have that uncomfortable pokey thing under my tongue for 3 minutes, with my mouth stretched unnaturally to try to close around the stem there.
So I've been playing with my new toy, my digital thermometer. My boyfriend Mark was annoyed that I wanted to take his temperature a few times as well. I think he was kind of like a little kid not wanting to be tested for a fever, though I'm not sure if that observation is correct - my abilities to feel and relate are severely limited right now.
I was testing my temperature throughout today, but it varied quite a bit and I need to try more data points tomorrow if I'm going to make this investigation "scientific", even pseudo so (that's an interesting neologism). Basically it changed quite a bit in the course of the day. It seemed to get higher between 9 and 10 pm, but the only other data points earlier than that were 10 am and 12:50 pm. Between 9 and 10 it varied between 98.0 and 98.5, and earlier (and later) it was between 97.3 and 97.7 with one 98.0 reading.
Too early to even know if there's a pattern. And whether that correlates with anxiety and brain fog? Who knows.
My boyfriend's temperatures were also low and he's fine. In fact, tonight he produced a very low temperature, after coming back from bike riding outside in the cold: 95.7.
I'm trying to be scientific about this. This theory of Dr. Wilson's has often been dismissed as complete quackery, for, by example, the American Thyroid Association. Apparently one patient being prescribed sustain-release T3 therapy for him in the early 90s died of a heart attack, and he lost his license. They're trying to show that 3 or 4 other patients landed in hospital on his therapy. There are known risks if you become hyperthyroid. From the sounds of it, though, he and the other doctors using his protocol have treated hundreds and hundreds of patients.
They have not conducted any peer-reviewed studies, double-blind or otherwise, as far as I know. The American Thyroid Association says what he says runs counter to actual knowledge about the thyroid. In fact, he was ordered to take education courses and undergo a psychological evaluation when he lost his medical license.
Yet I still can't help thinking I want to try this, because:
- T3 therapy has been shown to be a useful adjunct treatment in depression;
- Of this essay written by a psychiatrist based on his own clinical experience (I was especially moved by his story of the patient who went from not even being able to hold down a job to going to graduate school);
- Wilson's treatment is temporary anyways (people go through cycles of T3 supplementation until they can wean off of it completely);
- I'm curious to know whether T3 treatment of this type can actually improve body temperature or temperature regulation, and if so, whether that will do anything for the way I feel - it's a systematic approach using increasing doses of T3 until 98.6 has been reached as a daytime average temperature, so it's different than just adding on some T3 to psychiatric drugs in the hopes of alleviating depression;
- It's not predicated on the idea that I have some kind of "hidden" hypothyroidism (glandular insufficient production of T4), just a temporary maladaptation (peripheral problems with converting T4 to T3 because of an excess of Reverse T3 distracting the enzyme that converts T4 to T3) due to stress - see one section from the doctor's manual on the theory (you have to scroll down for the biochemical information);
- Because the proposed mechanism has nothing to do with what the gland itself produces, and I have no known problem with producing T4, trying a T4 product (like Synthroid, or even natural thyroid that contains both T4 and T3) would not make sense; and
- Because my existing arsenal is very limited and I'm living on the edge of hopelessness and despair - if this won't kill me and it doesn't cost an awful lot, why not? Seems a lot more scientifically feasible than, say, homeopathy, and we'll know if there are actual body temperature elevating results. Of course, this all depends on whether or not I actually have a consistently low body temperature (no low body temperature, no point trying) and whether I want to take my boyfriend's low readings as counter-evidence (which I really should - yes, I recognize that this may be an illogical course of action) of the validity of the theory.
I find this page describes well the actual treatment:
Doctor's Manual - Chapter 7: Treatment
It's 4:14 and I can't sleep. I would keep talking about this - I have more to say - but I feel terrible about this. I feel tired and I don't know how to wind down. I don't know if this is withdrawal from coming off the Seroquel or from missing it. I felt crappy on it and I still feel crappy now. Great.
I probably should have condensed some of this using lj-whatever-it-is (I can't remember - it's been too long), but it's late and I'm anxious despite having taken a lorazepam, I feel scared about not being able to sleep yet (last week was a wild ride), and I'm very guilty and worried I'm doing the same thing I did years ago - frantically searching the web to find an "answer" to my problems.
Except now, Jason and I are a lot more estranged, and he views my continued attempts to get better as a sign of me being a selfish princess and believes that in order to "help" me he has to criticize me. On March 24, 2005, Jason was actually trying to comfort me... Wow have things changed. At least I have Mark now. "At least"? Mark has been very good to me, actually. But more about all that later.
I will go for now. This hasn't really been edited. Sorry.
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May 12th, 2009
02:36 am
There are three snowboarders, all young, all dressed in bright crinkled clothing that is barely rippling in the wind. One's eye follows the primary colours of the ski pants and jackets, the vibrancy of human excitement against the pale grey rock and white snow of the far-away peaks. The clouds are a wide smear, descending upon the tops and tumbling down the sides of those background ranges. One can tell that these clouds should fill depth, be plump, be variegated, but the matte paper makes the grey patches look like printer's smudges.
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May 11th, 2009
05:16 pm
There are three snowboarders, all young, all dressed in bright crinkled clothing that is barely rippling in the wind. One's eye follows the primary colours of the ski pants and jackets, the vibrancy of human excitement against the pale grey rock and white snow of the far-away peaks. The clouds are a wide flat smear, descending upon the tops and tumbling down the sides of those background ranges. Their smudged grey areas look like a printer's technique for simulating texture, not a true contour of a true image.
"not a true contour of a true image" is too vague
Fluffy
Depth
Contour bringing out...???
I feel so stupid.
I can't put into words the image.
Brain is soooo slow.
A cumulus cloud is fluffy.
The dark splotches could be regions of mist or accumulations of fine rain drops.
Drizzles.
Read about clouds?
Is it just that I have no associations when I read or look at something?
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03:30 pm - May 11 picture description
Here is the image I was working with today:
http://www.amazon.com/Physics-5th-Johnh-D-Cutnell/dp/047132146X#reader
Yesterday I wrote ("poem"):
The angles of the snowboarders are impossible.
They look like they're falling off their boards.
Is that boy's hand touching the snow?
Today I wrote (description):
There are three snowboarders, all young, all dressed in bright crinkled clothing that is barely rippling in the wind. One's eye follows the primary colours of the ski pants and jackets, the vibrancy of human excitement against the pale grey rock and white snow of the far-away peaks. The clouds are a wide flat smear, descending upon the tops and tumbling down the sides of those background ranges. Their smudged grey areas look like a printer's technique for simulating texture, not a true contour of a true image.
The version of the book I used wasn't printed as well as the one on the website above, so the clouds didn't look as realistic.
It was really hard to write this; I had to look up a lot of words and use synonyms to try to find the words for what I was saying. I hadn't remembered the words "crinkled" or "smear". At first I thought "scrunchy" for the pants, but scrunchies are those hair things. I still don't know if I like "smear" - it has a connotation of messiness whereas I just wanted sort of a soft white filling that sprawls lazily across the mountains.
Any rewrite suggestions?
And my mind goes blank a lot in this process. It's really hard. Is this normal or am I just really depressed?
Below I've described the process that got me to this place.
Here's my PROCESS:
Describing the picture on the cover of Physics:
There are three snowboarders, all young, all brightly dressed in scrunchy wind-resistant clothing. Primary colours are predominant.
Scrunchy - learn a synonym that might fit better here
Crinkle -
v. crin·kled, crin·kling, crin·kles
v.intr.
1. To form wrinkles or ripples.
2. To make a soft crackling sound; rustle.
v.tr.
To cause to crinkle.
n.
A wrinkle, ripple, or fold.
Ripple -
v. rip·pled, rip·pling, rip·ples
v.intr.
1.
a. To form or display little undulations or waves on the surface, as disturbed water does.
b. To flow with such undulations or waves on the surface.
2. To rise and fall gently in tone or volume.
v.tr.
To cause to form small waves or undulations.
n.
1. A small wave.
2. A wavelike motion; an undulation: the ripple of a flag.
There are three snowboarders, all young, all dressed in bright crinkled clothing that is barely rippling in the wind. Primary colours are predominant.
Predominant - learn a synonym that might fit better here
The eye follows the primary colours of the ski pants and jackets, the vibrance of human passion against the pale grey rock and white snow of the far-away peaks in the distance.
There are three snowboarders, all young, all dressed in bright crinkled clothing that is barely rippling in the wind. The eye follows the primary colours of the ski pants and jackets, the vibrance of human passion against the pale grey rock and white snow of the far-away peaks in the distance.
The clouds have a smoothness to them. Describe the smoothness:
regularity, fine texture, gentle motion, serene.
They have a wideness. They cut a swath? No, that's more of a path. They fill space: a blank portion or area, unoccupied area or room.
They seem still.
They seem vague.
They're thin, though. Not puffy, flat:
Lacking variety in tint or shading; uniform: "The sky was bright but flat, the color of oyster shells" Anne Tyler.
The greys in the clouds seem less like texture than some printer's technique.
Smear
Blotch -
n.
1. A spot or blot; a splotch.
2. A discoloration on the skin; a blemish.
3. Any of several plant diseases caused by fungi and resulting in brown or black dead areas on leaves or fruit.
tr. & intr.v. blotched, blotch·ing, blotch·es
To mark or become marked with blotches.
The clouds are a wide flat smear, descending upon the peaks and tumbling down the sides of the ranges in the far background. Their smudged grey areas look like a printer's technique for simulating texture, not a true contour in a true image.
Corner
Side
Back
Curve
Rounded
Contour
There are three snowboarders, all young, all dressed in bright crinkled clothing that is barely rippling in the wind. One's eye follows the primary colours of the ski pants and jackets, the vibrancy of human excitement against the pale grey rock and white snow of the far-away peaks. The clouds are a wide flat smear, descending upon the tops and tumbling down the sides of those background ranges. Their smudged grey areas look like a printer's technique for simulating texture, not a true contour of a true image.
Relearned:
crinkled
rippled
smear
smudge
blotch
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03:10 pm - Personal development plan
Here's a new development plan. I'm trying to get my head working better again.
I will now be using this journal for some aspects of the writing and reading feedback process. The personal parts I will do away from LJ.
Aerobic exercise - 30 mins, moderate intensity
Options:
- Walk
- Bike
- Swim
- Aquasize
- Aerobics
- Dancing
- Machines
Yoga
- Sun salutations - start small
Household
- Make bed
- 1 errand excursion
- 1 cleaning or organizing activity
- Prepare 1 food item (beyond cereal), even if it's just toast
Writing
- Book poems - writing poems about covers and insides of Mark's books - can be totally tangential - just something to write about - quality unimportant
- Describe a picture in words
- Write down 2 questions
- Try to tackle a question from a previous day
- Look up and learn one new word, using in a sample sentence.
Memory
- Memorize and recite 1 short piece (poem, part of a monologue, psalm, etc.)
- Recite a piece memorized on a previous day.
- Write down 3 things I did today
- Try to remember 1 thing I did in each of the past 3 days
- Try to remember 1 thing I did 1 week ago
Problem-solving
Options:
- Crossword puzzle
- Sudoku
- Logic puzzle
- Math problems
- System design of some type
- Strategy game
Reading
- Read at least 10 pages of fiction and write a couple sentences in response journal
-
- Read at least 5 pages of non-fiction and write a couple sentences in response journal
- Read 2 news or magazine articles, write a couple sentences about one
- Just read
Journaling- Cover 2 personal memories, including facts and feelings
- Describe my current feelings and the day's events
- Analyze one personal problem
Communication
- Send out 2 personal e-mails, 1 that isn't just about my problems
- Have a two-sided conversation with one person
- Write about one person I talked to today: an idea, story, problem, etc., how it made me feel, what thoughts it gave rise to, what thoughts it gives rise to now
Relaxation
- Listen to one record, and try to clear everything but the music out of my mind - last night this didn't work, though - gave me singing in my head all day
- Find out what does work
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May 9th, 2009
04:32 pm - nothing
Forget about last entry. I don't know where that came from.
I feel like my life has been falling apart for years, and is still falling apart. Where did my interests go? Where did my clarity of thought drift off to?
I'll go back to my regularly scheduled LiveJournal silence.
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May 3rd, 2009
06:59 pm
I've been so alone these past years, so confused. This emotionally-disordered diagnosis has had a profound effect on my self-awareness, and the anti-psychotic medication Seroquel has decimated my mental faculties. My doctor and I just finished withdrawing me from the Seroquel; now I'm only on lamotrigine, an anti-epileptic that seems a lot less stupefying. These past few years have been a time of intense confusion and sadness, and the loss of cognitive connections (probably from a combination of drugs and the radical reshifting of world view that accompanied my adjustment to the diagnosis) has felt like a loss of self. I'm now consciously reconstructing thought associations, making semantic structures - breaking down concepts, words, impressions, teasing out relationships, etc. The idea is not to train myself (I think I've had far too much behaviourism in my life) but to think in ways that develop rational connections in my mind. This is still a fairly intuitive and experimental process, so I don't understand it enough to explain it systematically (I don't think I have formed the mental connections for this kind of apprehension), but I have been benefiting.
One important insight has been the distinction between direct and less direct semantic associations, realizing that where my mind goes "blank" it means I just don't have a semantic connection - no direct associational hops, thus no "train of thought". I may have an indirect association that will get me to the right place after a few hops (and some internal anxiety and confusion, because the idea becomes unnecessarily complex and hard to learn), but what about when no such connection exists? I've been basing my work on the diagnostic syndrome of "thought disorder", following a psychological theory that thought disorder is a problem with semantic priming - thoughts not giving rise to associated thoughts, because the associations just aren't there or are underdeveloped. I've read that in this disorder, some research has shown increased priming of indirect associations. At the most extreme, an indirect association is very tenuous. I wonder if following tenuous associations is part of the mental flexibility required for creativity and learning; if you don't know something, you try to relate it to something you do know, before it can be incorporated into the rest of your knowledge. But if the rest of your knowledge is disorganized - has associations that follow no recognizable form (i.e. logic, rationality, your cultural metaphysics) - it's very hard to find the right place to put it and putting it there won't help you anyways. A crude metaphor that pops to mind right now is a corrupted database. No use trying to find where a new item goes. Better to rebuild the database.
Let's say, for example, that you don't have an association for a particular word, You just don't know what it means, in any deep (semantically meaningful) sense. So in your human impulse to think, you try to forge some connection to something else in your mind, in order to apprehend this word. In this case, all you find is a most indirect line of thinking, but one that gives you the most sense of satisfaction because it's based on a recognizable form: you find another word that sounds similar to the unknown word, and manifest the thought disorder symptom of "clanging". If there are other, more direct associations relevant to the actual meaning of the word, you can combine them with this indirect sounds-like association and be considered a gifted poet.
The other day I did some clanging of my own, but recognized it as such and then went and looked up the word. I used the word "sardonic" in reference to something (I forget what), and a friend asked me what that meant. Into my head popped "sarcastic", and I had the sound of a certain tone of voice that felt "sardonic" to me, but I was not going to go with this definition just on the basis of similar sounding words. As it turns out, I happened to be right - sardonic and sarcastic are synonyms. Did I know that from all those novels I read as a kid (knowing the content of the dialogue and the situational context in which a character said something "sardonically"), or was it me clanging my way to a definition?
I'm trying to forge some direct associations at the moment so I won't feel blocked or like I'm grasping at things that might not make sense. I have some pretty powerful impulses to leap intuitively to connections between concepts, especially when I see analogies between their parts and the relationship amongst them, but I have to keep reminding myself that these tangential leaps may be fruitful one day, but I just don't have the intermediary structure to forge the link and complete a train of thought yet. At the moment I can't know the degree to which two particular concepts which look structurally similar are actually related in a deeper sense, because I don't have a deep enough understanding of them - not enough associations to deeper, more basic concepts.
I thought I'd share this because I think I'm finally coming up with something worth sharing again.
There is a great deal happening otherwise in my life, but I now tend to keep my personal thoughts and experiences to myself and my friends. My own personal development is, well, personal. I think there is usefulness in the inside/outside distinction, in the notion of private/public life, because (a) it's embedded in our culture to the point where public privateness is profoundly disturbing, (b) public privateness opens you up to the judgment of others, who might not know or understand you and who probably don't want to know you anyways, (c) my privateness can be very idiosyncratic (I'm trying to create a semantic space that accommodates larger cultural associations with my own particular viewpoint, so there are less of those "what the hell is Sara talking about?" leaps - Sara needs to be able to fill in the gaps in reasoning, and to even know if the gap can be filled at all, or if the association is even a real one, otherwise people think she's crazy or full of it), and (d) (related to (b)) we all have affinities for others who can relate to and complement us, so it doesn't make sense directing your personal thoughts and insights to just anyone - many don't relate at all, making such conversations fruitless and maddening.
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December 17th, 2008
03:03 am - Becoming abnormal
I hate the wasteland that my life's become. I'm strangled for words and thoughts. I don't know what I feel. Doubt, confusion, sense of being lost.
Trying to come up with something to say to "relate" to the theme above, like some kind of essay, like something forced.
Not much to do when I just plain feel bad.
I used to not rely on my own words to try to feel better. I'd rely on doing things. On studying, on writing programs, on hanging out with friends.
The loneliness is overwhelming. I had more friends before, when I had more interests. I had more interests because I wasn't depressed then. Since I became depressed, my interests have shrunk down and I've become moodier. I've lost the self-confidence I was building before. My life hardly seems like my own. I don't feel like a real person.
I remember activities being like candy. Even school was candy. Chemistry class. Calculus. Digital logic. Programming long assignments for 206. Reading books. Hours of reading books as a child.
Now I have no more faith in computers as being a worthwhile subject of study, and have no sense of the old "geeky" Sara that once existed. The old Sara liked playing with tech and talking science. She did have thoughts of Utopian societies, even drafted plans, but it was more out of a sense of possibility rather than socioeconomic understanding, and she didn't account for misfortune to interfere with people's abilities to work - everyone had to hold their own. In old Sara's Utopia, there was no thought of misfortune.
I remember having a boyfriend for almost two years in university (around age 17, 18, 19, somewhere in there), going over to his house and programming and making out and having his parents make us dinner. I would write the assembly code for the sprites and he turned them into a game.
I used to drive my mom's car to the bf's place. I used to have a kind of freedom, a kind of comfort parking in the lot of the science complex at U of M and walking in to do my business. I was a young adult, whose judgment and discretion were developing very well.
I wasn't doing cartwheels at the Gas Station Theatre's Christmas celebration. I wasn't crashing inter-co-op meetings at Mondragon. I wasn't taking shirts from Eco-Mafia and thinking I was suddenly their representative at the co-op meeting. They called it stealing; I didn't see it that way. I wasn't going around trying to recruit people for plays and TV shows I intended to make. I wasn't marching right into the PTE office area and reading scripts lying around, thinking that I could be cast for something. And I certainly wasn't picking up strange men at McNally Robinson and going home with them (thank god I only did that with one).
I wasn't walking outside in the snow with no socks. I wasn't staying up all night in bus shacks, peeing in the corner. I wasn't harassing strangers at Tim Hortons in the middle of the night. I wasn't having police haul me to the hospital in handcuffs. I wasn't screaming. I wasn't taking my shirt off in hospital dining areas. I wasn't locked in the "quiet room" screaming and singing religious songs and asking for endless paper to write on all night.
I didn't have to keep explaining to potential friends why I'd done something inappropriate or why I was breaking down in a situation that others would have no problem with, or why I had nothing to say or didn't know what to think. I wouldn't have felt so left out all these years.
Why would I do/experience all these things of my own FREE WILL?
The old Sara behaved with respect, listened and was attentive, was naturally interested. The Sara who went to the U of W often found classes boring. And I realized years ago, when watching other students at the U of W, that the rewards of their studies were much like the rewards I used to get before this illness.
I wonder if I actually chose writing scripts as my true path. Sometimes I think it was just easier for me to not have to be so precise and scientific. Sometimes I think the manic depression took away my patience for the technical and the non-human. Sometimes I think the depth of emotion engendered by my illness cut off whole exciting area of work and progress and illumination that could have been mine, because it simply wasn't exciting enough to get my attenuated attention. The science, the engineering, the mathematics, it all started to seem dull. I couldn't function in graduate school, couldn't go to those technical classes. I stopped reading science fiction. I started to feel that software engineer or computer scientist wasn't "me" anymore.
To go from doing so much, ready to go so many places, to where I am now, on welfare, with only a few friends, with a history of disruptive behaviour, a bad reputation, trouble being passionate or interested or moved by things, is a shattering loss that no amount of Internet posting is going to overcome. I feel alone. I feel smothered in the general roar and tumble of the Web. I feel like a single weak voice in a sea of cacaphony. I feel unnoticed. I'm just another anonymous sufferer writing of my sufferings, who will, tomorrow, no longer be of interest, if I'm even of interest today. Every time I write in this stupid journal, I'm aware of how small I am, how little attention I'm worth, or how little attention the "world", whatever that is, thinks I deserve.
The huge effort that was made to spread my story of being mistreated by the hospital, the huge questions about diagnosis and science, are hard to reconcile with how I feel now. My press releases - I wrote them myself, by the way - I don't think I've ever told anyone that before - are all over the place. You do a Google search for my name and they show up. They can't be removed. I just drummed up that kind of attention because I was in a desperate situation and knew how to write and somehow someone knew how to get the word out. The situation I'm in now is no less desperate, but more drawn out, and now I don't have the advantage of feeling like some kind of righteous warrior in the battle against the evil mainstream institution. I think that activists tend to have a particular paradigm when it comes to health and medicine, leaning towards alternatives and the belief in the evils of pharmaceutical companies. Pharmaceutical companies may be evil, but their medications do help a lot of people, including me. I can't describe the kind of hell I've been through the last ten years. I'm still in hell, but it's more of a marshmallow toast than being roasted on a spit. I do not think the doctors know what precisely causes mental illness, but I now believe in its existence and that I have it and that it's something physical (I won't even go as far as to think that it's a biochemical imbalance, because from what I've read, that hasn't been proven). Now I'm thinking that the real problem is sociological, in the way people are treated in hospitals and the way police power is used. At least those are the things that felt the most violating for me.
I don't have a powerful story anymore. I'm a statistic. And those things I said and did before have become a source of embarrassment. I think people did care when the press release was circulated. The reaction was big. The doctors had to let me out a week early, one time, based on this human rights campaign. But in the end the help didn't make my life better. The help was temporary, the help was a reaction to a particular piece of news that had high news values - it was an immediate situation, it was about a person who you could relate to (thanks to my descriptions and quotes - yes, I even pretended I was a journalist quoting myself), and it was a novel subject. A woman spending years losing and trying to find herself and unable to focus or be motivated or keep interests doesn't make the news. It's just another ad for depression treatment. And I wouldn't want to be a poster child for the mental health system anyways. It's been pretty brutal with me, and at times our relationship becomes abusive, yet I still must remain in it, because my happiness and healthiness, even my life itself, are at stake. What I've learned is that the less angry or upset or freaked out you act, the less violent the system acts towards you.
I see my own suffering more clearly now, I see the waste of my life, I see how my interests drained away and I stopped feeling alright, I see that I've had disruptive manic episodes. On top of this suffering, I've had the trauma of the hospital. I don't feel like myself, I don't have very many friends, I feel lost in the world, and I don't see any way out because I can't even be fascinated and focused on something. I can watch
TV, read with some effort, eat. I can't even wake up before 4 pm. I never want to cook. It's hard to take a shower. Going outside isn't too appealing. Mark (the boy who pursued me for years and visited me every day at the hospital, the boy who wants me and doesn't want to let go of me and treats me really well) does my dishes. My medications aren't right yet. I was supposed to see my doctor last Thursday, but I slept too long. When I try to wake up early, the sadness makes me go back to bed.
Depression gets defined in terms of "functioning" in several roles, including occupational. I don't want to just be functioning. I want to get something of the dreams I used to have, the hopes. I want a chance. I don't know how or where to get that chance. Where to find that place where people take care of you, that place where someone sees your potential, that place where business isn't just business as usual. And how to find me again.
Here it is, that tiny voice singing of its tiny crappy life. Since we don't know what to do for each other anyways - it's hard enough just to take care of ourselves, the way things are set up - I can't imagine this will lead to any real change. At least I've got Mark. And, for the time being, at least a place of my own to live, and no panic attacks, and some interest in television, and some holiday parties coming up. I have cereal and pasta and fruit cocktail. There's chocolate milk in the grocery store across the street. My mom has some potatoes she'd like to give me. My freezer is turning into a little igloo and Mark and I lost some stirfry vegetables which we then tried to rescue by juicing, which also failed. I can type again. I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome - went for this crazy neurological test with electric shocks, and apparently I have "super-nerves". I've got Jason and Lori every so often. They're practically around the corner, and I always feel comfortable with them, and the three of us make chicken noises at each other and have animal names. They always have yummy food, and Jason says "We would never deny anyone food." Lori's a great cook.
There are a few friends. They're the ones that know how I've been and stick around and believe there's a real me and they can see it. At least there's some comfort with that, even if I feel like a shell of the person I used to be.
I never imagined what it could be like to be ABNORMAL before it happened to me.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/juicy/cutealiens/sad_a.gif) sad
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October 7th, 2008
02:54 am - "Middle class" families
I hate how politicians are always referring to "middle class" families. What about the "lower class"? Or how about the "working class"? Are there really so many "middle class" families, or are people identifying as "middle class" to feel good about themselves? Why don't these "middle class" people identify as "working class" when they are the ones actually doing the work in a workplace that is managed by others? And why don't the poor get more attention from politicians? It seems to me their needs are more acute. What percentage of the population is poor and what percentage "middle class"? If there are a lot of poor people, it seems wrong for politicians to focus only on the ones who are (relatively) better off.
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July 26th, 2008
12:25 pm - Still here.
Hello. I guess it's been a long time. Just writing to say I'm still around. I've found my LJ self kind of embarrassing, so now I stick to e-mail or Facebook. The last year and a half have been difficult because of self-knowledge, struggles to maintain hope, and unwellness. There was a stretch that was better, where I was out of the hospital for a year and able to think better, and I wrote another play that was highly regarded by the dramaturge at the Manitoba Association of Playwrights. Then the past few months things fell apart again. I injured my hands at this typing job I had, and couldn't use them for typing for six months. They're only better now, and I can't type as much I used to be able to. I had to sit around my mom's place doing nothing, because even pressing buttons on remotes hurt. I decided it was stress and it was time to "meditate". I saw so long I blissed myself out. Then I got too blissed out and thought I could sleep without the sleeping pill I'd been on for months. I couldn't sleep at all, but because I was relaxed, I thought lying in bed all right was good enough, and that I would sleep eventually. The doctor had never actually told me I had to take the pill every night - it wasn't like a prescription - and every so often my mom would suggest I try to get off it. It was just sort of a stopgap that was never taken out. It was also a pill (zopiclone) that's not designed to be used for more than 2 or 3 weeks - it interferes with your REM sleep. Even while I was on it, I was waking up several times a night. So I tried stopping it, and lost sleep so much that I guess my mood started reacting.
At first it was incredible anxiety, panic, and I was in this horrible detached state one night almost like the first night ever that I was in the hospital, where things were heightened somehow, where I felt like I could see more than others. This was after I woke from an absolutely terrifying dream that I was eventually able to turn around by realizing that I was dreaming - otherwise I feel like I could have died in my sleep. So I woke up and called Klinic, then managed to get several hours sleep, then went out to the U of W. I needed to talk with someone, and there was this nice girl Sarah sitting in the Bulman Centre talking with someone else in the chairs on the mezzanine. I thought we were having a genuine conversation, a heartfelt one, when Sarah asked if I'd heard of the Mobile Crisis Unit. I didn't feel like I was having a crisis. They convinced me to come upstairs to the security office to "hang out", and in the state I was in, I naively believed them. At one point I was going to leave, but Sarah said "Aren't these comfortable chairs?" So I thought I was there to comfort her, to make sure she was okay. The Mobile Crisis Team showed up, then a psychiatrist, then the cops. There is lots in between, but my hands are too sore for it. The cops took me back to St. Boniface, where I hadn't been in over a year. At least they were kind. Back into the observation room. This time I didn't scream or demand to be let out. I just danced around the room, whirling and rolling over the furniture. I played with the pajamas, which don't look like pajamas at all but more like capes, as if I was doing some kind of modern dance. Then I finally got a styrofoam glass of water with ice in it, and after I drank the water I broke the glass into tinier and tinier piece and pretended I was doing some kind of puzzle by figuring out what each piece represented. I was trying to figure out something about globalization, I think. Which materials go where on the planet. There were regions of the table for the Americas, Europe and Africa areas of the world... Then I finally got a tray, but it only had one piece of toast and one egg and a cup of coffee and milk and sugar so I got this idea to pretend to be this little girl in my room crying because I didn't have enough food for breakfast. I made the tiniest little egg sandwich by mushing up the hard-boiled egg and cutting the bread in half, and cried while putting the milk into my coffee. Then instead of coming in with pills and needles, the doctor and nurse sat down and asked if anything bad had happened to me. In the meantime I was hearing something that wasn't there: an audience cheering me on. Jason came in with some of our stuffed animals, telling me he'd told them he was my cousin, and he retold some of what was happening out in the world, and I thought we were part of some really funny sitcom. Then I got wheeled to the ward, by an attendant who was pushing people out of the way and moving very fast. I said to Jason "Run! Run!" so he could keep up with the wheelchair. It seemed ridiculous. Then up in the ward, Sharon the nurse threw cup of pills at me. After I took them, I felt dizzy and started airplaning around the ward. Then I found it hard to breathe. Everything was at the wrong angle. Sharon told me to just settle into my bed, but I couldn't.
I'm not writing this to implicate the hospital, to say the mental health system got me, since I've already resigned myself to having a condition and taking drugs for it. But in the year leading up to it I was taking my pills, and I didn't stop, throughout this hospitalization, and I still had some terrible things going on, like mania and severe anxiety/panic.
This was at St. Boniface. They played with my Seroquel levels and I was released on actually less than when I went in. Within a few days after that, though, I was back at Victoria. This time I hadn't slept in days and had started to do some of the things associated with mania, being very talkative, spending money, having lots of sex, not sleeping, changing topics and not listening to what people were saying... I don't remember anything except the spending and the sex, because I'm in the middle of this and can't see what's going on. I asked my friend Mark to remember what happens, and he came up with the rest of the list. I have the *feeling* of what it was like, but it's hard to put into words...
I hated Victoria. They don't even have their own kitchen. They'd give us cereal bars for breakfast. As the sole thing on our tray. They'd leave the freezer open and all the patients would eat was ice cream. The nurses would just stay in their room and not offer any support or companionship for the patients.
I ended up there because after a week of wandering, Mark was so worried about me that he called the Mobile Crisis Unit over to his house, where I was, and then called the psychiatrist. He was very open about what he was doing, though, unlike the people at the U of W. He said he couldn't communicate with me, and it was clear how anguished he was. When they all sat in a circle, the psychiatrist explained to Mark about voluntary and involuntary admission. He said in order to be admitted voluntarily you have to clearly say you want to go. I disagreed about wanting to go. So they said they'd call the cops. At this point I had some kind of mixed up idea that the cops would just take me back to St. B and I'd be fine, but they took me into Victoria, at night time. I didn't even get into an observation room. I was marched right up to the ward. A bunch of nurses threw pills at me, and I gladly took them because I know what happens when I refuse, and then they marched me down the hallway to get injections. I was panicked. Nobody had injected me in the future unless I had refused to take pills. I asked if they'd be gentle. They said they would be. It didn't hurt.
I was out for a day or two. An irony was that I got my period at that time and the nurses had to attend to my hygiene. Apparently while I was out I kept talking about wanting to go back to St. B, so after ten days I was.
My medication was changed again at St. B. Now I'm on valproic acid and lamotrigine, and have just been taken off of risperidone, which was very nasty for me. I'm having depression and sleep problems.
Lately I've been able to see why people give up hope, but that opens up a whole range of thoughts that I have no time to share on LJ.
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April 20th, 2007
09:15 pm
Does anyone want to play frisbee?
(I'm doing all right. Living with my mom, taking drugs. Recently started lamotrigine, and it's really helping. Still have poor self-esteem. But it's nice outside and I'm thinking of getting friends together for sports, or picnics, or BBQs. I'm actually looking forward to the summer for the first time in a long time. Trying to get into shape, too - my aunt's buying me a 3-month gym membership as a present, plus I've taken to walking up and down the stairs in my mom's condo building. I've read quite a few books lately. Still utterly confused about what to do with my life. Started cognitive behavioural therapy last Wednesday. I may still shut down this journal, but I haven't decided yet. For now I don't feel like going on and on... I have an account on another site now, not a blog, but more of a social networking thing. So far it's nice and clean and not embarrassing.)
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March 18th, 2007
11:43 pm
I wish I could erase my presence from the Internet.
I feel that I have made a fool of myself, that I'm a ridiculous figure, and that the only thing that many people know me for is how messed up I've been. I don't feel happy being myself. I don't feel hopeful about the future.
It doesn't matter how I've been doing lately. It doesn't matter what I've been doing lately. No one really cares.
That's the message I see in popular culture. Only some of us matter. Only some of us "make it". I'm not good enough. I'll never be good enough. I just can't produce. I can't write about things that matter to anyone.
A few days ago I was feeling better. I actually had a day when I went to the zoo, and really enjoyed all the animals and found them interesting. But who really cares about that anyways? Posting in this journal has become so stale, so useless, so... well, ridiculous.
Maybe I should delete my whole journal. But that wouldn't remove all the "Free Sara" web pages that come up when I do a Google search of my name.
Maybe I should stop using the computer. All I do is waste my time surfing, and checking an e-mail Inbox that hardly ever grows. I haven't wanted to post in this LiveJournal either, because it seems like a self-indulgent waste of time.
With that, I'm going away from this computer. I'm going to clean, or do jumping jacks, or a read a book, or watch TV, or lie in bed and try to think of nothing. There's nothing here for me. There used to be the promise of connection, of a place where I felt I could truly share who I was, but now this is just my pity party forum, where anyone can flame me at will.
I don't want to be a useless piece of dreck that posts dumb, barren shit about my stupid, useless life. I'm feeling the pain of stabbed egocentrism. I feel my sense of specialness and entitlement being murdered. I'm doing half the killing myself, but it would be a waste of everyone's time for me to speculate publicly on how to stob injuring myself emotionally. I often feel like I'm trying to justify my existence, or worse, give progress reports, as if how I am doing matters to more than a few friends. I see my friends anyways, here and there.
I wish I knew what to do about the search engines...
If anyone wants to talk to me, just e-mail or phone. If we're already friends, you know my e-mail address and/or phone number.
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February 27th, 2007
08:28 pm
I'm tired of hating myself. I may not feel perfect (for example, for days I've had random pains and muscle weakness), but blaming myself for not taking care of myself better doesn't do anything to reduce my tension level. And I really have no chance of getting better without learning to relax.
The last few days I've spent a lot of time just lying on my mom's bed watching TV. Today I took the sequel to Ender's Game, Speaker of the Dead, out from the library.
My finger was hurting as I was typing, and that scares me, but I'm not a doctor, and I sure waste a lot of time on the Internet trying to find health "information". I'm not having a good time, but I feel I need to shift my focus from "I must find the answer or else I don't deserve to have a good life" to "I don't feel so good right now but I never asked for this pain and it's not my fault it's still here".
I want to be more involved in the world. I'm just afraid. And I don't want to put terrible pressures on myself. Now is the time to learn to relax, somehow. Enjoy little things, I suppose. Like, I'm about to eat some chicken, rice and salad vegetables, and I'm glad that my mom made the chicken and rice.
Maybe I'll see what's on TV tonight...
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February 25th, 2007
01:57 pm
I'm exhausted. My mom forced me out of bed at 10:30 am today to go to my uncle's place for brunch. If I sleep less than 12 hours, I feel dizzy and exhausted. Plus, the last few days I've been having random aches and pains in different parts of my body, and that's been scaring me - I've had this in the past, and it led into some serious weakness.
I haven't been sleeping that well, anyways. I keep waking up throughout the night, sometimes to go to the bathroom, but often just because I'm anxious. I think the afternoon dose of Wellbutrin might be doing that, though I moved it to 2 pm instead of 4 pm.
I keep thinking about switching my drugs, because I think it's the Seroquel that's making me sleep so much and the Wellbutrin that's making my sleep restless. I'm quite scared about possible long-term kidney effects with lithium, but I'm still thinking of switching to it. It's at least had years to prove its effectiveness, and doesn't have the diabetes mellitus risk (though diabetes insipidus, from an impairment of the kidneys' ability concentrating urine, can develop). And I haven't read anything about it making you sleep forever. I remember that the only time I was on it, for about a week in 2002, I had a tremor... but that side effect can go away over time, or you can take another drug to combat it.
I feel like there's no way I can win with these drugs - in every direction, dangerous side effects lurk.
I've been too lazy for days to go do my yoga - the last time I did yoga was on Wednesday. I might go to the Y today and do a quick practice, even though I'm so tired.
I'm frustrated because I keep waking up at 1 pm and the day is half over, but waking up earlier is a huge struggle. I remember when I used to get out of bed at 6 or 7 and go do yoga. I felt so healthy doing that 4-5 times a week. Now I can't even go back to the Ashtanga yoga studio (due to past behaviour), unless making amends would help. But there's no point to even asking about going back if I can't even get up to go, and if it's a struggle getting to classes. I'm still going to the Iyengar studio in Osborne Village. I'm taking the Wednesday evening Level 1/2 class, because the teacher of the Level 2/3 class thought I needed to work on the alignment of larger muscles in the body. The Ashtanga yoga I did earlier seems insufficient now, because although it built rough strength, there was little taught in the way of specific technique or alignment. And now that I'm having the aches and pains again, I worry that I'll lose my yoga strength momentum soon...
There's a talk on Wednesday at the Mondragon that, ironically, I've been in the position to help organize. Jason and I were e-mailed by a woman in Victoria who's arranging a cross-country tour for Raul Gatica of CIPO, the Indigenous People's Council of Oaxaca. He's talking about Plan Pueblo Panama, a huge infrastructure project designed to open up several provinces in Mexico (I believe about 9) to the global economy. Specifically, he's talking about the impact of the project on indigenous people and peasants, about their resistance so far and the repression they've met, and about traditional indigenous social structures and how they contribute to autonomy. I won't be at the talk, because I'm banned from the place, but I helped find the speaker a place to stay, and I made contact with people from Grassy Narrows (there was a presentation on Friday at the U of M Aboriginal Education Centre, about the lumber truck blockade that's been in place since 2002, how much of the Anishaabe traditional land has been clear-cut, the social effects, etc.) because the tour organizer thought that a Grassy Narrows update could contriibute to widening the theme of the evening to encompass indigenous people's efforts at "decolonization". If anyone is interested, the talk is on Wednesday, Feb. 28, from 7 to 9 pm.
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February 23rd, 2007
01:04 pm
I haven't felt as bad today and yesterday. I'm thinking of getting into doing skilled relaxation for 20 minutes twice a day, because I've read that chronic tension can contribute to tightness in the pelvic floor muscles.
The past few days I've been reading Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, which Mark lent me. This is the first sci-fi novel I've gotten into in quite a while.
Sometimes I think that I will be able to have a life after all... I do get overwhelmed and scared, and I'm still sleeping until 12 or 1, but maybe once I get the drugs right, and start some serious relaxing, things will get better. I think I'm able to concentrate better. I've been playing the piano for the past few days, too, and enjoying it. I wonder if the Omega-3 capsules that I started taking about a week ago are helping.
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February 20th, 2007
09:27 pm
I don't know what to do. I feel so hopeless. All I can do is cry. My sensations are so funny, and they won't go away. I have some Ativan to take tonight to try to sleep, but what's the point? Nobody's helping me. I don't think anyone will figure out what's wrong or give me any solutions. This is incredibly distracting and distressing. I'm tired of searching the Internet futilely.
I don't even feel like trying anymore. Who cares about doing yoga, or trying to eat healthy... None of it's worked. And my doctor isn't seeing me 'til next week... And I don't know when I'll have that ultrasound or if it will even show anything...
I would just sleep all the time, except that I can't sleep. Maybe the Ativan will help. I can't stand my life. I sort of wish I was brave enough to kill myself. I don't feel brave enough to live either, so I don't know what to do. I guess I'll just keep crying. Maybe they'll put me back in the psych ward. A lot of good that will do my pelvic sensation problems.
I had dinner with Bill, and I cried the whole time. My mom never offers me any solutions except the sleeping pills. My doctor tells me he doesn't think I have anything seriously wrong.
I wish I could just be in some kind of state where the sensation is gone. I suppose high doses of psychiatric drugs would do it, but I can't be a zombie my whole life.
Help. I don't know what to do. Help.
*sobbing*
I wish somebody would help me.
*more sobbing*
I have tears everywhere.
I feel so hopeless. I don't want to die, but I don't have any reason to suppose life will get better.
*endless sobbing*
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