A new project

I had forgotten in the last ten years of fighting it, how good it felt to give in.

The sheer relief of just not being that interested in the world that not eating gives one. The feeling of detachment and liberty. It isn't my problem. I'm not participating in any of this.

I have no part in life and life has no claims on me.

Surprised too how easy it has been to go back to it. How much of the moment to moment mental discipline is still there, like the skill of driving.

And how much of it is really a matter of conscious choice. It is a pure exercise of the will, to overcome temptation each and every time. To be in control, to regulate minutely how much one eats, is really a thrill. To say, "No. Not now. Not for another six hours." or "No more today."

It's early days yet, but I feel liberated. Nothing much matters.

It's not euphoria, just relief. And no depression. None. It's over as long as I can maintain this physical detachment.

Where to next?

Doesn't seem to matter much, actually.

The Piano

Paralysed by the utter, crushing pointlessness of myself. It's almost a physical sensation of weight.

It occurred to me on the train home last night that it mattered not one whit how I feel about K. It doesn't matter to him, and the only other person in that equation is me.

All kinds of things have been going through my mind. I should leave town, move to another city. I should forget about K. I should hunker down and sever my ties with people. I should climb into my cave and wall up the doorway. I'm panicking, and the flight half of that old instinct is humming right along.

I should get a brain transplant.

Praying

I haven't been doing that well in the last couple of days. With K gone away, I find the days very empty. I go to work and am adequately distracted by it, but find it difficult to concentrate.

But the real dread comes in when I am finished and there is the long train commute home. Perhaps worst of all of it is the walk from the train station, a half-hour plod through the dark town, past all the walled gardens and closed gates. All the houses containing happy inmates. Dogs barking at me. How many times I've wanted to just sit down in the middle of the street and not move. Or shoot one of those goddamned dogs.

The chores of the day, the getting up, the making tea, the eating food, the showering, the blowdrying and face-painting, the dressing, then the walk and the train. Arrive at the office, surf the net, find something to write about.

Then the usefulness of the day is over and I'm left in my own care again.

Frankly, the fate of the world is coming to seem less important every day.

I couldn't read on the train this morning. I had brought my book, (about archaeology in Britain) but didn't even take it out of my handbag. I stared out the windows without seeing anything.

The thoughts? Oh yes. I suppose.

I matter to no human being on earth. Imagine one's existence having not the slightest impact on another person.

But the fact is that I have no right to complain. My situation is of my own creation.

I have an enemy in our social circle, (an odd sensation for anyone past high school age) who has decided to condemn me for immorality. It doesn't matter the details. He's right, of course, but doesn't know why. What he thinks I have done are not in fact the things for which I deserve punishment. I have had the strangest urge lately to tell him exactly what those things are. To give him a list. It keeps coming back to me.

Imagining this conversation, these words ran through my mind again and again on this morning's train ride, as the fields and palm trees and little towns flicked past: "there are two people for whom I was an actual necessity, and I betrayed them. There are two more for whom I was of material importance, and I betrayed them too. All four of them are dead. I know know exactly what I deserve, to the dregs of the cup, and you, sir, can add nothing whatever to that."

I have often said that I feel as if I don't exist. This is not really true. I am only too aware of my own existence, but can find no reason for it whatever. There isn't anyone at all whose lives would be substantially altered at my disappearance.

I find I am praying for the honourable out.

Pain redux

Back from US.

Woke this morning to the abrupt end of jet-lag and the return of the pain. After a day sitting at home in a fog, was wide awake at 6:30 am, but not exactly bushy-tailed.

I lay there with the covers over my head until The Sob burst out at about seven. No point in just lying there crying so I got up, staggered to the bathroom and stood under the shower, my mind shouting, "STOP", drill sergeant style.

Someone has found that piano and helpfully given it back to me, thinking I had dropped it by accident somewhere.

I am work. That's the only thing I've got that makes me real.

Some time soon, I'll tell you about my theory, that K calls a simple philosophical misunderstanding, that I don't really exist. I try to do things that make me seem real to myself, but I'm afraid it is very unconvincing.

He's going to spend his birthday next week in North Africa. Tunis. (It's not as exotic as it sounds; we're actually quite close. To a North American living in, say, Denver, it would be the equivalent of driving to LA for a weekend.)

Symptoms V

The night waking has stopped, but I am six time zones away and my poor wee brain can't remember whether it is the middle of the night or first thing in the morning. For all I know, they are actually continuing.

I am about to embark on a week of distraction. I hope it all goes along without pain. There are important things to do, and people to meet. It all has to be very upbeat. I can fake upbeat.

Watched a film tonight about human love and human evil.

Love did not win.

Washington

Off on a plane tomorrow v. early.

Had two days off with fever and swollen face from tooth infection. Happy to be able to spend two days loafing about doing nothing much. Antibiotics, however, work and am now back in the world again. Drat.

I understand why the happiest news my mother ever received was that she was dying of cancer. She had wanted a legitimate out for many years. After the death of her husband, (not my father) she seemed to decide that there really was no point in trying to get back into life. She hovered around the edges of it for years, just waiting. I sometimes wonder if she died because she was just fed up. People survive cancer. But maybe they are the ones who want to survive it.

But for me, nothing so nasty as cancer. Just an infected face and headache. Plus, all the fun and excitement of a root canal in a foreign country when I get back.

They do say that the way to beat depression is to give yourself things to look forward to.

Sunny today

Was in the office, hiding, until the ten o'clock train home. Not accomplishing much, but at least quiet for several hours. After initial feeling of OKness through most of the daylight hours, physical anxiety flared up at dusk with shakes and The Sob simmering down just under the surface followed, as usual, by The Litany. Hard time concentrating on work through all this mental noise. Managed to produce two of three daily deadlines, one of which was a feature, so that's holding up at least.

Took a big chance and showed K this blog, and the post below. He said he has great faith in me and that writing it out is probably a good idea, esp. considering drug therapy is not an option.

Chatted on facebook with mutual friends in Denver about troubles with K. They say that K, though he is "one of the best men" they know, he can be difficult, sometimes even cold. They are praying for us. For me. It's good to know.

Ran into K on the train on the way home. (I mentioned we live in the same town). At first felt only surge of panic. Calmed down and had a pleasant ride home chatting about simple things: politics, religion...

Night waking continues. Three am to four, right on schedule. My troublesome molar has infected again and the anxiety was all about whether I was going to be able to get treatment for it in Foreignland. Laid awake worrying and squirming. Cat, v. annoyed, went and slept in the sitting room. Finally slept with head resting on hot water bottle.

Sun came out today. First sunnuy day in weeks of rain. Rode into the city with K, as we used to do every day. It was quiet. I watched the countryside, he read and worked. Parted with smiles. No pain.

Ran errands before going to the office. Starting to think about Washington next week. Turns out that in this country you can get anti-biotics easily over the counter. All anxiety for nowt.

Feeling almost lively. Probably the sun and cold. Winter should be cold and crisp, not this upsy-downsy humidity and freakish mid-January warm days. Must buy a pair of waterproof boots for Washington.

The weekends are the hardest

I don't know about anyone else, but I find that weekends and holidays are a source of dread when I am depressed.

I live by myself and have a long commute and I like my work so the times when I am not at work are times spent alone at home. When I am not depressed, I cherish my home-time and spend it doing a lot of different things. I live in a town near the sea and love beachcombing. I have a garden and in winter I like to draw and I have a lot of books that always need to be kept company. I also have a lot of friends.

My sleeping patterns have shifted and between night waking (usually three or four am and awake, in considerable mental pain, for more than an hour before getting back to sleep) and just wanting not to deal with the world, I have been getting up later and later. On weekday mornings, I can usually get myself going at a fairly reasonable time, say 9 am or so. An indication that the depression is still in the "moderate" range. This gets me to the office in the early afternoon and I can work comfortably through into the evening. This suits my editors well because they are six hours behind me. I like my work and I find it helps me to not listen to my Evil Brain, so it is a useful distraction, at least.

But weekends are a horror. In the Twilight World, the first moments of wakefulness are very hard to take. There seems no reason at all to get up and the day ahead looks like a bleak empty road up hill under a grey sky. When I am up, I want only to go back to bed and being alone for many hours at a stretch means that the pain can gather and the negative thoughts can really spiral.

On Saturday shortly after I got up, the crying just started suddenly. I found myself doing those horrible loud gasping sobs that sometimes simply burst out from nowhere. A single thought can intrude and the emotion that rides with it is so horrifying that I am incapacitated instantly. At that moment, I knew there was no way I was going to get through the weekend unless I got out of the house. I dressed and went into the city and to the office. Even sitting in the office in front of the computer is better than being alone at home. Or I should say, better than being left at the mercy of my evil brain that seems bent on my destruction. I had intended to go for a walk through the city and then to a late Mass, but found that I was unable to bring myself to move from my desk. I stayed much later in the city than I had intended, and ended up on the last train home. I ate nothing on Saturday, having had a plate of pasta on Friday. My Evil Brain was telling me that having eaten pasta the night before, anything more than an orange and a few walnuts was too much. Besides, I was in too much pain to want to eat.

Sunday started out not too much better, and I slept until 11 after glaring at the window a few times. But for some reason, or no reason, the depression just lifted shortly after I got up and I felt better. I put some music on and bustled about doing housework. I called K and invited him over for a movie and dinner. We ended up having a nice time. (More on K later). I ate a whole meal, chicken, rice, asparagus.

That's the funny thing about depression. One day it can make you feel as if someone has handed you a piano and has instructed you to carry it around on your back; the next day, you wake up and the piano has just disappeared and you wonder if you imagined it.

I worry (of course, a huge part of depression for me is anxiety and worrying is one of the big warning-signs) that it will get worse. I have taken about four of those online diagnostic tests and each time have come up about half-way between "moderate" and "severe". I remember depression that was called "severe" and I remember that in the middle of it, I could do nothing at all. I couldn't possibly have held down a job that required concentration and the ability to organise my thoughts into sentences. What if it gets worse and I can't work? I have no savings and in this country cannot really expect to receive any sort of government help.

But today, at least, things seem to have lifted. The same searing pain does not seem to be laced through all my muscles and bones; the same ideas ('getting older') do not induce the same sense of panic. For some reason I can't understand, sometimes it is just like that. One day the volume is turned way up, the next day I can hardly hear it.

Had a nice lunch just now with a friend. Appetite just fine. But I can feel the worry simmering away under the surface.