So, it's late at night, and I've been trying to fall asleep. But every time I do, I'm jerked awake by various hideous images or voices screaming. This happened last night, and I've been tossing and turning at night most nights and feeling exhausted during the day.
I don't know what to make of it...things are going well. During the day I often feel quite cheerful. The beach house was sold, and I felt immense relief upon leaving. Some activities in life have come up that have been both challenging and fun. Although my anxiety level is quite high a fair amount of the time, because of that. Is my brain punishing me? Why am I so frightened? Of what?
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Saying Good-bye To The Family Summer Home...
(written Sept. 4)
My last night (Labor Day) down at our beach house, which will soon be a pile of rubble, I went out to the ocean late at night. I told my husband first. The moon was out. It was a half moon, and bright orange, like a pomegranate. The stars were bright in the black night sky.
I said my goodbyes aloud, standing knee-deep in the warm ocean water, and then hurled a ceramic ashtray of my father's (it was iconic, I'd seen him using it for decades, and my mom made it) into the water, and then I just howled with grief until I was too tired to make another peep. All of the other houses were dark, people had gone home, and I knew I was drowned out by the surf. I trudged back up to the house.
The next morning, at 7:30 AM, my mother and I took a spontaneous last swim. There had been some objects in my father's workshop since 2004: a half-filled teacup, a full ashtray, and his sunglasses. It was like a still-life, like he'd gone upstairs and never came back down. I'd photographed it a few times.
Anyway, the workmen on the house next store have been stealing from us, and they'd broken into his workshop and left things a royal mess (my mother and sister refused to do anything about it), so the still life was destroyed. I took the cup and the sunglasses, and when I was chest deep in the water, I threw them into the ocean, yelling, "Goodbye!"
I had to help my mom out of the water, and she said, "Somebody's going to cut themselves on those things." I pointed out that the current was fast and going toward the jetty, so they'd probably wash up near there, and someone would wonder whose sunglasses they were. I got through Tuesday by not only taking my dope, but also a Xanax. I actually helped load the truck until my husband and Mom came back from making yet another donation to the local hospital, so it all didn't kick in until we got into the car, whereupon I passed out. When we got home, I collapsed and spent the rest of the day comatose.
Today I see my psychiatrist, and we can discuss a weaning schedule. I want OFF this stuff! It's so much better to be home, to know that I said my goodbyes. My mom and the Dauphin are going down there tomorrow for another weekend, and then he will return to do some other stuff that has to be done before the house is demolished (along with the remaining contents).
As my doctor said, "The ocean isn't going anywhere." Thank God for that.
My last night (Labor Day) down at our beach house, which will soon be a pile of rubble, I went out to the ocean late at night. I told my husband first. The moon was out. It was a half moon, and bright orange, like a pomegranate. The stars were bright in the black night sky.
I said my goodbyes aloud, standing knee-deep in the warm ocean water, and then hurled a ceramic ashtray of my father's (it was iconic, I'd seen him using it for decades, and my mom made it) into the water, and then I just howled with grief until I was too tired to make another peep. All of the other houses were dark, people had gone home, and I knew I was drowned out by the surf. I trudged back up to the house.
The next morning, at 7:30 AM, my mother and I took a spontaneous last swim. There had been some objects in my father's workshop since 2004: a half-filled teacup, a full ashtray, and his sunglasses. It was like a still-life, like he'd gone upstairs and never came back down. I'd photographed it a few times.
Anyway, the workmen on the house next store have been stealing from us, and they'd broken into his workshop and left things a royal mess (my mother and sister refused to do anything about it), so the still life was destroyed. I took the cup and the sunglasses, and when I was chest deep in the water, I threw them into the ocean, yelling, "Goodbye!"
I had to help my mom out of the water, and she said, "Somebody's going to cut themselves on those things." I pointed out that the current was fast and going toward the jetty, so they'd probably wash up near there, and someone would wonder whose sunglasses they were. I got through Tuesday by not only taking my dope, but also a Xanax. I actually helped load the truck until my husband and Mom came back from making yet another donation to the local hospital, so it all didn't kick in until we got into the car, whereupon I passed out. When we got home, I collapsed and spent the rest of the day comatose.
Today I see my psychiatrist, and we can discuss a weaning schedule. I want OFF this stuff! It's so much better to be home, to know that I said my goodbyes. My mom and the Dauphin are going down there tomorrow for another weekend, and then he will return to do some other stuff that has to be done before the house is demolished (along with the remaining contents).
As my doctor said, "The ocean isn't going anywhere." Thank God for that.
Labor Day Weekend Continues...
(written September 3)
Last night I played the Johnny Cash and Trent Reznor versions of "Hurt," on youtube for Lucretia, which was probaby not the smartest thing to do, because the lyrics had been running through my head all day.
This morning I awoke to an orgy of packing, and wrapped a huge ceramic kangaroo for Cordelia(it will go in my mom's storeroom for now). I asked my sister if I could use the computer and get on YouTube and play a bunch of "feel good" songs (hardly my first choice). So I played U2's "It's A Beautiful Day," "Vertigo," and now I'm listening to the Reverend Horton Heat. Hideously loud and percussive, but it's fun.
I'm still desperately sad, medicated up to the eyeballs. But this will be over by tomorrow, I keep reminding myself. My dog's paw is also healing, thank god. The weather and the ocean are perfect. Oh, God.
Last night I played the Johnny Cash and Trent Reznor versions of "Hurt," on youtube for Lucretia, which was probaby not the smartest thing to do, because the lyrics had been running through my head all day.
This morning I awoke to an orgy of packing, and wrapped a huge ceramic kangaroo for Cordelia(it will go in my mom's storeroom for now). I asked my sister if I could use the computer and get on YouTube and play a bunch of "feel good" songs (hardly my first choice). So I played U2's "It's A Beautiful Day," "Vertigo," and now I'm listening to the Reverend Horton Heat. Hideously loud and percussive, but it's fun.
I'm still desperately sad, medicated up to the eyeballs. But this will be over by tomorrow, I keep reminding myself. My dog's paw is also healing, thank god. The weather and the ocean are perfect. Oh, God.
Swimming Away - Written September 2, 2007
I'll admit today was the closest to suicidal I've come (not close enough, thank God).
I took my stupid pills and went swimming. The water is rough but beautiful, but nobody else would go in.
When I was an unhappy little kid, I would start swimming for the horizon, and the lifeguard would have to go get me over and over (this did not go over big with my parents). I think I believed that anywhere was better than here, and out on the ocean was as good a place as any.
I've been flashing on that a lot, and today, being alone in the water (there was a lifeguard), I started swimming toward the horizon. I had just taken all of my medication, so I don't think I was in my right mind, and my body was sluggish.
Occasionally I'd check that my feet still touched the ground, but the water was so beautiful, so green/blue and sunlit, I wanted to keep going. I waited for the whistle, but there was none. (The lifeguard knows me and knows I'm a strong, if idiosyncratic, swimmer.) Then I realized my feet were no longer touching the ground, I swallowed some salt water, and perhaps this would ruin the weekend for everyone else. Plus there are no guarantees that drowning is a pleasant way to go. (I almost tried it once under very different circumstances, during an earlier suicide attempt.) And what if a shark bit me while I was still alive? Not fun. And if the lifeguard, who was now merely a speck in the distance, had to haul me in, I wouldn't be allowed to swim again, and that would suck.
So I flipped over on my back and swam back toward shore. Fortunately I was crying but the water made my eyes red anyway.
When I came out, the lifeguard said, "Isn't the water great?" I nodded and headed upstairs to the house and the shower. I sat on the stairs and cried. Later, I told Lucretia I did not want to go swimming alone between now and when we leave. She understood.
I took my stupid pills and went swimming. The water is rough but beautiful, but nobody else would go in.
When I was an unhappy little kid, I would start swimming for the horizon, and the lifeguard would have to go get me over and over (this did not go over big with my parents). I think I believed that anywhere was better than here, and out on the ocean was as good a place as any.
I've been flashing on that a lot, and today, being alone in the water (there was a lifeguard), I started swimming toward the horizon. I had just taken all of my medication, so I don't think I was in my right mind, and my body was sluggish.
Occasionally I'd check that my feet still touched the ground, but the water was so beautiful, so green/blue and sunlit, I wanted to keep going. I waited for the whistle, but there was none. (The lifeguard knows me and knows I'm a strong, if idiosyncratic, swimmer.) Then I realized my feet were no longer touching the ground, I swallowed some salt water, and perhaps this would ruin the weekend for everyone else. Plus there are no guarantees that drowning is a pleasant way to go. (I almost tried it once under very different circumstances, during an earlier suicide attempt.) And what if a shark bit me while I was still alive? Not fun. And if the lifeguard, who was now merely a speck in the distance, had to haul me in, I wouldn't be allowed to swim again, and that would suck.
So I flipped over on my back and swam back toward shore. Fortunately I was crying but the water made my eyes red anyway.
When I came out, the lifeguard said, "Isn't the water great?" I nodded and headed upstairs to the house and the shower. I sat on the stairs and cried. Later, I told Lucretia I did not want to go swimming alone between now and when we leave. She understood.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Labor Day Weekend...The Endless Summer Ends
(Written August 28)
We are down here for Labor Day weekend, to finish dismantling the house before it is completely torn down.
Tonight my mother, Lucretia, my husband and I were eating dinner (lobster!) and talking about when and how to pack what's going back. I went through the top half of the house and pulled a lot of vintage blankets and some chenille bedspreads. I think Cordelia got rid of the Indian ones!!! She also gave away ALL of the clothing, even though I had asked her not to.
My dog has a blister or something on his left paw that's making it difficult for him to get around, poor little guy. And I'm taking my stupid pills...especially because last night and this afternoon I started hearing voices. I don't know how else to explain it. This has happened very occasionally when I've been strung out to the limit...as I fall asleep I keep thinking people are screaming and it jerks me awake. Then, this afternoon I was convinced my mother was calling me while I was napping, so I got up and went out, and she wasn't. Since my last entry, I had managed to reach my psychiatrist, who told me to double my dose of clonazepam, and take a Xanax when things got really bad.
The major effect of what I call "dope to cope" is that it leaves me completely unable to move, or at least it did at first. For about an hour I would lie on the bed, and I had to hire an emergency dogwalker. I'm not taking the Xanax, this clonazepam is bad enough. "You need to be distanced from your feelings," Dr. Gottlieb had said.
We were going for 'drinks' at some neighbors' house, so I took another stupid pill, because that really shook me up and I was filled with grief.(Unfortunately, it took effect while we were at this little gathering, so I had to seek out the most senile old man there and listen to him talk endlessly about his cat, while I nodded and tried to keep my eyes open!) I don't know if I've explained the 'stupid pills'--basically heavy sedation because I had a manic episode.
The fun never stops!
We are down here for Labor Day weekend, to finish dismantling the house before it is completely torn down.
Tonight my mother, Lucretia, my husband and I were eating dinner (lobster!) and talking about when and how to pack what's going back. I went through the top half of the house and pulled a lot of vintage blankets and some chenille bedspreads. I think Cordelia got rid of the Indian ones!!! She also gave away ALL of the clothing, even though I had asked her not to.
My dog has a blister or something on his left paw that's making it difficult for him to get around, poor little guy. And I'm taking my stupid pills...especially because last night and this afternoon I started hearing voices. I don't know how else to explain it. This has happened very occasionally when I've been strung out to the limit...as I fall asleep I keep thinking people are screaming and it jerks me awake. Then, this afternoon I was convinced my mother was calling me while I was napping, so I got up and went out, and she wasn't. Since my last entry, I had managed to reach my psychiatrist, who told me to double my dose of clonazepam, and take a Xanax when things got really bad.
The major effect of what I call "dope to cope" is that it leaves me completely unable to move, or at least it did at first. For about an hour I would lie on the bed, and I had to hire an emergency dogwalker. I'm not taking the Xanax, this clonazepam is bad enough. "You need to be distanced from your feelings," Dr. Gottlieb had said.
We were going for 'drinks' at some neighbors' house, so I took another stupid pill, because that really shook me up and I was filled with grief.(Unfortunately, it took effect while we were at this little gathering, so I had to seek out the most senile old man there and listen to him talk endlessly about his cat, while I nodded and tried to keep my eyes open!) I don't know if I've explained the 'stupid pills'--basically heavy sedation because I had a manic episode.
The fun never stops!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
