If you think I am stupid enough to go off my meds entirely so I can write, you can stop worrying about me. I never wrote crap in all the years I wasn’t on medicine, and while ceasing taking Pristiq has, with the unpleasant, sort of thrust me into a burst of productivity, I know myself well enough that this situation is VERY, VERY temporary. Just earlier today, and last night, I was having thoughts of the pointlessness of it all, so like I said, temporary.
If you read my prior post you’ll know running out of medicine was not completely intentional. I was doing that thing that we depressed people do. . . avoiding the doctor. And the masochistic side of me thought I would teach myself something by suffering through withdrawal. Nevermind that I’ve done this several times before and haven’t gotten any better at following through. But still, I feel I must note that I haven’t gone completely off my rocker.
One of the most interesting, and most awkward things about being manic is the feeling that one’s mind is full of ideas. It’s a great feeling for a writer, for someone like me whose depression tends to block creative output. I stopped writing suicidal poetry in my late teens. Somehow for my college courses I managed to churn out papers under duress (it’s due tomorrow). But now, if I don’t stop and write the instant I have THAT FEELING, it doesn’t get written. So the fun thing about being manic is that, THAT FEELING happens about every five minutes.
The unfun part: I want to respond to every single post or tweet I read. Phone conversations are embarassing because I can tell that I am talking too much, and too long, and jumping from topic to topic without taking a breath. And like writing drunk poetry, which seems wonderfully inspired when it is writing, the morning’s light reveals it to be a pile of dung.
So tonight, on this eve of the Mayan Apocolypse, I am thinking about wanting more for myself, because I have been reminded that there are people I have known for years who still dream big and aim to grow. And I am thinking about the wonderful character actor that is Angelina Jolie’s first husband (Jonny Lee Miller) because I just watched an ep of Elementary. In the back of my mind, always, for the last 24 hours is Damon and Elena (The Vampire Diaries) because I have discovered a new salve for my mind (Gilmore Girls works for severe depression).
And the next step is truly doing something to drag myself out of the morass that is the past 3 years of my life. I let an episode take over and I stopped trying to do anything beyond what was necessary. So while I am a fairly decent aunt, and a sometimes thoughtful daughter, the other parts of me have been put out to pasture. I have managed to make this thing work by refusing to think overmuch. So I can either keep paddling, living with my parents and helping out with the kids, and having an easy out when I don’t want to do anything for a day or a week. I can keep telling myself that this is all I can do anymore, because I can’t deal with a full-time job and I can’t take care of myself. Or I can remember that I used to dream, very vague but big dreams that I never fleshed out because I couldn’t believe. I can decide to discover if reality matches my manic ego (oh, yeah, I feel pretty fancy right now) and not fall down if I turn out to be quite ordinary.
It’s not too late. I think I’ve subscribed to too many notions that a girl approaching 40 is SOL. Shit, I come from good stock. I could live for another 40 or 50. Time to get crackin’!