You are not who you think you are, Trey. Not today.
That’s the focus of my adult life right now. In the mornings, I wake up with all this purpose jammed straight up my ass, keeping me moving, making me useful. I wander about this house, listening to music in one room, working in the other, having no general space to just sit and be. I struggle to homeschool Urijah (I’ve realized by now that he learns when he’s ready and never before. I doubt it’s the autism – seems to be a stubborn Briggs thing, really). Rajesh is taken to school on weekdays, left to his own devices on weekends. Wuff sleeps until probably 2pm or 3pm or sometimes even later and I leave him to it. It works. We work.
A week comes and suddenly life is under water. My chest is being violently, slowly crushed. That sinking feeling when you’re embarrassed, when some bitch laughs at the way your eyebrows jump when you eat, it’s on permanent mode. I’m exhausted. I can’t move. In the mornings it takes almost three cups of coffee to get me to Rajesh’s school and our usually witty/sarcastic conversations are all ice and edge. Wuff is visibly confused, frustrated, and doesn’t understand what he did wrong. Urijah avoids me altogether.
And then there’s a notification on my phone. PMS IS COMING.
It’s like I am walking straight into the ocean, fighting the waves. Every step brings tears. Every step brings teeth gritting sharp anger, baths me in absolute anguish. I am a growing teenager again and nothing makes sense and everything hurts.
American Horror Story: PMDD
It’s irritating. It’s debilitating. It’s crippling. Other words, other words, other words.
I haven’t had a personal blog in quite some time. Everything has been boiled and dulled down to work writing. Even my fiction sits untouched and unloved on my desktop. But this PMDD phase of my life is really ripping into my ability to be a coherent person. So I figured a personal blog could pull me out of that ocean a bit. Even if these posts just end up being jagged pieces. I’m not writing to please an audience.
I’m genuinely interested in seeing if my relationship, my personality, and my mind will survive this crap. The trip to the hospital last night, frantic with worry about myself and uncontrollable rage, proved one thing to me: Never talk to a doctor about actual problems. I’ve never had anyone try to have me commited before, especially not for something as vague as ‘depressive thoughts’. Especially not something as small as:
“Are you having any harmful thoughts?”
“Kinda. Just feeling bad, nothing serious.”
“Do you have a plan to kill yourself?”
“Huh? No, I’m awesome.”
I guess any admission of being depressed is enough for a call to security. The look on the woman’s face when my trademark friendliness died away and I scathingly informed her why I wanted someone else to talk to was satisfying. But I still learned a lesson I won’t soon forget. When the next doctor came in, I answered in a series of ‘fines’ and ‘not even stressed’.
And people really wonder about the mental health situation, how we can help, what we can do. Listen?
This was a garbage first post but eh, I love it. It felt good. This blog is going to be like a magic painting that holds all my irritations and muddled thoughts.
What a dump.