March 24, 2003 @ 12:16 p.m.
Not good.

I've been choking on words a lot.

Sometimes spluttering and then going wordless over what I'm trying to say, but most often, losing the words in the pre-verbal phase and not communicating at all.

I've spent the last month looping in and out of the kind of batshit crazyness that lurks and hides so well, but is generally always present. The kind you can't enjoy, not even on some perverse unconscious level, because it's too fucked up and hurts too much. I've thought a lot about removing myself from everyone's presence, because it's been so painful and horrible to be me that I can't see how it wouldn't be equally horrible to be around me. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, making little crescent dents and cuts, wishing I could slide out of myself through the little slices in my skin. I've been doubting wholeheartedly that my medication is working, because my moods, which go straight from lowest of the downhearted to ecstatic and back again without warning, don't seem even remotely controlled, or controllable.

And the past keeps coming up like an undercooked McMeal. I don't think I have ever been so swamped by my upbringing, the things that have happened to me, and the ways I've formed my politics and views on the world than I have in the last six weeks or so. It's unnerving, and horrible. To know that a lot of how I feel has to do with the screwy brain chemicals I've inherited, but also more than I'll admit it has to do with the demons and their conga line in my head. And man, don't worry Mr Burns, because they sure as fuck conga like they mean it.

I don't do the cool kind of depressed. I don't take drugs and drink too much and have regrettable sex (well, no more than when I'm not depressed, anyway). I just kind of hurt. A lot. And feel like I'm nowhere, or a long way away, even when I'm surrounded by people I adore.

I'm not sure what has brought this on, and the answer is probably nothing. I'll probably have to deal with the brain chemical thing, if not the personal issues thing, for most of my life. I have many people who care about me enough to be there for me when I'm going through a rough time; the only problem is, I feel bad and guilty about bogging people down with my problems. I want to be pretty and sparkly all the time, for everyone, but it's hard to do and wears thin very quickly. I worry I'll follow the general pattern of many people in my family, and end up in an institution and no one's quite sure what happened because I sure seemed okay. Oh, but I'm being dramatic. My depression will probably always be low-grade enough to fuck me up but not hugely impact anyone else.

Talking to my councellor makes me horribly aware of how bad-first-novel parts of my life are, which makes me less inclined to talk to her. Which may be a bad thing.

Normal programming will resume shortly. Until then, watch this space; or alternately, the choice TV gives you between 24-hour war coverage and sport.

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