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wiped
December 05, 2013

I'm wiped. Seriously--this morning, I did something I never, ever do. I slept through my alarm. And all day long I've felt as though someone was chloroforming me. But if I don't spend at least a little while doing some therapeutic writing, I'm gonna lose my mind.

I think this week was just too much for my limited energy. To have to start out the week with a business trip, drag my ass through airports, on and off of planes, and halfway across Michigan by car AFTER the plane landed? To meet, deal with, dine with, a bunch of new people? And, last-but-certainly-not-least, to spend three days in the almost-constant company of my boss? To spend my Wednesday in what felt like one long and grueling hike from the hotel to the field office to the car rental to the airport to Chicago to the limo to the home office and into my car to drive home in the dark, rainy, rush-hour traffic? So I could unpack, sort laundry, and get ready to get up and start slogging throughlife once more?

Exhausting and excruciating. Truly. I'm all used up.

Honestly, the only reason I made it all the way home before I crashed was the blissfully quiet 4-day weekend I had before I left. A totally uneventful holiday where we stayed home, cooked, hung out, exercised the dog, and rested. P&E had to cancel, due to both of them being sick, so we stayed home, cooked a nice, traditional dinner, had a few cocktails, and relaxed. And on Friday, we stayed home, ate our nice, traditional leftovers, had a more few cocktails, and relaxed. Saturday was the minimum of errands and chores, Sunday was taking the dog to the park, odds and ends of stuff, and getting ready for my trip.

One thing I do have to say about the sertraline--I don't really have a frame of reference for what "normal" feels like when it comes to anxiety, but I know that I seem to be experiencing a lot less of it on Zoloft. I still experience "real" anxiety--I mean yes, I feel anxious about stuff like the fact that my mom is dying and my husband is having what appears to be some kind of nervous breakdown or midlife crisis that apparently leaves him unable to work, and leaves me as the sole income for the household.

Oh, yeah. Have I mentioned that my mom is dying? DYING dying? Her cancer has metastasized to her lungs, and she has three to six months to live?! (And because of the aforementioned husband thing, I can't afford to be with her like I want to be. So I am a little pissed.)

But I digress. The point I'm trying to make is that the usual severe pre-travel anxiety that I am wracked with when faced with a trip--especially when it is one I don't want to take and have no choice in? Nowhere to be found, this time around.

Maybe I'm just too tired to care anymore. Maybe my scumbag brain has so many legitimate concerns that for once it can't be bothered to make shit up. But then again...maybe it's actually the meds. If so, then I have a reason to keep taking it. I was seriously considering going off, because it seems to do fukcall for my actual depression, but if it at least settles the anxiety then I guess I could stay on it.

It's all such a crap shoot. Try something, wait six to eight weeks, feel no better or feel worse. Try something else, same again. "Okay how about this?" and another two months--only to find it works for one thing but not the other. SANE people don't have the energy for that, but you expect sick ones to?



Reading: "Wanted: A Husband"(1920), by Samual Hopkins Adams. This one is every bit as enjoyable to me as "Little Miss Grouch". SHA was so darned talented. His romcoms can be delightful, his mysteries were clever and ahead of their time, his searing indictments were world-changing, and he definitely captured the jazz age in his "Warner Fabian" guise.

Listening: Need some psychobilly to stay awake: Zombie Ghost Train, Guana Batz, The Quakes, Frantic Flintstones


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