Tomorrow (Or: Adventures In Antidepressants)

“The zaps,” they call them.

You’ve learned by now that switching from one medication to another is not nearly as simple as just stopping the old one and starting the new. Not only is there the exhaustion, shakiness, maybe sleeplessness, that comes while you acclimate to a new pill; your body also withdraws from the lower doses of the old pill at the same time, and finds new and more alarming ways each day to tell you that it’s craving what you aren’t giving it enough of.

You’ve had it before, the peculiar sensation of being electrocuted that comes and goes before you can even open your mouth to exclaim “Oh!” A ghost darts up and jabs you with his live wire, stabs it lightning quick into your temple and pulls it back as the sensation of being in an electric chair zips down into your neck and crackles through your shoulder.

There’s almost a sound as it happens—almost. Not quite. The sound of power lines pulsing and then failing, transformers exploding, the world falling into blackness like in the old horror movies you saw as a kid. A spark or two up into the sky as dusk falls. Maybe the sound of a dusty old robot, dead for years and buried in cobwebs, suddenly brought back to life—possessed by a tiny electric impulse that buzzes through some invisible wiring and shoots a tiny orange light into the air. Maybe catches something nearby on fire.

This time it goes much further. It shoots into the backs of your legs, right down into the thickened clay of your Achilles tendon, and you focus—“I’m okay, just turn and smile”—on remaining normal. Nobody can ever know you are being electrocuted by your own brain; nobody can ever know that the reason your eyes fog for a moment and you say “I’m sorry?” when they speak is that you've fallen victim to a drug you’ve been given for months and then suddenly told you must stop taking.

You know it will pass within a few days but in the meantime you try a volume’s worth of tricks to try and ease the horrible awkwardness. Benzodiazepines, drinking extra water, taking the small crums of shunned medication earlier each day, none of it makes a dent in the iron will of your body’s fitful tanrums while it demands what you starve it of. Each day you take the old medication a bit earlier to stave off the electric demon and each day the demon brings his live wire earlier to your bare throat.

They’ve promised you it will pass and experience tells you that they do not lie. Walking home from a friend’s home one night you pass by a houseful of weekend revelers laughing and yelling at each other in Spanish while urgently bleating music explodes from the third floor windows. You forget yourself as you turn to the window with a smile, and in an instant your body freezes while your nervous system seizes in a fit of defiance. You stay paused on the sidewalk after it passes, stretch your tired neck and shoulders, careful to keep your gaze fixed straight ahead. You can’t see into the window, anyway; out of the corner of your eye you realize that the only thing visible from the partiers’ haven is gauze-curtained windows and a drop ceiling.

The whooping and music continue, undisturbed by your momentary paralysis, and then you put one foot in front of the other. You imagine for a moment that you see something moving to your left but you don’t fall for that trick; your gaze is steadied forward at the crooked sidewalk at your feet.

Home is one uneven block away, and if you can manage to keep your head high you’ll make it without having to pause again for the electricity. You’ll climb into bed and take the little white pill you’ve been told you’ll “do better” with, and a small dose of the old pill, the relic that has been deemed A Failure.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow you’ll focus more on looking at the world straight ahead of you; tomorrow nothing will grab you from the side hold on to you while it runs past. Tomorrow.

My Best Most Annoying Conversation Ever

CO-WORKER: I watched a movie the other night, what's it called?--
ME: 'Better Off Dead?'
CO-WORKER: NO.
ME: It wasnt 'Better Off Dead?' Did it have John Cusack in it? Was it 'Grosse Pointe Blank?' 'Hot Tub Time Machine?'
CO-WORKER: No! It didn't have John Cusack in it!
ME: I bet it was 'Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil.' I haven't even seen that. It looked good, though.
CO-WORKER: Stop it! It didn't have John Cusack in it! It was a Katherine Heigl movie.
ME: Oh. '37 Dresses' or whatever it was? You know, where she was a bridesmaid like a hundred times?
CO-WORKER: No! That was '27 Dresses.'--
ME: So was it 'Knocked Up'? That must be what it was.
CO-WORKER: It wasn't Knocked Up! Stop it!
ME: You must be thinking of Grey's Anatomy then. I bet you're just confused. Or '37 Dresses.' It was probably that.
CO-WORKER: Ohmygod, stop it. It's not fucking Grey's Anatomy! It was a movie! One that came out recently!
{walks away}
{later, via email}
ME: Check out this IMDB link. I bet you're thinking of Face Blind. It comes out next year, and she has face blindness in it, like when you can't even tell peoples' faces apart because they're all just like a blur. Also, check it out-- I never knew she was on Roswell!

{no response/end conversation}

Those Long Days (Or: When The Pinata Sucks)

Some days really are undeniably longer than others; these are the days that each second that passes is thick with baggage (aka, those pesky damn emotions!), the days that each hour left before it ends weighs heavy and threatens never to come.  The days when even a good cry doesn't solve it, and even whacking the fuck out of a pinata doesn't quite release the frustration.

I should be clear that this last bit actually happened today; I actually whacked the fuck out of a pinata. I whaled on that goddamn thing with an old school wooden bat like it was the head of a soulless zombie coming to dessert on my family after dining on my friends.  And you know what?  The fucking thing WOULDN'T BREAK.  For a moment I was certain that I was on one of those hidden camera shows, convinced that somewhere there must be a concealed crew of people stifling snickers and waiting to jump out and yell "You've been Trick'd" or whatever those shows nowadays yell.

Alas, nobody jumped out.  I kept whacking the thing with the bat, five times then ten times then maybe about fifteen times, and then finally-- FINALLY-- one corner of that star-shaped sonofabith cracked open.  Success!  Except....it was 75% filled with Bit O Honey, which nobody likes ever.  (*Please, if you are a fan of that nasty little wax-wrapped beast feel free to let me know so I can send you a certificate of congratulations.  I'll surely suspect you're a liar and thus blacklist you from any events where you'd be in charge of piñatas, but you deserve recognition for theoretically stomaching that madness.)

                                           Noooooooooooooooooooooo!

URGENT NOTE:  Did you click on that link and notice that according to wiki Bit O Honey also once produced something called "Bit O Licorice"?!  That knowledge just made me feel exponentially better about this day.  I would have died on the spot if Bit O Licorice had come out of that pinata today.  Toe up, no joke.  Some other lesser-known variations on popular candies are Mint Kit Kats and Orange Hershey Kisses (barf), although I take issue with the Bit O Honey being categorized as "popular." Who the fuck are they trying to kid here?  

Anyway.

The candy isn't really the issue here, those pesky damn emotions are.  Today was full of 'em:  frustration, loneliness, hope, enthusiasm, disappointment, a dash more frustration, a little anger, some helplessness, and that castrated feeling of not having an outlet to let it all loose.  Life has that scent of impossibility sometimes and today reeked of futility.  I kept my game face on until most of it was over, and even when I caved into the overwhelming helplessness that sometimes comes with parenting, partnering, working, and LIVING-- I like to think I handled it with aplomb if not actual grace.

The seconds of today trickled by with the sluggishness of a daydreaming sloth and the outcome was hardly attractive: I made it through the self-described clusterfuck that was today at my job, and then stormed around at home for a little while after work and ignored Matt and Noa to throw myself into putting some favorite photos of Noa (like this one!) into frames; I cried red hot frustrated tears for a while-- the kind where you hiccup and gasp every now and then to catch your breath-- while trying to process the long day at work combined with the difficulties of life with a new live-in partner who's also newly co-parenting with me; afterward I went downstairs and begged a cigarette from a neighbor while wearing...uh....my nightgown.   Sitting down to write tonight is quiet salvation, even though my content is vague and laden with obtuse reference.

Ultimately the pinata finally fucking broke for me, so today that is my victory.  Life's never going to cut to some adorable scene where I skip through a sunny field holding a bouquet of wildflowers, so when the pinata breaks....I might as well stop for a moment and revel in the small victory, even if the damn thing is filled with Bit O Fucking Honey.

   "It's just a life story, so there's no climax.

   No more new territory, so pull away the imax.

    In the slot that you sliced through the scene there was no shyness.

    In the plot that you passed through your teeth there was no pity.

   No fade in: film begins on a kid in the big city.

  And no cut to a costly parade that's for him only.

  No dissolve to a sliver of grey that's his new ladywhere she glows just like grain on the flickering pane of some great movie."

Confession Time! (Or: Shutup, You're No More Normal Than I Am, Jerk.)

Long story short, I have trouble being (quote/unquote) normal sometimes. Oftentimes, even.  Some might say "frequently".

I get real anxious, totally and randomly out of nowhere sometimes, and other times under more predictable circumstances that I'm able to pinpoint as "triggers" for my anxious hyper-active control freak behavior.  I try to avoid these triggers if possible but life can be so damn pesky in that way; sometimes a normal day feels like a minefield of potential panic pits.  I've developed this bizarre but comforting "coping mechanism" where I scratch my head.... a lot. Sometimes until it bleeds. Anyway, it's gross and I wont make you think about that anymore. You're welcome!

Here's some of the semi-predictable circumstances that usually throw me off a little and drive me slightly bonkers (drumroll!):

-people moving my stuff around.  Like, if I leave for work and the lamp was at a certain angle-- when I get home it better be AT THAT SAME ANGLE.  If not, I'll move it back to where I feel it's "supposed" to be.  And then this often sets off a chain of events in which I move everything on my bookshelf so that all the spines line up and are equidistant from the edge of the shelf.  And then I notice that Noa has thrown her shoes all over the house, and I am compelled-- neigh, REQUIRED-- to pick them all up one by one and line them up over by the door where I've decided all the shoes should live. And so on.  This is called "obsessive compulsive disorder," and comes and goes based on how antsy and anxious I've been at the time, and...well, also based on how willing the people I live with are to play along with my fantasy that our home is a museum in which nothing should ever be touched or moved from it's designated place. NOTE: I am also a complete slovenly disaster in many ways.  It's not that I'm a "clean" freak...I'm a "things put in certain places and facing certain directions"  freak, you dig?  My pants are dirty most of the time and I usually have a sink full of dishes and I double dip the crudite at fancy parties, but I like ALL THE THINGS EVERYWHERE to be in their places. If they aren't I will pace and get ornery and jittery and be generally unpleasant to be around for an unspecified amount of time. Sad face , right?

-being super busy for too many days in a row.  Downtime-- time to do NOTHING but just exist quietly-- is a necessity for me.  So I worked all week and had a million things to do every night when I came home and never had a minute to sit and not be doing something?  Come Saturday I become comatose. I refuse to participate in anything resembling "socializing" and often feel compelled to remain within in the confines of my home, or even my bedroom, for a solid 24 hours or so.  This time is spent ignoring the outside world and often involves staying in my pajamas all day without bathing.   This is called "depression", and it comes and goes as it pleases, although having to pretend to be "up" and normal for too many days in a row often throws me for an exhausting loop and gets me all down in the dregs and such.  I get real boring and drab, and I don't smile much.  I watch a lot of season six of Buffy in the dark, and read a lot of Emily Dickinson.  It's like hibernating, but with my eyes open.  Except for when I'm sleeping and my eyes are shut, which happens a lot during these periods. There is not enough sleep in the world for me when I enter Silent Hibernation Mode;  I'm like the Paula Radcliffe of long distance napping.

-learning new things.  I love learning new things.  It's, like, pretty much my number one favorite thing to do.  Learning new shit is my bread and butter, yo. For example, I'll read something about how awesome bees are and then spend the next week regaling people nonstop with the amazingness of bee colonies until people either grow weary of hearing about it, or I run out of people to yammer to.  But other times-- when I'm FORCED to learn something new (like, ahem, a new computer system at work) if I'm not immediately good at it, and if I'm held hostage in that weird way where you have to fake patience while someone tries to teach you how to do something unfamiliar and terrifying-- I freak out.  My chest gets tight.  My heart starts to beat funny.  My hands shake a little. My face turns bright red and I get super hot.  I swallow a LOT.  Over and over.  I have, in the words of the professionals, "one o' them there panic attacks!"

So there you have it.  I mean, I'm weird in more ways than that-- I'm a loud talker, a spastic fast talker, an inappropriate laugher, a TMI-er, and sometimes an awkward hover-on-the-edge-of-the-group-and-don't-talk-to-anyone-er.  But my main poison is some mad OCD crossed with being a slob crossed with depressive episodes and anxiety attacks.  Like the Odd Couple crossed with Toby from the Office with a dash of the bat from Fern Gully that was voiced by Robin Williams. But I'm still kind of awesome and fun in a way, like....both Petes from Pete and Pete.  And I have great taste in sunglasses, like Hollywood from Mannequin.  OHHH, and I dye my hair red sometimes and have unpredictable angsty poetry attacks every now and then, a la Angela Chase (*disclaimer:  my boyfriend can read and I don't have a Rikki). I'm a whole mishmash of outdated pop culture, see that?  Check the recap:
                                    

                                     
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                                                                    (that's me!)


Do you get it all now?  Has this been a helpful insight into my personality and neuroses?  Or did I lose you at Robin Williams and Fern Gully?  In any event,  I do pretty okay day-to-day.... and I feel pretty fucking good having written this because I've been trying to find a way to write about my emotional freakiness in a way that I'm comfortabe with (and here I think I've found success!), but also because AUUUGGHHHH PETE AND PETE, you guys!  Fuckin' A.  That was some damn good TV and I wish I could go ride down a grassy hill on some giant iceblocks right now.

Anyway, in closing:  my good friend Rachel dropped a muffin in the car the other day and then used it as a Muppet to talk to me and tell me to chill out a little. This video cheers me up and makes me giggle maniacally when I'm feeling overwhelmed and shaky, and I watch it pretty much daily.  Without further ado, I bring you Muffin Love!

Godspeed, blog readers, and don't forget to try to remember the biiiiger picture, NOM NOM NOM NOM.

-Amy Em

My Triumphant Return To The Blogosphere! (Or: Remember When I Did This Once?)

Three years is a pretty long time to abandon a blog that was super half-assed to begin with and then randomly wake up one day teeming with motivation to start screaming into the same void again.  Important Note:  I scream regularly into the void of Facebook and Twitter (and occasionally/shamefully in the comments sections of some sites I will not mention). I just haven't screamed into this one for long enough that it took me about 40 minutes to figure out how to log into it, and then I had to update a million things, and Google kept trying to force me to join Google+  and I freaked out and came {{{{{THISCLOSE}}}}} to clicking that button that says "Delete every single thing associated with Google like it never happened!"

In the end I did not click that button, only because I was THAT motivated to get screamy into my old school blogvoid.

So with no further fanfare, the update that you've been holding your breath for!

-I am gainfully employed.  Remember when I was unemployed for like a year and cried all the time about not being able to pay the rent or buy food?  No?  Neither do I.  It was like a lifetime ago.  Funny how those hard times that we learn so much from are so easy to bleach from our brains once we're a good ways past them.  {shudder}

-Everyone I know has either gotten married or knocked up, or some combination of both, in the last few years.  I've done neither since Noa was born.  I'm okay with it.  FOR NOW.  {cue menacing music} Really though, the people I like make ADORABLE frigging children.  Someday when these wee lads and lassies are old enough I shall beckon them to my knee (probably at Chateau Neubauer on Arlington Pond) and regale them with tales of "That time you were THIS SMALL!" and "That time I held you for the FIRST TIME!" and the lipstick marks I will leave on their cheeks shall be coral, or canteloupe, or some shade of an offensive magenta. I will smell of Chanel and Maker's Mark, as all successful adopted aunties do, and I will wink and secretly hand them twenty dollar bills.

Moving on.

-I'm starting a podcast soon, and you're going to listen to it.  It may or may not be terrible, and it may or may not be recorded in my boyfriend's Closet Office.  Important Note:  The Closet Office is the giant closet that we turned into Matt's office when he moved in here in March.  It's not like he's stuffed into a little 18" X 36" space or something; the man has about 8 X 5 feet to work with.  It's pretty much the only space in this apartment that Noa is NOT allowed to party in, and I feel like it's a good enough size to get 2 or 3 people together to sit on the floor and blather and argue about what masculinity means these days--while being recorded.  Important Note: This came up in conversation recently and I can't wait to attack this topic in depth with some broads I know.  Let's just say-- sometimes I'm ready to blame the changing attitudes of masculinity on Ben Gibbard and that kid on the OC who listened to Death Cab For Cutie all the time, but a deeper look at The New Male uncovers many many layers that I will not begin to peel away here.  Ooooh, are you dyyyyying to know what kinds of layers I'm planning on peeling here?!  Listen to my podcast when I start actually making it.  I promise it will feature amazing and smart women, and all of us will sing the theme song together in a "....finishing each other's sentences {gigglegiggle}!" kind of way.  Hold thy breath!

-I'm tired.  Pretty much like all the time, but specifically right this very minute.  I'm sure this update has been breathtakingly enlightening for you, and I promise there will be more to come, SOONER RATHER THAN THREE YEARS FROM NOW!

This return to the blogothing has been SO TRIUMPHANT!  Go neckties!