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Monday, February 13, 2012


In my post this morning, I forgot write down everything I wanted to.  Typing is torturous, but I need to add a paragraph from my journal. 
This morning I am unsteady of my feet, wobbly like a Weeble, listing to either side in a way that reminds me of the description of Miss Trixie in John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces.  i just went to find my copy, but it appears to have disappeared.  I have no doubt that I will find it in a peculiar place.  I again feel as though there are weights around my ankles and am once again walking in hip deep water, being pulled into the black hole - again.  I just reached for my coffee, but it is not on my bedside table.  I will find it some time today - or not.  I will make another cup. 

Starting to Write it Down

This morning I opened my journal with this sentence:  “I suppose I should start blogging about this mess.”
The mess to which I refer is depression and severe short term loss.  On January 18, I left work because I could not properly use a form that we use every day.  I have been using it for a year but at that moment could make no sense of it.
I went to our manager and told her I had to leave, that I was on the verge of tears at any given moment and had an overpowering anxiety, could not function.  I told her about my inability to properly chart on a drip sheet.  She was understanding and sent me home.  I said I didn’t know when I was coming back.  Over the next few days, Suzanne talked me through the process of going out on leave for a while.  That assures that I remain employed.  Though I am not getting a pay check, I remain on the payroll and continue to receive my benefits.

I felt as though I needed to be in hospital, and both my psychiatrist and my therapist agreed. But I would not go, though it remains an option if I continue to be deeply depressed.  My memory is in the toilet.  
Just this morning, I poured a glass of water from my filter pitcher.  I added more water to the pitcher, and when it had been filtered, I turned to pour some of it into my already full glass. Last night, I had to make myself take out the kitchen trash.  I had been full for several days, and I would look at it and simply close the drawer.  I am wearing the same pajamas I put on three days ago, but that's not the record. Five days is my personal best.  

I can't spell shit.  I think up a word, and when I start to write it down, I go blank.  I cannot spell the word.  Many times I forget it altogether. 
On Saturday night I forced myself to go to dinner with my usual companions.  Today, my evening clutch and my keys and my wallet remain on my dining table.  My overcoat is still hanging on the back of a chair.  I walk past, consider the fact that they need to be put away, then I walk away without taking any action.  (And I am better).
Typing is such a chore.  I have decided to publish some notes from my journal.  I have been dangerously depressed for several months.  Though my memory has left me, in my journal there are details.