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The ultimate psychological question, I suppose. I've been unemployed for over a year. I've had a few contract jobs, the odd fill in work, and for a while unemployment, but mostly I've spent the last year doing nothing.
I can point to chemical reasons for this. For those of you who've never been clinically depressed, this may seem a little odd. In January of 2001, I was looking forward to an SCA event. I'd just held "The Virginia Dinner" for a group of friends. Every recipe for it was invented or redacted by me. Within one week, I couldn't get out of bed. Suicide was a constant ache. I was afraid to go to the T station because I knew I'd throw myself on the tracks. Moreover, I knew that I'd time it right; there would be no failed attempt.
There'd been little signs. I was already in therapy because I'd had a few little minutes from October - December. When talking to my doctor, I'd likened them to the little pebbles that could harken an avalanche. I wasn't prepared for the size of the landslide. When it hit, I couldn't walk into the kitchen for fear of what I'd do to myself with a knife.
I got help. And drugs. After a visit from my mother, the dosages were put up. In July they were raised again, and that's the dose I've been on ever since. In March of this year, through an error at my doctor's office, I ended up without my medication for 3 days. I discovered that rather than feeling better as I'd thought, I was a depressive on drugs. The suicidal thoughts were back before I could pick up the new prescription.
I don't want to be depressed. This entry is coming from an exercise in the book "Wishcraft" which asks you to define who you are right now. I'm the depressive. The deadbeat who's unemployed, the person who shouldn't be here. The X.
I can point to chemical reasons for this. For those of you who've never been clinically depressed, this may seem a little odd. In January of 2001, I was looking forward to an SCA event. I'd just held "The Virginia Dinner" for a group of friends. Every recipe for it was invented or redacted by me. Within one week, I couldn't get out of bed. Suicide was a constant ache. I was afraid to go to the T station because I knew I'd throw myself on the tracks. Moreover, I knew that I'd time it right; there would be no failed attempt.
There'd been little signs. I was already in therapy because I'd had a few little minutes from October - December. When talking to my doctor, I'd likened them to the little pebbles that could harken an avalanche. I wasn't prepared for the size of the landslide. When it hit, I couldn't walk into the kitchen for fear of what I'd do to myself with a knife.
I got help. And drugs. After a visit from my mother, the dosages were put up. In July they were raised again, and that's the dose I've been on ever since. In March of this year, through an error at my doctor's office, I ended up without my medication for 3 days. I discovered that rather than feeling better as I'd thought, I was a depressive on drugs. The suicidal thoughts were back before I could pick up the new prescription.
I don't want to be depressed. This entry is coming from an exercise in the book "Wishcraft" which asks you to define who you are right now. I'm the depressive. The deadbeat who's unemployed, the person who shouldn't be here. The X.
