Live! At the Whiney-A-Go-Go!

August 6, 2006

Dee.

Filed under: life — letslucky @ 12:50 am

Someone very close to me means to do me harm. For privacy, I’ll call her Dee. She’s been in my life for a very long time.

This morning I spent 15 minutes blindly groping for my glasses, normally kept handy on my nightstand. Last night Dee woke me up by flinging its contents across the room, screaming. I finally found them under the bed, and even so I almost didn’t make it to work. The only thing that finally got me out of the house was the chance to get away from her for a few hours. I hope she doesn’t cause me to lose my job. She damaged my reputation at other jobs, that’s for sure.

She poisons my relationships with friends, ensures that the house is never presentable, and sometimes keeps me from going out at all. I just sit around the house with her, too tired to fight, looking around at the trash and clutter she always leaves around.

Dee screws up my life in ways large and small. Those who know me know that I”m the type to never lock myself out of my house, yet Dee made that happen twice in one month. My organizer that holds all my schedules, phone numbers, and crucial info? Dee left it in a restaurant a few weeks ago. I can’t count the number of times when I’ve been trying to leave the house and she keeps me there for “just one more thing! No really, this is the last one!” That ritual can last for hours.

The thing she loves best is to taunt me, building the insults one atop another. When I can’t button my skirt, Dee sneers that I’m a huge cow — even though she was the trigger for yesterday’s chocolate binge. “That just proves you’re even more of a loser, letting me push you around,” she laughs. “Why bother getting dressed for work anyway? You know they hate you. They’re looking for an excuse to finally get rid of you. Just stay home today and watch TV with me.”

With intensity and precision, Dee aims her attacks exactly where she knows they’ll hurt me most. At every misstep, she’s right there to make sure the cut goes deep.

“You’re such a moron. Everyone knows you’re stupid, but there you go broadcasting it again.”

“You don’t belong in nice shops like this, you clumsy hick.”

“Your friends hate having you around. They invite you just to be polite, and then can’t believe you have the gall to show up. At least you give them something to laugh at.”

I see her in photos with me, but I can never manage to scratch out her face without destroying my own. My family has met her, of course, but I doubt they have any idea who they’re dealing with.

Oh, I’ve tried to evict her, believe me. Over the years I’ve spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars with every kind  of professional you can imagine. I’ve found ways to deal with her, but I can’t get rid of her for good. I’m not sure I ever will.

When Dee is out to get somebody, usually she’ll keep them from sleeping much, making the days a dragging ordeal of irritability and fog, and the nights an interminable frustration. But for me, Dee chose a special torture. She lets me sleep, but fills my dreams with such demons and terror that I try to stay awake for days, always failing. And guess who’s always there to sit with me in the dark after my screams have died away.

I know what Dee’s ultimate goal is. She may well succeed. She wants me dead.

She’s every bit as smart as I am, as clever and creative and calculating. She uses those resources against me. She knows everything about what I want, what I fear, when I’m most at risk. And she never fails to use every tool against me. She is a disease. She is in my head.

I mean this literally. Dee is my depression — my own brain trying to kill me.

Living with depression is like having a Single White Female style roommate. It’s as if someone else is running my life (badly), insulting my friends, fumbling in front of my boss, losing things, screwing up, shrieking. Depression takes over, controlling my mind and my body, ruining everything it touches and keeping me from even leaving my bed for days upon stinky non-showering days.

This condition is sometimes treatable with medication, but not the way you see on TV. I can’t pop a “happy pill” and be all better for the next few hours. There’s no cartoon bubble who has “the blues” and then gets bouncy and happy mere seconds later. The meds rollercoaster means that I tried one drug for a few weeks, then changed the dosage for a few weeks, then tried another for a few weeks, then waited until that one left my system before trying another, and on and on. It took months to find the one that works (for some people, none of them work), and then I got to coast for a while… until it stopped working, as they all do. Then I got back in line and onto the rollercoaster again. My current cocktail, which is beginning to peter out, even has side effects associated with stopping the drug. It’s a bit like diabetes — the meds are dificult to get right, and there’s always something seemingly harmless that’s ready to throw the whole system out of whack.

And I’m one of the lucky ones. When the fog and paralysis are lifted, many patients find the energy to go through with their suicidal thoughts.

I’m doing OK, balancing the side effects, and chugging along as what they call a “high-functioning” depressive. But Dee is always in the background, with her vile whispers and nightmares and lethargy. Waiting for a weak moment when I slip back into the rut and finally can’t pull myself out.

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2 Comments »

  1. as-94783-sa

    Nice blog.. I ll come back :]

    Comment by Pete — August 22, 2006 @ 10:57 am

  2. i felt a sort of kindred spirit while reading “Dee”. I went thru the same thing, was called a “high-functioning depressive”. I hope youre doing better hun…

    Comment by Kate — August 25, 2006 @ 8:04 am


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