This is just a fairly brief post to let you guys know that I’m alive and kicking. I’m riding out a couple of medication side-effects and I won’t pretend things are all suddenly hunky-dory, but I am hanging in there and for the time being have decided to continue working full-time. At any rate, I just wanted to thank you guys so much for caring and for stopping by and offering your support. You’re amazing!!

Apologies for being away from the blog for a few days. I wasn’t feeling centered enough to write, if you know what I mean. I had a doctor (psychiatrist) appointment yesterday that I was mega-anxious about, and I was feeling too tense to do anything other than write about being tense, which I felt would only add to the tension. If you get my drift.

MC came with me to my appointment for moral support, because it was time for me to come clean with my doctor about how things have been the last few months, and particularly in the last acutely difficult month. A medication adjustment has been made, and now I’ll also be taking something to help me sleep as a short-term measure. I had the epiphany at my appointment that I have rarely slept through the whole night in months. I have been fairly dismissive of this problem, because A) MC has unconventional sleep habits–sorry sugar, it’s true!–which kind of made me feel they were normal for me, too and B) technically I’ve been getting close to 7 or 8 hours of sleep per night, just not all in a row—not quality, deep sleep. But the fact is I am *gazausted*.

Naturally the pharmacy kicked up a fuss about the sleeping pills so I couldn’t get them yesterday. Insurance crap. Maybe tonight.

For the record, I am not a huge fan of pills. I am not a fan of being on them, possibly for life (the anti-depressants, that is; the sleeping pills are a short-term measure). But I need to be a fan of myself here, and of being alive, and feeling better and clearer and less desperate. So I will do what it takes and try to keep an open mind.

I have a decision to make regarding work and possibly taking some unpaid time off. This is in the forefront of my mind today.

I have to put other people’s opinions out of my head on this issue, and decide what makes sense for me. I deal a lot with fear as part of my emotional issues. I am fearful of losing the support of people I care about, and I am fearful of being judged. But I am also very tough and capable of pulling myself out of that vortex of hyper-concern regarding What People Think, if need be.

Would my company decide that my position was redundant and in fact unnecessary should I take a leave of absence? I know they have to save your job for you, legally, but might it not be phased out in those following months? And how would my co-workers look upon me if I were to leave for an extended period of time? How would they react upon my return? If I had cancer, it would be a different matter. I am extremely grateful that I don’t have cancer; that goes without saying. Still I am afraid of people judging me and telling me I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. But how can anyone else really know the emotional depths I find myself trapped in? How can anyone call a measure “extreme” unless they have been walking in my shoes? I find myself thinking of R, and how for whatever reason he couldn’t seem to take the extreme measures that might have saved his life, and it grieves me to the core and serves as a warning. He is gone forever, not just for a three months leave.

Then again, I am not R; I am myself. What’s right for me is something that only I can determine, and something that I have to be able to stand by and defend, even if that puts me in a majority of one (or two, because my dear MC is with me always).

As you may gather, dieting is not exactly at the forefront of my mind, so I should probably change the little blurb in the sidebar, huh?

That word. Ugh! It has the tainted mark upon it that I associate with the phrase “healthy lifestyle.” A certain trying-to-have-the-best-of-both-words smarminess. Like, I’m on a diet but see I’m not really, ’cause it’s a lifestyle. Or, look how deep I am, I’m kind of religious but not in a creepy, specific way because that’s way too retro, you know, I’m like spiritual.

I’m spiritual. I found Jesus in my mid-20s and then lost him about two years later, but the thing wouldn’t completely die. I guess anyone who believes there’s more to the world that what meets the eye or the microscope could describe themselves as spiritual. Whatever. It’s just a word.

More importantly: I have a spiritual advisor. Hah hah, you are so jealous right now, aren’t you? Except my spiritual advisor isn’t a guru in a swath of fabric; he’s just, you know, a guy. I will call him Jon. Okay, so I suppose he’s a pastor and all of that, but more importantly, he’s a friend of mine.

The first time I saw him preach (back when I was still on the Jesus train), I was perturbed by how young (just five years older than me) and good-looking he was, and by the fact that he wasn’t wearing pleated khakis or anything. Pastors are not supposed to be hot, and they are not supposed to rock Converse sneakers with natural ease. They just aren’t.

But it didn’t take too long to get over my initial consternation, because Jon and his family are incredibly down-to-earth. He didn’t mind when I slipped and said incredibly un-PC things or grumbled in small-group meetings when people got too self-righteous. Still, I don’t know that our bond would have really cemented (seeing as he is, after all, heading up a dynamic, up-and-coming congregation, and other such trivialities), if I hadn’t gone into the mental hospital four years ago.

Can I get a “Praise Jesus!”? If I hadn’t gone into the House of Crazy, Jon wouldn’t have had the opportunity to come and visit me during my voluntary incarceration (is there a better word for it?), thus proving to me that religious leaders can be laid back and non-zealotty and supportive and listening and miraculously unweirded-out by the fact that I’d admitted to myself and God and everyone that I was completely out of my head. I’m sure he had a million other things he could have been doing, but he was there sitting with me, being all cool and non-judgmental and human.

I never forgot that, and I never will. It meant so much to me that I can still remember that sensation of feeling incredibly valued by this person I respected, all this in spite of my damaged state. People who believe wholeheartedly in a father-God must feel that way all the time.

I don’t get to see Jon very often anymore, partly because I’m not a regular church-goer at this point and partly because I’m so asocial in general. But we had lunch together today, and it was awesome because although in many ways we are peers as well as people who are very similar (this despite my, um, colorful past), he still has this knack of giving me advice without actually advising me. I can’t really explain it, but it’s so much better than all the fatuous self-improvement books in the world combined. And after we discuss chilling out at a monastery, we move right on to the Wire, and what’s going on with so-and-so, and this and that, and then it’s time to go far too soon.

Do you have to beat the qualifying time for the Boston Marathon to consider yourself a runner? When can you say you officially meet the requirements?

In 2001, I ran 26.2 miles in Chicago at about a 12-mile-per-hour pace. I had trained six long months in New York City for that day in early October.

And still, if you had asked me, I would not have called myself a runner.

I ran about five days a week during that time, including a long (up to 20 miles) run on Saturdays with a group. But I was not a runner.

I ran in the rain and in the steamy concrete-jungle heat of the city summer. I ran even when I felt like crying and taking my ball and going home. But still, I wasn’t a runner.

Why wasn’t I a runner? I mean, after all, I ran a damn marathon, people! What was going through my head? Let’s see a sample of those thoughts:

The only reason I stuck it out is because I started dating my coach halfway through the training. I wasn’t that fast; I would never win any races. I didn’t belong to the city running club, I didn’t hang with running friends (coach aside). A few months before I started training, I was a night-life hellion and didn’t do more than walk to the subway, so how could I be so presumptuous as to think of myself as an athlete of any kind?

I was a runner but I never gave myself credit for any of it. It wasn’t just physical hard work; it was also a major mental and social challenge. A few of my friends thought I was insane (”Wait, you’re not going out with us tonight because you have to run 16 miles tomorrow? WTF?!”), and my family sometimes worried I would injure myself. I busted my butt, so I’m retroactively giving myself credit!

What does it take to be a runner? Well, you have to run, and you have to keep at it. There’s no speed qualifier for that.

Today I look sharp. I’m wearing a brand-new blouse and carrying a brand-new purse, and I’m all made up. I wish I had a camera with me. I may not be thin, but I look put-together, and my skin and hair look great (new Alba shampoo and conditioner!), and all together it makes me feel like smiling at my reflection in the mirror instead of hastily looking away as usual. Nice. This Benefit glowy primer stuff I applied before I put on my light foundation looks great. I don’t think women need to wear even a lick of makeup to look beautiful, but sometimes it helps to bolster your confidence ;).

I came across a great blog about running and maintaining a balanced life today thanks to Yahoo’s Shine website, and I totally recommend checking it out. Alissa, the writer, recovered from an exercise obsession and disordered eating about five years ago, and now is committed to and confident in her more balanced life. She’s still crazy about running, but she’s doing it out of love of the sport now rather than obsessing about burning off calories or losing weight.

At Half of Me, I read a post in which Jennette writes about the things that have stayed the same in her life and personality, regardless of her dramatic weight-loss, and how she derives a certain empowerment from that. I found myself feeling a bit wistful after reading this, wishing I had a similar self-knowledge. An excerpt of my comment on her post:

I’ve wanted to be lots of “types” of people in my life. . . . Sometimes I’ve even made close approximations and seemed to fit in with others of that type, whether they were club kids or goody-two-shoes. I’ve modeled myself briefly on close friends I admired. I’m one of those people who’s tried dozens of perfumes looking for the perfect fit. It’s cool that you seem to be at a place where you know and accept who you really are. Sometimes I’m not sure if I have that knowledge of myself, despite all the years of exploration. . . .

I think part of me has always worried that the real me was nothing worth developing or getting to know.  She was just a scary, depressed misfit. Everyone else seemed so cool, so interesting, so sure of themselves. If they weren’t all particularly well-adjusted individuals (Ms J, the brilliant criminal with explosives knowledge and an exhaustive 80s vinyl collection comes to mind), they at least seemed very much themselves. Despite my veneer of self-awareness and my ability to converse fluently about my neuroses, I wonder how much I really know about who I am, or how much I’m willing to admit who I am.

It’s easy to adopt a “lifestyle” . . . at least for awhile, till the act grows exhausting. This article depicts one successful weight loser’s frustration with the glib, flippant way that term is used. Lifestyles can be taken on and off like clothes . . . what we really need are lives.

I don’t want a lifestyle. I don’t want to want to be anyone else. I want a life. Currently, my life, such as it is, needs saving. I have a solid support system that includes my boyfriend, my parents, and my close friend down in Houston. But ultimately, it’s up to me to take action.

Do you believe that small steps can save you from imploding? That observations you have made about yourself in the past can help to turn things around?

More than weight-loss for its own sake, I desperately need exercise. It has always helped to level me out in the past. Not to be overly dramatic, but if physical exertion stands between me and the brink, I’ll damn well exert and get over myself. A lot of people are spurred to weight loss by a health risk brought into clear relief. For me, my deep depression this past week–in fact, these last few months–has been that clarion call. I will not flirt with death simply because I’m scared of a little exercise. It’s worth a try, at the very least.

I’ll go back to the doctor next week, too, and level with him, and see if my current medications can’t be changed to give me the energy I need to accomplish what I need to accomplish. I hate having to admit that I haven’t been entirely forthright with him. I hate the fact that I know he and most psychiatrists are given perks by the drug companies, and I can’t entirely trust them for that reason. But I’m at a place where my principles must take a back seat to my survival.

I don’t want to try out another new lifestyle like I’m borrowing someone else’s jacket, makeup, or perfume. I want to become and to be myself. I guess I have to start somewhere, so here goes.

Is there an endless supply of ourselves? If a photograph can steal your soul, can a blog about your innermost heart give it away, too? Is there anything left for you, afterwards? And have you really helped anyway by sharing your story, or are you just spreading the pain around? I haven’t deleted the posts about my mental health that I posted last week, but I made them private (for my eyes only) this weekend. I may repost them shortly. But I needed a break from feeling so exposed.

Yesterday was a relatively good day for me, and today I only cried once, while looking online at dogs who need to be adopted from the Lone Star Bulldog Rescue group. (MC and I plan to adopt a dog at some point.) Tears were rolling down my face because I felt bad that any of them should be unwanted. These were “problem” dogs, in many cases: one almost blind, one with training issues, another with a missing leg. “No one wants ‘problem’ dogs!” I sobbed out loud.

“That’s not true,” MC said. “We do.”

In my heart I think I’m always worried that no one wants ‘problem’ people, that some of us in this world, whether we’re three-legged puppies or serotonin-challenged girls, will be castaways always looking for a home.

We find each other somehow, though. Like to like, freak to freak, strange to strange, funk to funky, chunk to chunky. We see each other through old rave goggles or steam punk monocles or 3-D glasses and recognize a long-lost friend.

Tonight:

I was going to watch Dr. Who on the SciFi Channel while eating ice cream. The episode I want to see involves an evil diet pill company and cute aliens made of lard exploding out of fat people’s stomachs. Which may not go well with eating ice cream. At any rate, it turns out that this particular episode, “Partners in Crime,” is actually not being aired until next week. Not fair!!

Tomorrow:

Revisit the farmer’s market! Buy the non-sweetened strawberry jam (nice and tart). And a fresh bouquet of flowers for the kitchen table.

Sunday:

Erm . . .

So what are you guys up to this weekend?

Of course I am.

I am not a bad person. I am not a burden to my boyfriend. I am not going to be sad every day for the rest of my life. I will not hate myself for having trouble working lately. I will not call myself lazy. I am good. I am awesome. This is what I tell myself.

I hate worrying people but I do it anyway. I’m good at faking things with people who don’t know me well, but still I write and put it all out there (here). Writing is misleading though; sometimes people think that just because you can write clearly about pain, you are the master of it. Nothing could be further from reality.

Nevertheless: Writing kills time, and makes me really think about things, and sometimes it makes me annoyed with myself for sharing so much, because it exposes other people to my problems.

But I am not a bad person. I’m awesome and good. I could get in a car and drive to New Mexico. Or I could write a book on nothing. I could work on an organic farm. I could build a castle out of pure information. I could run in circles on a track, or run in a straight line on a street. I could avoid everyone and then slowly rebuild in the nuclear winter of my social life. I could huddle on the floor beside the bed.

Sometimes I loathe myself because I don’t deserve to be miserable (unless I were a lawyer). I have no drug addictions, I am lucky. Unless you count these pills that supposedly keep me on an even keel. I have food, I am lucky. I have issues with food, I eat too much of it, pizza twice a week these days. I have a home, for now, until I can’t work because I’m too nuts. I am lucky. I have my boyfriend, I am lucky, lucky. The worry in his face is like a bruise on my heart.

You want to look away right about now, don’t you?

Oh, don’t worry. I always, always, always survive. It’s my selling point ;).

So it’s not too good, inside me, lately. It hasn’t been good on a consistent basis for more than a day or two here and there in a while. I dislike saying this because my family is among my readers, and I hate making people worry about me because like a cat I always land on my feet. Eventually. But anyway, I don’t want to avoid my blog here, and let’s face it: I don’t bring earth-shattering new information or tons of practical resources to you guys; in the end, all I can really offer is who I am and my honesty about that. It’s a willful blog, and I say what I want to, even when it’s technically off-topic. Although isn’t this, um, supposed to be about weight loss?

I have been off-topic. I feel that I’ve lost the plot. But hey, that’s part of losing weight too, right? Real life.

My limbs and head are heavy today. All I can think is, “I need some rest, I need some rest, I need to get away, I need some time.” I have taken every last sick day and vacation day that I could . . . many of them in the past few months; coincidentally, in these months since we found out about R’s death. Maybe that started this particular mini-spiral amongst the larger spiral. Who knows. I don’t even really care what the genesis was. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to drag my sorry ass to work every day and deal with it somehow.

I wish I could take a break from it all. Not from MC, of course; just from the routine. And not for just a day or two. I wish there was a summer vacation on my horizon, a summer vacation that looked endless, my life temporarily not measured out in coffee spoons for an indefinite while.

I am special. Oh, so very special. I am somehow ill-equipped for living the way people are supposed to live. In my better moments, I generously cut myself some slack for this. After all, I am different. And yet monotonous and dull. I can make curmudgeons and suicidal people laugh, but I can’t seem to cheer myself up. I can talk big about the future, but I’m so very tired right now. I know it takes all types to make the world complete, but my type is starting to seriously piss me off.

I wish I could build a safe little house by hand out of stucco, and coax the most wonderful garden out of the earth around it, and naturally MC would live there with me , and we would have people come round for dinner once a week, and I would be bright and charismatic and charming and I would know how to cook (magically!). And I would have care to spare on neighbors and friends not doing so well, and I would be not a pillar of the community but still a part of it, someone that people would miss if she wasn’t there. And I would not have to take pills everyday, because there would be lots of sunshine and fresh air and no 8-to-5 job. And I would not be famous or world-renowned, but I would be well-loved by many, because I might have a sharp tongue still but I would also have a soft heart that I was never afraid to show.