Here I am, ensconced in my comfy bed, sans blankets and things ’cause it’s HOT out there, and. . .
. . . not sleeping.
Not-sleeping is the default mode I was issued in the sleeping-too-much / not-sleeping short-straw selection category related to the many-times-aforementioned and now official Treatment Resistant Major Depressive Disorder Lottery. Frankly, I’d rather win the Powerball version. Even if it turns out I have to buy a ticket.
Tonight’s episode may not be entirely the TRMDD’s fault. To combat the miseries that occur in the irrevocably damaged brain (cousin Skip, why don’t you sort of schlooze over toward my side of the brain-f!c% blues for a little while, hmmm?) that now lacks any form of support, be it chemical or cobbled-together tent pegs, I’ve been running my happy light for about 10 minutes every morning. I know, I know; my psych said the same thing, although he was convulsed with laughter: “Nobody uses happy lights in July!”
Thing is, that 8 or 10 minutes in the ayem gives me mental clarity that I have far too rarely enjoyed in the last three-plus drug-experimental roller-coaster, effing miserable years, and it often gives me a modicum of energy and cheerfulness, too. Neither must ever be taken for granted or shrugged off when your brain rarely shakes hands with them, believe me. Although I suspect they are the culprit in a rather alarmingly large number of blithering, long-winded and pointless emails I have recently sent to unsuspecting and defenseless recipients.
Trouble is, there’s such a fine, fine line between “happy accident” and “whoa, way-too-happy overdose,” the latter of which results in too much awakitude and too much energy (which can easily flip into irritability) and cheerifying—neither of which knows when to just freaking turn itself off—and I have no way to tell which is going to occur on any given day.
Today, obviously, it was the latter. Tomorrow, no matter how easy a day it is, will suck mightily on the big soggy black-oozing-fungus-ridden carbuncle of exhaustion, which will automatically trigger the not-happy bits since nobody’s happy without enough sleep, which will contribute to. . .
Sometimes I wonder: Do even I realize how freaking tired I am of monitoring, analyzing, measuring, and comparing every tiny mood change to some arbitrary “normal”? All I want to do is sleep when I’m sleepy, feel awake and competent when I’m awake, have enough coherence to enjoy my friends and family and (I hope) convince them I’m not entirely looney tunes, and squeak past the “earn a living” square on the game board.
That shouldn’t be too much for anyone to ask. Even me.
