Something Old, Something New

I was unemployed, briefly. Emailed my former employer on the weekend to tell them that I wouldn't be coming back, which was probably neither a surprise nor a disappointment to them. It was hard to do, if only because it signalled that no matter where I end up from here, it won't be the place I was before the latest breakdown. I'm sad, but wouldn't choose to go back there, emotionally or mentally, even if it seemed at the time that things were going swimmingly. They clearly weren't. I received extremely nice and supportive emails back, wishing me all the best, and then three hours later was asked to start a new job, with a new company, on April 14th. My disability allowance (which FINALLY came in last week) finishes on April 13th, so it's perfect timing.

The new position is quite different for me - sales administration, which I think will require me to use every tiny maths skill I have. Hopefully, I won't get bored and get into emotional and social mischief...

I had my psych appointment with Dr A this morning, and apart from the new job it was all about I. Oliver. I'm not sure how or why he came into the conversation... I think narratively I must have been revisiting 1992, which is where it all started. It always astonishes me how much I cry telling the story, or stories, even twelve years after the end of things. I guess that investing yourself as passionately in someone, as I did with I.Oliver for 5 years, and then being left with nothing to show for it, is enough to make me cry. Even though I think he made the right decision, chose the right life for himself, the right woman, part of me (a crazy, adolescent deluded part) will always believe he and I will end up together in the end. I suppose I will continue that stupid fantasy until my last breath, but at least these days I don't waste time or energy on pursuing the fantasy.

I know it's sick and twisted but I love the fact that the I.Oliver finale causes people (even my hardened and impartial shrink) to gasp and groan. Even though I can't do it without crying, I kind of enjoy describing my arrival in South Carolina, the long imagined romantic reunion, the voice of the other woman on the answering machine, running away to a edge-of-town motel, stuck in this backward town because of the Independence Day holiday, him saying "but I love you", "I knew if I told you about her you wouldn't come and I wanted to see you..." blah blah blah. Most of what I remember of those 5 days in 1997 is bad movies on HBO, surviving on food from the motel vending machines and mostly just cycling between numb and hysterical. I sat in the parking lot of the motel watching the July 4th fireworks, next to a pickup truck full of Georgians who came daily across the border (apparently) to swim in the motel pool. The reality was the polar opposite from how I'd imagined this Independence Day, during the 60 hours a week I'd been working for the previous year, during the last semester of University when I broke my back to graduate top of my class to impress the great I. Oliver (future Doctor don'tcha know). The previous two years had been all about getting back to the States, getting back to him and living this so-called perfect life. Once that was gone, and gone so immediately and permanently, I had nothing left. And nothing to look forward to except a breakdown, massive weight gain and finally returning to Australia to try and rebuild my life.

Sometimes I think that's a work still in progress. Mr Ex came along 18 months later, and provided such a different picture to the one I'd painted with I.Oliver. On the rebound, on the defensive, how could I NOT marry him. If I'd searched the world I could not have found someone more different. Of course, running away and hiding my head in the sand could only work for so long, and now here I am in the same place, twelve years later. To borrow a phrase from my best friend S, I think I'm relationship-challenged. Dr A has given me as homework this week the task of writing a list of things I want from a potential partner. I quipped "to be non-existant", which was deemed by Dr A as "avoidant". Tee hee. I really don't see myself with someone, not now, not ever. Any desire I had for partnership has been swallowed by libido-killing medication, mind-fucking crushes and general malaise. I don't think Dr A believes me. I wonder if he'd be mad if I wrote "richer than god", "mute" and "impotent"...

Creative Spurt

This week has been great for me as far as the creative muse is concerned. I bought two discounted wall calendars (marked down 75% as it's almost 1/4 of the way through the year I suppose) and have cut them up, making a colourful piece of art for my bedroom wall. I was considering painting, but as the property is a rental (and my taste in colours can be somewhat LESS than "neutral" haha) I opted for some removable renovations. Below is the "before" wall, then the "after", with the third photo being a close up. The pictures are from "The Earth Below" calendar (satellite images of Earth taken by NASA) and an Australian Abstract Act calendar. Weird mix, I know, but they kind of work together - and I loved the colours. It's cheered my room up immensely.

I've also been working on an accompaniment to my comfort box (see yesterday's post). There were a number of things, important things that are central to my recovery, that couldn't be "boxed up" so I made a collage (thank you Jena for the inspiration!) which I will put up on my wall to remind me of all the things I love to do when I feel low. I tried really hard to use images without triggers/reminders, and nothing addictive (which ruled out shopping, eating, caffiene, alcohol, etc, etc). I'm happy with how it turned out, and hopefully I can get back into some other art and craft I've been planning and working on.

The downside of the week was yesterday's appointment with Dr A. He was extremely supportive about me looking for a different job, not only because of the social issues but also because I am bored with the job and do need a new challenge. However, he again pushed the idea of medication. I've been "med free" since 15 Feb (almost a month!) and although getting off the Effexor was tough, I think I am doing really well. So it bugs me that he wants me to go onto 10mg of Prozac, just to help me complete the CBT and to lift my mood. I've been honest with him, and admitted that I have some suicidal ideation, but nothing anywhere close to the horror thoughts and moods I had while ON medication. And although I sometimes feel depressed (like yesterday when I found out I didn't get the job I interviewed for - boohoo) and hopeless and lost, it's okay because I know what to do and I don't need to get up and go to work, I can just take my time to get through the day. I really don't think I need medication. And what's the POINT of such a stupid low dose anyway?? I hate the way I ALWAYS need to think I am right and know more than the doctors!!! But in this case I think I DO hahahaha! My compromise is that I am going to work hard on my goals and homework for the week, WITHOUT Prozac, and then at my next session I can discuss it more with Dr A.

I just know from experience and research that one medication tends to lead to another, and sometimes it's hard to know what are side effects and what are actual symptoms. Any advice or input gladly welcomed (: