Five a.m. Blogging....

Im sitting here are five a.m. waiting for it to be an acceptable time to call my boss and tell him my exam schedule. I walked by my work four times today, but never managed to stumble in from the cold and let them know that there are a bunch of days I can't work because I have a ridiculous number of term papers and finals to write.

I've been having problems doing even the most basic tasks lately, and it's getting hard. So, I'm chain smoking and reading Dooce archives at five a.m.

Dooce writes so eloquently and I'm reading the archives where she spirals into depression, and it all sounds so familiar.

I've been having a rough time of late, and I'm trying my damndest to keep it under control.

All my life I've been fairly comfortable with my diagnosis as Obsessive Compulsive. But lately I've been questioning that because I've been less prone to chew, scrub, arrange, and count things and more likely to sit, stare, and listen to Hank Williams.

Some days there are tasks that are just so huge that I can't contemplate even beginning them, such as going to the grocery store or my work (Both of which I walk by several times per day) to get change to do my laundry with.

I've been trying to put on a happy face. I've been trying to remain focussed on my goals for the future, on moving home, on Christmas and the vacation that my parents are taking me on this year after Christmas.

But at the same time, everything feels kind of bleak. The problem is that guilt follows these feelings I have. I have everything I need to be happy: My roommate is wonderfully understanding and compassionate when I'm feeling down; my family is just plain wonderful; I have a myriad of people I can call at any time to come and comfort me or to just be present. I have a huge support network at my disposal and still: I feel bleak.

I've also been having massive anxiety as of late. Where I can't do anything but sit on my couch and listen to bad country music while simultaneously daydreaming about nothing at all.

I think that one of the hardest things about my anxiety and emotional issues is that people feel that these issues are their fault. They feel like they should help, or do something, or for the love of God, something. I know that it's hard for my family to deal with having a crazy person as a member. I think this is a downfall of having a family that loves you this much, because I worry about them worrying. And then it turns into a vicious cycle of worry.

I've been contemplating a course of action for weeks now. I don't know what this course of action will be. I want to go to my city doctor again and say: Look here, Honey. This shit is not working and I still feel like ass. Truth be told, I'd kind of like to slap her, because she's not that interested in talking about any of my feelings, or following up on things that I've told her in weeks past. She just ups the number of milligrams of my new, pretty green and yellow pills and sends me on my way with a script for something that my mother used to sedate cattle with in the eighties.

I think the first step is recognition, though. I think that if I give this thing, this whatever-it-is the recognition that it deserves and clearly needs, I'll be on my way.

And while I'm at it, I think I'll be on my way to book another appointment with another doctor somewhere in this world: Hopefully one who says things like "Hi, how are you feeling this week?" Rather than "Did you up your Drug X this week? By how much?" as a greeting.

Baby steps. It's all about the baby steps.

And, as always? I'll be just fine. Because I'm me, and as a result of being me, there is no other option than to be just fine in the end. I always am.

Toonses