Bubble Shooter; procrastination's most useful website.

I haven't been exercising nearly as much as I'd like but what with school and my new found addiction to Bubble Shooter I can't seem to find the time. However, I am biking to class every day, 30 minutes each way. My butt is killing me! Unfortunately, my body has gone flabby all over (yuck!) and I feel pretty gross for not running. I guess we can all assume the marathon and even probably the half is out of the question. I am thinking about volunteering anyway.


Speaking of school, I'm hoping to apply for the MFA program at Ohio State by the end of the year. Last week, I had to "audition" for an undergraduate creative non-fiction writing class that I want to take in the fall. I submitted some of my work to the Professor teaching the class (who also just happens to be one of the original founders of the MFA program as OSU) and her response was "You write pretty damn well and I would LOVE to have you in my class!"


Freaking sweet.

For Future refrence

My therapist = "The Dude" because I hate being one of those people that starts off conversations with "My therapist says..."
My psychiatrist = "My Dealer" because he gives me drugs.

I see both The Dude and my dealer on Tuesday with good things to report. I've been pretty active and involved in my own life this week. But there are so many variables its impossible to pinpoint which one has caused the turn around. Could it be I don't have to waste my days in that corporate soul-sucking fascist dictatorship of job? Could it be that the Wellbutrin is starting to work? Could it be the fact that I'm running again and practicing yoga and lifting weights and I have a bunch of endorphins shooting off all over the place? Could it be that I'm eating well and treating my body with respect?

In all probability, it could be all of the above.

While the depression seems to have lifted a little, the anxiety is still there. In the midst of my progress this week, a little voice in the back of my head is telling me it won't last; that it's a manic episode; that I'm facing another inevitable crash and it will be worse. I still can't sleep even though I'm on a pretty high dose of Ambien. I don't feel like I miss the sleep and am never tired (more like wound up, high strung) where as I used to sleep all day long. Ugg. The dude and I still need to work on that.

But, running, I am. Lifting weights and yoga take a little more effort to keep consistent with but I'm trying. I still haven't been able to run farther than 2.5 miles but I'm learning to be proud of myself for sticking with it.

Good Times, Bad Times, You know I've had my share

I did some internet searching while I was hibernating in my bed since Thursday. I read somewhere that exercise can help lessen the withdrawal symptoms of Cymbalta because exercise increases your metabolism, thus, helping move the drugs out of your system faster. Like we needed another reason to prove how good exercise is for us.

So, I exercised for 2.5 hours today.

I've been trying to run, but the brain zaps, the migraines, the lack of motivation and (not to mention) the heat wave we're experiencing has made it almost impossible. Almost.

Yesterday I ran .46 miles before I had to stop and lay down in the grass. Right on a main street and everything. I am awesome. I laid in the grass with tears running in my ears. Eventually, I pulled myself up and crawled home, crying all the way.

Today, I ran TWO AND A HALF MILES and I feel like a new person. It wasn't pretty by any means and I was super slow but I did it. Then I came home and did free weights and yoga in my living room while listening to Led Zepplin on vinyl.

I think I may have turned a corner.

Drugs are bad, kids

As part of my ongoing struggle with depression/anxiety, my therapist sent me to a psychiatrist to help get me on the right medications. My GP originally prescribed Lexapro back around Thanksgiving of last year then switched to Cymbalta a few months ago when the Lexapro wasn't doing whatever it was that it was supposed to be doing. Apparently the Cymbalta isn't doing whatever it's supposed to be doing either because the depression has only gotten worse and I haven't slept in months. The psychiatrist is weening me off of the Cymbalta and having me try Wellbutrin.


The thing about all this, folks, is that it takes 6-8 weeks before they can really tell if the new meds are working. In the mean time, I just have to sit around and wait and go through the withdrawal of Cymbalta, and that's no picnic. Let me tell you what it's like:


1. I have not left my bed in 3 days
2. I have migraines so severe that the tiniest bit of light makes me have to throw up
3. My body feels like it's tingling, my lips, my fingers, my eyeballs, my cheeks all feel like they have the creepy crawlies
4. Every time I move my head or eyes, it feels like a shock of electricity shoots through my brain
5. extreme irritability, I snap at anyone for anything
6. severe mood swings. I cried through 2 hours of Dateline last night then went right back to being irritable
7. isolation from friends and family, see number 1
8. depression is worse than before. I woudn't get out of bed, even if I could.


I called both my therapist and my psychiatrist and was basically told that the withdrawal symptoms affect different people different ways and that I should just keep doing what I'm doing and that it will get better. I don't really believe them, but I'm going to do what they tell me.

I mean, what other choice do I have, really?

I ain't workin' here no more

I am probably the happiest unemployed person walking the face of the earth. Friday was my last day at my corporate soul-sucking job and I've never felt better since I told my former boss to take this job and shove it. Not in so many words, of course, but she got the idea. I as able to screw her over pretty bad without compromising my integrity or morals or any of that good stuff. I even went over and beyond what was expected of me trying to train my replacement but when she decided she didn't want the job after all and never came back, well, that's not my fault, is it? I do feel a little guilty for getting some sick pleasure out of seeing the former boss-lady squirm. I left the building at the end of the day practically doing cartwheels in the parking lot while shouting "I'm free! I'm free!"

I will tell you one thing, however, having the CEO of the company personally ask what he could do to keep me felt pretty good. Telling him "nothing" felt even better.

Monday marks a new chapter in my life. I plan on focusing on getting myself healthy, mentally and physically. I sprung for a new pair of running shoes this afternoon and for the first time in a long time, I really want to run. This is a very big deal for me. I hope to keep myself getting up early and out the door like normal people while I'm not working. I don't want to let myself become secluded in my apartment for the next two weeks while I'm waiting for school to start. That would most definitely be a step in the wrong direction.

Feels Good!

When my doctor first told me last summer that I had anxiety, I didn't believe him. I didn't feel anxious and I sure as hell didn't have anything to be anxious about. I kept brushing off the symptoms (heart palpitations, a persistent choking sensation in my throat, sleepless nights) looking for some magic pill that would make it all go away. It wasn't until I landed in the ER one night with a full blown panic attack that I decided to take the doctor's diagnosis seriously.

"Get rid of stress," she said. I learned how to relax and breathe through stressful situations.

"Make sure to get enough exercise," she said. I ran a marathon and took up yoga.

"Eat well and drink plenty of water," she said. I swore off fast food and kept my diet as clean as possible. Not quite organic, think natural.

"Find something you enjoy to make you happy," she said. I quit my job and decided to go to graduate school.

I followed the doctor's orders under the assumption that what was going on inside my brain was directly related to the things going on around me, in other words, situational. If I could only change everything around me, I would start to get better.

But what I didn't expect was to do all these things and feel worse as a result. It never occurred to me that I might have something deeper going on. I started missing work and used up all my vacation and sick time for the year before the end of April. I stayed in bed all day with the TV on as white noise, I didn't even hear it. I completely lost interest in anything and everything I used to find enjoyable. I cried constantly and for no reason and isolated myself from friends and family. Somewhere in the midst of all this, the Boy Toy hit the road, I'm not sure exactly when.

After about 6 weeks of being unable to function normally, my mom sent me to see a therapist. Through several sessions with him, I've begun to realize that I'm fighting a much bigger beast than I ever expected. He agreed with my doctor's original diagnosis, but that anxiety is only part of the problem. He told me I've probably had a mild form of depression for many many years but because it's gone untreated for so long, I've grown to assume depression as part of my personality, not recognizing it as a legitimate disease and the toll it's taken on my life.

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These last few weeks or months is something he called a "major depressive episode", like layers of an onion, the anxiety revealing itself last year as yet another symptom of a much larger issue. It's not situational, it's medical. If I had cancer or diabetes, you wouldn't tell me to "cheer up and get over it" or to stop having cancer or being diabetic. Like any other disease, the symptoms are real. The pain is deep. The healing is long. But there is healing.

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I have an appointment with a psychiatrist next week to (hopefully) get a better idea of what kind of depression I have so he can start to treat it with the right combination of cognitive talk therapy and medications. If you (or anyone you know) think you may have depression, please seek medical help. I'm learning that there is hope after all.