Daily Archives: January 3, 2013

Step by Step

Today is a so far, so good sort of thing. My driving lesson went well, and even with my instructor arriving early, I had time to finish my coffee. Not sure it made it to my blood stream though, ha ha.

Past that, I feel meh. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is. I guess that’s okay? It’s probably still a depressive state, but the body isn’t feeling quite so flooded with Vitamin Sad, and the mind is too asleep to give a rat’s ass about anything. So it’s… something, I guess. I’m up enough to be okay being out of my house, but down enough that I don’t feel like doing bupkis. Which is fine for today, ’cause I had planned to do very little (I might poke a little bit of work along if the chance comes up, but I’m not going to push for it to).

I guess that’s it for today… not much going on, and that’s fine by me.




My heart is beating like a sledge hammer.

I have no idea why I am so amped up. Cymbalta.  The energy boost is good.

The anxiety side effect blows. She’s gonna take my xanax away, though, so I guess I’d better adapt to a perpetual state of anxiety and sheer panic.

I’ve been writing. Yes, I am a writer. No, I do not get paid for it. I like to write novel type thingies. I had an agent once. She liked the manuscript I had at the time. Unfortunately, reality seeped in and it all got lost in the shuffle. I quit caring whether or not my writings ever saw the light of day. One day I woke up and the depressions overwhelmed the manic episodes and my will to live-with any joy or gumption-got swallowed up by my own dysfunctional brain.

It sounds like an excuse.

But it isn’t. I have been writing-short stories, journals, novels, poetry-since I was 8 years old. I write because I am compelled to do so.

I am currently (pardon the pun) revamping my vampire novel. I finished it last summer, then blocked again. Now I am just taking it a day at a time and not spazzing out when I block (like last night, I stared at a blinking cursor for two hours before I finally gave up.) I write when the creative urge is there. The rest of the time I get on with life and just agonize that I am not writing. Nature of the creative beast.

I just quit caring if I ever made money at it. People say you can’t be called a writer if you don’t get paid. That’s bullshit.

I am not an AUTHOR, as I’ve not been published or paid.


It’s my therapy.

Though my neuroses is interfering, pointing out the time and that if I want to be asleep by midnight, I need to go to bed now and let the tossing and turning commence.

I don’t know why I can’t seem to shake this dark space. A lot of the other mental gloom has lifted due to the Cymbalta. But some of it still lingers and that depresses me right back down.

It’s like I am on a bicycle and I am pedaling as fast and hard as I can to get to the top of a hill…and I can’t get there, no matter what I do. Just not there yet.

And wonder if I ever will be.

I also wonder-is this overwhelming anxiety a side effect I am willing to live with just for partial relief of my depression.

I am so sick of the trade off. Sane, but loopy and riddled with side effects. Or crazy but no loopiness or side effects.

Anyone who thinks people take these psych meds for attention or shits and giggles is a moron.

Happy pills, my ass.

Dog Saves Owner from Possible Death **Good News**


I have been so immersed in bad news: oh, you really don’t want to know what kinds of horrible news I have been researching for one reason or another.  So right in the midst of chasing down an awful story comes this delightful tidbit that just makes you want to jump for joy and kiss your nearest canine companion, which is exactly what I intend to do as soon as I finish this post.

Puppy love runs deep, folks, it sure does.