Really fun stuff: depression and inside jokes
This is so much fun, it hurts to relate it. This the short version: I bought racy brassieres at Victoria Secret, watched Young Frankenstein and Dirty Dancing while Becca shot me icy looks and Katie and her boyfriend made out, then got locked out of the house and had to spend a fair portion of the night curled up in the back seat of my parent's station wagon.
I guess that's all there is. My night last night was crap. I mean, it wasn't really crap until I was locked out without a key. Actually, it started going downhill after we got back from shopping and Katie dropped me off at my car. I started feeling depressed. The sawdust-like taste in my mouth came back. I felt exhausted, even though it was only eight thirty. I felt like I lacked the energy to even cry.
Sometimes I don't know how to tell if I'm depressed or not. I guess the greatest indicator is how I act around other people: if I don't even bother to hold up a facade. If I act sullen around people I love and care about. (they're being funny, loving, or good, and I'm antisocial and pugnacious.) If I'm too exhausted to force a smile and carry on the charade. (around my family - particularly christmastime - I had a deathly hard time pretending to be happier than I was.)
I think another indicator is how I act in my car when I'm all alone. In science like terms, when no work is being done on the system. When I'm not around people who make me happy, when no one is making me laugh or glow. This is what happened last night. I'd been having a good time with katie and becca, was happy and smiling and laughing. As soon as I was alone, and as soon as there was no one to make me happy and smile and laugh, I felt depressed again.
I thought about this a whole lot during Christmas break - when I was probably the most depressed I've ever been in my life. Why did I need other people so desperately? Why couldn't I un-depress myself by myself? I mean, I didn't expect myself to pull myself out on my own. That's why I called that number, that's why I got help. I'd be a fool to think otherwise. I wish I could though - I wish I could weave my own magic. I kept calling it magic: it was. I've said this constantly, but the night I saw that therapist was magical. Mystical almost. In one fell swoop, I felt better than I had all week. I left the therapists office feeling as though this huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
I guess that feeling was relief to be able to tell someone exactly how badly I was depressed. I hadn't been talking to anyone except a fellow online about how badly I felt. Certainly not my parents, and certainly not my friends (even though I thought I was hinting). My parents had clued into the fact that something was wrong, but they were angry with me. Angry because I hadn't acted kindly, angry because I hadn't been polite. Not concerned that there was something deeply wrong.
I'm glad I got help, and I'm glad I trusted a few people enough to let them know that there was something wrong - exactly how depressed I was. For that, I am lucky. I wish, though, that I didn't need this. Maybe that would be more than human of me - to be able to cure myself of depression every time I slipped into it. I can still wish. Last night, alone in my car I felt the depression sneak back.
I thought; "Apparently I need to keep funny and warm people around me to keep from being depressed." Maybe, though, it was going from an emotional high to being all alone. Maybe getting used to myself, and getting myself to cheer myself up is the trick.
And seeing a therapist. And taking my prozac. I know, I'm not going to be foolish and think that I can cure myself. Don't worry...
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The most fun, last night, was banging on the door trying to wake my parents up. Man, I don't usually have fun like that. So, I don't carry around a house key. And the porch door was open. Was I a moron? I don't know - I was completely exhausted. When I realized the door was locked, and when I realized no one was awake I started crying hysterically.
No, I mean that. Hysterically. Like babies cry - loud, coughing, choking tears. More wails than tears. Screaming and hiccoughing. I pounded on the door, I shouted, I screamed, I wailed. I'm so good at self pity.
I really wanted to go to bed.
In defeat, I curled up in the back of my mother's station wagon. She had left inflatable mattresses (no clue why), and a lightweight jacket in the car. So, I tried to insulate myself with the plastic mattress and tried to just rest. I couldn't sleep. I considered driving to a friend's house and crashing there, but my car's on empty and I didn't want to have to get gas at one in the morning.
Finally I realized the cell phone was in the car. So I called; there's still a sullen-margaret-message on the answering machine: "Mom. Dad. I'm in the station wagon. You locked me out. I'm going to call till you let me in." Well, actually, I called until the cell phone ran out of batteries. And I started weeping.
What a mess I am. What an emotional wreck I can become. Well, it was late, and I was bleedin' tired. I tried to sleep in the car for an hour and a half, and finally gave up and started pounding on the door and screaming again. (like i give a care about the neighbors...)
And my dad let me in. (he berated me for not having a key, and not realizing the porch door was open.) And I fell asleep finally, warm and comfortable, at three am.
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This is really random: "do you think fucking like rabbits is better without all the mushy bunny stuff? do you think its okay? i bet you dont, you drink tea. boys should either drink tea or play the piano, it makes up for anything."
Now, that reads like one long inside joke. I realized that a lot of my site must sound like an inside joke. Let me assure you (you being the complete stranger that may be reading this.) this site, if it is an inside joke, is an inside joke for one. I'm the only one who gets it. Maybe that's a really exclusionary way to write. You know, though, even though I say "No one gets it but me," I'm sure I don't get it either. So the playing field is leveled...
That being said, I didn't write the bit about "fucking like rabbits." Oh no. That's an excerpt from a letter Becca sent calvin. (ugh, I know you don't know or care who these people are. I'll make a legend if that'd be helpful. Let me know. I won't otherwise...) Funny thing is, she didn't sign the letter and Katie and Becca led him to believe it was from me. The whole thing is like that excerpt - I can see how he would beleive them. And then I can see that he's really dense for not figuring it out that Becca sent that letter.
"had a grand idea today.....the car wash! isn't that the sexiest place ever? ... well i could keep going, ya know....jello? the woods? the beach? what is it that turns you on, calvin? i bet its rose petals and candlelight.....(you drink tea)."
Would I ever say something like that? All I can say is this: I love my racy brassiere.
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Other stuff tonight: I apologize for the grammar and spelling of this journal. I know it's crappy. I'm working on it. It's such a pain going through and fixing all those verb tenses I messed up. (the diaryland editor smushes all the paragraphs together and it stops making sense.) I promise you this: I'll do my best to keep it from becoming ambiguous. That's really all I'm concerned about, that it's readable.
I decided I'm not going to do any work I don't want to do for the rest of the year. Ok, I might do some work I don't feel like doing, but precious little. Is that so outrageous? Why am I expected to be well-rounded? I'm not, I have a definite aversion to science and a definite strength in English and Latin. So why'm I in physics, that mind-rotting class? Why do I have to do work I don't need to or want to do?
Alright, I have too much time on my hands. This is an experiment in art and the internet. I took a picture of the chaos that is my bathroom floor. Now, in and of itself, there is no art in my dirty laundry. And that picture, in and of itself, is not art. I think, maybe, by putting it online makes it some sort of art. Or just weird.
You get to see my dirty clothes! I wonder how that would make me feel, if I could see your dirty clothes! I don't know who you are, but those are my dirty clothes. Online! Weird.
One of my enter keys wasn't working, but now it is.
margaret patton: developing new ways to waste the internet's space and time
(that's my new slogan.)
In russian, my name means "That which loves steno notebooks." Or just "muggerbugger."
Some time ago, I mentioned on my pita that I was listening to this patti smith song called "new party." It's going to be on her album "Gung Ho" which is not out yet, and I don't know when it's coming out. At any rate, there's a great line that goes "Why don't you fertilize my loins / with words runnin' from your mouth." On the babelogue list, people translated it as "Why don't you fertilize my lawn." Now, I don't really know which it is. Personally, I'd like to think it's "loins" over "lawns" except I really do hear "lawns." What a disapointment! I thought the imagery of fertilizing one's loins with words was the coolest thing I'd heard in ages.
2000-01-09, Bad night out, Depression, inside jokes. And racy bras!
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