new york was wonderful, rejuvenating, inspiring...
but it, like the blue hair, while effective was not enough to concur this "rough time" i'm going through.
sunday night i received word of my thesis committee. basically, my program sucks and is screwing me over and appointing random people who have nothing to do with what i want to study even though there are many people on topic in the school. yes, a tough blow for anyone. normally, read: six months ago, i would have compiled a list of appropriate officials and professors to write letters to and meet with in order to "straighten things out" and improve the program for everyone, really.
instead, i go crazy. not immediately. immediately i was still on the tale end of a manic day. had a wal-som and a xanax before i even read the email. took another one of each after ranting to dacia. we started a movie, she fell asleep, i was too agitated and upset.
so i looked for jobs (those of you in new york, there are so many AWESOME sex jobs posted on idealist.org right now! i am super jealous. go forth and make a sexy difference). i actually found a "perfect" position posted at the local queer counseling clinic as an HIV/AIDS, STI (they actually said STI, i hadn't seen STI in months), hepatitis educator. i'm overqualified except for my less than lingual spanish skills (but i can read and translate and loosely talk about sexual health and cervixes and stuff, not to mention i can cuss like a mexican sailor). oh yeah, and there is that other exception: namely, I'M CRAZY!
but with this new, admittedly flawed, plan i passed out for about twelve hours. i woke up too late to make an emergency appointment with my new york therapist. instead, i helped dacia prep for the spread party and then intended to nap.
instead of sleeping, i called my mom. i needed someone to tell me "everything will be okay". but i caught her at a bad time because when i started crying about the program and feeling like i had been bamboozled, she replied with "Jane, i can't live with you like this." So i apologized for calling and hung up. not very mature, but i'm crazy goddammit, part of which is acting irrationally.
so i took two xanaxs, a shot of whiskey, and a beer, and sobbed (deep guttural noises that reminded me of whales and dying cows that i had never heard, especially not from my throat) in dacia's bathtub with the shower on as hot as possible until the water ran cold.
in the shower my mind raced through various suicide techniques and technicalities. primarily, i didn't have a place to kill myself. it wouldn't be fair to kill myself at dacia's because i like dacia and that would fuck her up. and if i killed myself in new york it would be very expensive and time consuming to ship the body to texas, where none of my friends could come to the funeral anyways because they all live in new york (except the 5 whole friends i have here). the plane bathroom seemed like a great idea until i remembered that episode of CSI where the guy is murdered and they have to hold the plane for twleve hours and quarantine everyone on it while they question each person individually. i just wanted to be dead, not a nuisance.
and that was the weird part. i haven't attempted suicide since 15 and haven't really thought about it (in terms of tactics) since i was 19. the thoughts alone terrified me. but the motivation surprised me. in the past i had always wanted to kill myself because i was such a horrible person who deserved to die so everyone else who was impacted by me could have a better happier life and starving children in ethiopia would have one more stupid rich girl's worth of air to breath (serious logic to my attempts circa 11 thru 13). but this time i just wanted it to be over. i wanted to stop feeling and stop having to live with this. the mood swings, the lack of dependability on myself, the sudden incapabilities where i had always been so strong, and the crying jags that leave me with severe headaches. plus i was basically thinking about killing myself over grad school. what kind of nitwit does that?
while i was in the bathroom, my mom called four times leaving messages like, "thanks for ruining my evening because now i have to worry about you" and later more sincerely concerned messages. when i got out, all numbed, i called her to apologize for calling her when i was upset and worrying her by hanging up. i told her i had taken a bath (a technique she knows i use to calm down) and felt better. but i couldn't talk because i had to get ready for the spread party.
i dried my hair and braided it randomly. i tried the frida braids but they highlighted the fading turquoise which is now green & yellow and brought out the blond roots (the majority of the hair is as blue as ever, with bright streaks, and purple undertones. even my mom thinks its beautiful). so with a few random braids and a couple misplaced barrettes, i lined my eyes in turquoise with pink shadow (sounds 80s but looked cute). then i walked across the street for an egg salad sandwich and cherry coke (caffeine for the headache). i impulsively bought some dorritos.
when i started eating i called my mom again, because my throat was lumpy. i started with the "i was thinking about our earlier conversation and realized it didn't help either one of us. consequently, i will never call you when i am upset again because it just worsens the situation by dragging you down as well." yes, it was a guilt trip. she tried to joke it off, not accepting my offer. i tried to hang up as my throat swelled. i told her i couldn't talk any more because i just did my eye makeup and was about to go to a party. but she wouldn't let me go so i started sobbing again. she tried to talk me out of going to the spread party but i didn't think staying in an apartment by myself was the best solution. plus, half a dozen close friends (more than my sum total of friends in houston) were meeting me there. we finally hung up when dacia's neighbor showed up to head to the party with me.
despite the rough start to the evening, the party was wonderful. i was surrounded by people i loved, had a close friend in the fashion show, and bella vendetta's crotchless pantaloons were inspiring. even a cute girl who i had met on the uptown bus the day before came (she had blue hair for three years, but is now back to her natural color and just moved to new york when i was leaving town so i passed all of my friends on to her) (ps. it is annoying to make friends so easily now that i no longer live there: i met another cool girl in the bathroom at the bar, we exchanging tales of ovarian cysts and IUD attempts). the fashion show was followed by a burlesque contest hosted by murray hill. the reigning champ and eventual winner of the evening looked so familiar. then, during question and answer, she said she was a nurse. i became convinced she was my old nurse practitioner. i kept thinking that the beautiful pasty-wearing girl on the stage had given me a pap smear. after the show, i found out she was just a look-a-like but worked at a hospital near my NP's office.
so things were good. dacia, seth, and i went to a diner after to get cheese fries with gravy (debatable as a condiment), cheeseburger, and grilled cheese accordingly (we like our lactose, although it doesn't like us). and then i started crying again. goddammit.
i cried off and on for the rest of the night. dacia helped me search for residential care facilities in houston. one had a great reputation. it had been the nation's top facility in 1935. my crazy great grandfather could have been lobotomized there! and then, i could go, and his ghost would be killing people (he was a violent schizophrenic, that's why they drilled on his brain) but i would survive because i was the direct descendant, and i could wander the halls in my new $1.25 corpse bride nightgown. but their 24 operator could not answer inquiries about insurance. furthermore, my insurance company wouldn't pre-certify me for treatment at 4am.
tuesday morning, i left dacia's a little after 6am to catch my 8am flight back to houston and the epidemiology test i had crammed for all weekend (even over the best waffle and pancakes of my life at clinton st baking company for brunch on sunday. go there! it is worth the one hour wait). the cab took 15 minutes to arrive at her step, odd but okay. then there was a major wreck on the kosciuscko (spelling sux) bridge. we were locked and stopped for over an hour. i watched my boarding time come and go on the dashboard. i cried quietly, but at that point crying felt like allergies, i didn't always notice it until the snot/tear hit my cleavage. by the time i got to the airport, my flight was taking off. they put me on a later flight, but i missed my test.
i called my mom and sobbed all over again. then, a miracle: "your father and i have been talking and if this school stuff is so hard for you, maybe right now is just not the right time for you to go." huge weight lifted. i was still crying and stuff but the exhaustion and stress of trying to hold on to the threads of the semester slowly faded, like an unclenching cramped muscle.
i cried a couple times on the plane, but had a whole row to myself. i also worked on the condom/safer sex distribution plan including designing the carriers for little old arthritic ladies, and constructing a likert scale for a survey of older women's attitutudes towards condoms and sexual lubricants (YEAH LUBE!). i was still on the up kick of extremely productive project-design (i have a list of grant foundations, public organizations, and private companies to solicit for involvement and support and i decided that the survey font needs to be at least 14-16 for the near-sighted) when the plane landed. we were early and my mom was stuck in traffic. so i went to the bathroom, cried, and fixed my hair (= took out the stick and fluffed the curls) as it was going to be the first time my mom saw the blue. then i got my bag and began reading "what are you looking at? a fat fiction anthology" (just started and not in the most easy-to-concentrate state right now, but i have enjoyed that which i have read, which is admittedly the introduction and most of the first story. by the way i finished True Porn 2 on the plane. go buy it and read it and relate to it and jerk off to it, NOW!).
my mom picked me up. i cried alot on the way to my apartment. just off and on randomly. we saw my psychiatrist, who has a horrible habit of interrupting me before i can say, "...and then i started thinking about suicide". i seriously had to call her back from the door to ask her about more intensive treatment options, such as residential facilities. anyways, she perkily agreed that an intense program may be appropriate for me. i should call her to make an appointment or let her know if i check in anywhere. she also told me to start taking lexapro again with the lamictal and xanax and prescribed ambien (no more sleeping pill, xanax, and alcohol night caps for me).
i cried some more as my mom drove me back to her house, but again had some happy enthusiastic stretched there. it's like a switch somewhere but i don't know who or what is flicking it.
sandy and i are reunited. she is amazing. and she likes to eat tears, so we make a good pair right now. she also tries to lick up my snotty sobby nose, which is gross but makes me laugh.
today my mom and i got set up on dual computers trying to find appropriate treatment options. the residential place i had originally seen does not have any day program options, no internet access for six to eight weeks, no pets, and costs $900 a day. too scary. but i have an interview/assessment at a place with both day (10 to 6 everyday with evening activities available, but you sleep at home) and outpatient (afternoons or evening so to be coordinated with work or school) programs (as well as inpatient and chemical-dependency rehab programs).
i know this is help. this will be good. but it is scary. and it is also frustrating because i have been "getting help" from the very beginning. i worked with my nyc therapist for almost a year in preparation for this transition. i immediately found a new therapist (before i found a medical doctor) when i moved here. when i started swinging i found a new psychiatrist instead of riding it out on old medications. i have been honest with friends, school, and parents from the beginning that "i am not okay right now" and "i need help." i have taken all the appropriate steps. i did everything right. why am i still so broken? and why should i believe that this particular step will fix me when all the other ones did not?
because i have no other choice. i have to do something. it really feels life or death now.
and i look at my family history that my grandmother charted out as a way to try and track the crazy gene. of 34 maternal relatives between myself and my great grandfather (great aunts, second cousins, aunts and uncles, etc) 21 have struggled with mental illness. furthermore, 9 have been institutionalized or are currently on disability because their mental illness prevents them from holding a job. And there have been 3 suicides, with 3 other people with multiple attempts (myself included). Great odds. On the plus side, i now have something to play with all my epidemiology formulas.
My dad's side offers cancer, alzheimer's, alcoholism, and secrets.
I feel set up to lose. Plus, even if i cope, this is forcing me to seriously question my plans on having my own child. Can i ethically pass on these genes? And what if i go crazy as a mom? It just doesn't seem fair.
