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Mar. 31st, 2007 02:20 pmThere are things I should be doing today; probably should go get a haircut, just for a start. But I'm still coming down from the trip back -- I arrived back a day later than planned and I've had work every day since then. Which...I have work today, too, but not until this evening.
I did clean my flat this morning, really clean, spring-cleaning -- I cleared off the living-room floor and swept it, cleaned desk and bookshelf, installed the new bookshelf I trashpicked from the alley, did the dishes, and unpacked one of my suitcases. My "bedroom" is a mess, but I live in the living room, so I can take my time cleaning the bedroom. So that's good.
There's still a lot of pressure on to find a new job, a job that pays well, a job in my field, et cetera ad nauseam. I've got an electric bill to pay and the rent due as well. I don't want to spend my life working jobs I'm overeducated for, nor do I want to spend it lying on my bed in my flat watching netflix. Life goes by too fast. But just for today, you know? I'm tired. And it takes time to get your head on straight. There's jobsearching, I've got a new play and a novel in the works, I've got LC to get back to, the Hiatus Continuations has so much content it's difficult to get it all written, and I'm trying to start seeing plays again. I have packages to mail and I need to pick up a birthday present for Mama Tickey's birthday. I don't expect to cover all this shit in a day. So today I sort out what I can. This is one of those Dead Year lessons that are still with me.
For a long time I fought, very hard, to keep from being diagnosed with clinical depression. Depression is a real and serious issue and there are people who literally cannot function on their own because of it. I didn't feel like the diagnosis was justified in my case because I could function, because I kept my shit together and didn't feel unhappy. I didn't feel much of anything, but when that's been the case for a long time you don't think it's really that unusual. And, looking back at high school, I didn't really keep my shit together, either. I just kept enough of it together to pass the classes that I thought were important, and fail the ones that bored me.
What has changed since I finally got the diagnosis, about five years ago now, is that I don't compare myself to severe depressives anymore. I compare myself to -- well, I suppose I can steal the term "neurotypical" from AS terminology -- I compare myself to neurotypicals, people who don't have clinical depression, to gauge what my own state is.
One of my coworkers, whom I hang out with a bit outside of work, is a drug dealer. She suppliments her income (and her habit, she freely admits) by buying pot in bulk and selling it "retail". This is incidental but necessary exposition. Anyway, I went over to her flat after work yesterday, because we were going to go have dinner at a local diner but decided that since the day was CURSED AND WEIRD we'd hide out and order-in instead. As soon as we got to her place, she fixed me up with a soda and let me work on a Sudoku puzzle while she took care of business. She listened to a handful of messages, made eight or nine calls, set up three appointments to sell, and arranged with her distributor to buy. All on the telephone, a device which terrifies me, and all within the course of about ten minutes. She just sat there and took care of business and after this ten minutes had passed, she was in a way to be $200 richer within the next 24 hours.
Now, I'm not saying that selling drugs is a good way to make cash, and certainly I wouldn't run the legal risk that she runs, but regardless of what she's selling, the point is that she's sellin' it, as we used to say in undergrad. She sits there and she gets shit done, because that's what neurotypicals can do.
Depression isn't an excuse for laziness, or for not taking care of yourself or your finances. Plenty of people can be incompetent without being chemically imbalanced, and plenty of chemically imbalanced people can take care of themselves. The difference is that during a depressive episode, it isn't laziness or incompetence. It's a biological, neurological inability to sell it, to get shit done. So I deadyear it -- I cut myself some slack, and take care of what I can, when I can. And I ask myself if I need medication yet, if this is the point where the potential benefits outweigh the cost and the side-effects. Maybe it's coming, maybe it never will. Maybe when the medicine is better. I don't know.
I know that today it's warm outside, and I got my flat cleaned, and that's going to have to be enough for me.
I did clean my flat this morning, really clean, spring-cleaning -- I cleared off the living-room floor and swept it, cleaned desk and bookshelf, installed the new bookshelf I trashpicked from the alley, did the dishes, and unpacked one of my suitcases. My "bedroom" is a mess, but I live in the living room, so I can take my time cleaning the bedroom. So that's good.
There's still a lot of pressure on to find a new job, a job that pays well, a job in my field, et cetera ad nauseam. I've got an electric bill to pay and the rent due as well. I don't want to spend my life working jobs I'm overeducated for, nor do I want to spend it lying on my bed in my flat watching netflix. Life goes by too fast. But just for today, you know? I'm tired. And it takes time to get your head on straight. There's jobsearching, I've got a new play and a novel in the works, I've got LC to get back to, the Hiatus Continuations has so much content it's difficult to get it all written, and I'm trying to start seeing plays again. I have packages to mail and I need to pick up a birthday present for Mama Tickey's birthday. I don't expect to cover all this shit in a day. So today I sort out what I can. This is one of those Dead Year lessons that are still with me.
For a long time I fought, very hard, to keep from being diagnosed with clinical depression. Depression is a real and serious issue and there are people who literally cannot function on their own because of it. I didn't feel like the diagnosis was justified in my case because I could function, because I kept my shit together and didn't feel unhappy. I didn't feel much of anything, but when that's been the case for a long time you don't think it's really that unusual. And, looking back at high school, I didn't really keep my shit together, either. I just kept enough of it together to pass the classes that I thought were important, and fail the ones that bored me.
What has changed since I finally got the diagnosis, about five years ago now, is that I don't compare myself to severe depressives anymore. I compare myself to -- well, I suppose I can steal the term "neurotypical" from AS terminology -- I compare myself to neurotypicals, people who don't have clinical depression, to gauge what my own state is.
One of my coworkers, whom I hang out with a bit outside of work, is a drug dealer. She suppliments her income (and her habit, she freely admits) by buying pot in bulk and selling it "retail". This is incidental but necessary exposition. Anyway, I went over to her flat after work yesterday, because we were going to go have dinner at a local diner but decided that since the day was CURSED AND WEIRD we'd hide out and order-in instead. As soon as we got to her place, she fixed me up with a soda and let me work on a Sudoku puzzle while she took care of business. She listened to a handful of messages, made eight or nine calls, set up three appointments to sell, and arranged with her distributor to buy. All on the telephone, a device which terrifies me, and all within the course of about ten minutes. She just sat there and took care of business and after this ten minutes had passed, she was in a way to be $200 richer within the next 24 hours.
Now, I'm not saying that selling drugs is a good way to make cash, and certainly I wouldn't run the legal risk that she runs, but regardless of what she's selling, the point is that she's sellin' it, as we used to say in undergrad. She sits there and she gets shit done, because that's what neurotypicals can do.
Depression isn't an excuse for laziness, or for not taking care of yourself or your finances. Plenty of people can be incompetent without being chemically imbalanced, and plenty of chemically imbalanced people can take care of themselves. The difference is that during a depressive episode, it isn't laziness or incompetence. It's a biological, neurological inability to sell it, to get shit done. So I deadyear it -- I cut myself some slack, and take care of what I can, when I can. And I ask myself if I need medication yet, if this is the point where the potential benefits outweigh the cost and the side-effects. Maybe it's coming, maybe it never will. Maybe when the medicine is better. I don't know.
I know that today it's warm outside, and I got my flat cleaned, and that's going to have to be enough for me.
