I feel like I've gone to hell, but I did get a chain on which to hold so I can swoop back up whenever my brain decides to feel better.
It's more than just being jaded, I think. It's more than being utterly aggravated that Guy didn't refill my heart medication days ago (UPDATE: they just happened to be ready JUST NOW whereas the pharmacy said they weren't even called in YESTERDAY) and, though he's in Boston, I texted him that I was running out of my beta blockers, and now I'm out of heart medication. (He had cell service, Jesus Christ, he wasn't in the Congo again.) I miss Guy, as usual, and our relentless bickering.
I told him it's getting to be that time of the year to enact "Illumination," the poem I wrote for him in 2012 before my hysterectomy--the first poem I'd written by hand in 17 years, from scratch, scribble, a thesaurus and all my heart. Given he leaves his Christmas lights on the house all year long, it's time to replace them with brightly colored bulbs, start a fire in the pit in the back yard, pour a scotch and think about how much he misses me too. He should totally listen to Mazzy Star while he's thinking about me, because how romantic would that be?
Depression. Again. Except when it comes to Anoushka Shankar.
The concert was phenomenal and our seats were in the 2nd table from the front. Excellent. Guy would've loved it, but my mom loved it as well, more than she thought she would. She enjoyed herself so much that she actually hugged me goodnight, which she almost never does. So that all worked out. Anoushka's new album really is terrific, "Traces of You," on which she does a few duets with half-sister Norah Jones. Norah's not on tour with Anoushka, but Ms. AS had a lovely singer with her who did this song from the new record:
A misanthrope, by definition, has developed a certain disdain for humanity in general. Like take the literally most misanthropic songwriter of the 20th century, Warren Zevon, and plunk him into a seemingly endless depression, but out of which came brilliant creativity and wit (if not eerily prophetic):
Plato's definition of misanthropy is, essentially, "The result of thwarted expectations or excessively naive optimism." (Wiki)
My propinquity with Guy has turned to mizpah, and my expectations aren't met as often as I wish they were. I realize I'm perpetually too hard on him, but hi, needy chick who's too loving! And way to send someone with panic disorder AND tachycardia into GIGANTIC panic heart-racing when one runs out of heart medication.
I stayed awake long enough to go to a little party at Meg's on Friday night (a girls' night in, a clothing party, where you be all girly and look at outfits that probably don't look good on you unless you're a size 2, but I did find a bitchin' outfit that'll knock socks off once I'm back down to a size 4). Much wine was consumed, but I was with my mom and just ate all of Meg's cheese instead.
I've been plagued as of late by dormiveglia, which sounds like a worse medical condition than it probably would be if it wasn't just an expression in Italian which means the space that stretches between sleeping and waking.
Three-hour spurts. That's how I've been sleeping lately. In what's got to be my historically lengthiest bout of depression in my manic-depressive tenure, I'm literally sleeping and waking every 3 hours. If I manage to stay up for 2 or 3 hours at most, it's a personal triumph. Then back to sleep I go. It irritates Luke less than it does my mother, but it irritates no one more than myself. Yesterday was the worst of it. Apart from running almost 2 hours of errands with Luke (who's now sick), picking up my car (which WAS sick) and eating dinner, I literally slept in 3-hour spurts all day and night, awake for about an hour at a time. I finally gave up at 7am this morning and have been awake ever since. I made my bed to make it less inviting, though I'm sleepy.
And I have So. Much. Work. I have GOT to pack in some homework today, though I have all of next week off, but let's be honest: I'll probably do more dicking around than anything. There's Thanksgiving to consider. I just can't stay awake long enough to concentrate on any particular project. I did start one at 3:30 this morning, but wasn't exactly lucid, and soon fell back asleep.
I have this morose, sneaking suspicion I either have mono or am riddled with cancer. I keep breaking out into these random 101-103 degree fevers and when I do, the lymph nodes in my armpits start hurting really badly. Yes, I had the flu several weeks ago and another cold subsequent to that, but this is different and that all went away. I get so chilled that my fingers turn numb and lifeless. I wear multiple layers of clothing and just tremble. If I take some ibuprofen, within about 2 hours, it goes away almost entirely, only to come back several hours later or the next day. I should probably seek medical attention for it, but I'm so peevish and full of malcontent that I don't care and just deal with the symptoms without telling anyone in my family. The last time it happened was a week ago, about 2 hours before I had to go play drums, and the only person who knew about it was one of my singers, and I honestly didn't know how I'd hold the drumsticks with numb fingers.
This is kind of how I'm sleeping, and when I wake up, I feel like the guy at 2:54 in the video:
I emailed Guy that I'd been having bad dreams about him lately, but I'm sure I won't hear back for quite some time. In one, I had a cat fight with Lady GuyGuy, and he just sat there and laughed through it (which'd probably happen). I caught him alone and asked, "Were you ever in love with me?" He, I think, cited some example of when he felt in love with me, and said that he still was. Then (I don't remember if I told him this part or not, I probably did) he kissed me...a lot, and his kisses in the dream felt exactly like his kisses do in real life, only it lasted way longer. So bad dream/good dream/strange psychotropic medication-enhanced dream.
In another, the night before Meg's party, her party was that of selling containers of insects, and only 2-3 people were let into the party at one time, and I waited outside with Guy, giving him a haircut. (???) Over walked George Harrison and his son, Dhani. Guy got irritated that I chose Dhani and we ran off together and hopped a train in Henley-on-Thames, England, where the Harrison estate actually is, in train station I've actually been in. Yeah, sorry, Guy, but I'd run off with Harrison, Jr. (Are they twins or are they TWINS?)
As Douglas Adams called it, "The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul."
I need my heart mended expeditiously, both physically and metaphorically.