The Gray Tide Rising

It is possible to burn out simply by not dying for enough days in a row.

I’ve never liked most of the descriptions I’ve heard of what it’s like to live with clinical depression. I’ve lived with it my entire life, as near as I or any of the professionals I’ve worked with can tell. To me it’s always been like some cold gray tide that comes and goes according to rhythms only it understands. It creeps up and drowns everything else until all the good things that normally sustain a person through a rough patch are hidden from view. I know they’re still there, but I can’t see them. Currently, the new medical insurance (out of pocket since I miss qualifying for free coverage by less than a thousand dollars annually. There’s a lovely large GAP between free coverage and actually being able to afford coverage and I’m in it.) hasn’t kicked in so I’ve got no medical option for a while. NOT my idea of a good time. I wouldn’t have been willing to go this long if I hadn’t already been cleared off the pills years ago while under professional care. Don’t dump the pills without a doctor’s supervision. Seriously. I’ve run those calls and even though I’ve officially resigned after ten years some of those memories will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I’m not sure if my current wash of black-hearted depression is because of empathic backlash from events around the world, or from the bottle of Dark Art oil that I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to use or not, or my housemate fucking moralizing at me over said oil- guaranteed way to piss me off, moralizing, or the ever-present stress about money, or the worry over heavily pregnant goats, or the fact that I really don’t like what I seen in the mirror anymore, or the fact that my wacked out hormones have been even worse than usual the last thirteen months or so.

Probably, the right answer here is ‘yes.’

I can’t do much about the world falling apart. I really can’t. All I can do is try to re-weave the pattern here and now with my own actions and words. With a little bit of luck  those changes will ripple outward but there’s no assurance one way or another.

The oil exists. I have not decided whether to use it or not. Anyone moralizing at me over it will get banned, blocked, and whatever else is necessary. Seriously, it pisses me off that much. Don’t fucking preach your white light and happiness at me. EVER.

Money is tight, but that’s nothing new. It’s going to be that way for a long time. I’ve never wished to be wealthy. I just want to not have to worry about the bills and sometimes take a trip or splurge on a purchase for myself. Nothing extravagant. I don’t have extravagant tastes. Thank all the gods who care for the garden and the chickens and the goats. Thank them also for the generosity of the part of my family that I still count as family. I KNOW where I’d be without those things, and I shudder to contemplate too closely.

The does are actually a major part of me fixing the financial stress. I’m worried about them because it is natural to worry about heavily pregnant does in which many years and many hundreds of dollars have been invested in the hope that they produce in the quality to one day be profitable. They are, thus far, quite healthy and progressing normally. The buck has become a terror as the deer are also in rut. I’d show you the black bruises in the exact shape of his horns but fortunately for you I don’t have a camera. Even if I did he’d probably smash it. We’re making plots to go pick up a few more, widen the gene pool and all that. I’m waiting to hear back from a breeder in Tennessee about a younger buck and in North Carolina about a couple of does. I’ll take all the positive energy in that direction that you can send. These animals are my future, my investment, my trial and my sanity. They are the biggest repository of my sense of worth. I’ve let everything else slide because I believe in this dream. This dream could use all the help in can get.

I keep telling myself that the extra weight I’m carrying around now is a direct result of the sedentary nature of my second job. Chores are no counter to the low activity level required by occupying a classroom. I don’t actually get to teach much in this setup- not like last year where I really got to learn the group and work with them and see real improvement over time. This is just being a warm body over the age of 21 in the room. I’ve taken a pretty brutal look at myself and the thing I lack is the thing I have always lacked. Self motivation. I’m accepting applications for a workout buddy. There’s some equipment in the basement and plenty of low-traffic road nearby.

I can’t do anything about the hormones though. They’re my best weapon and my most painful curse. I know exactly what it’s like to spend 11 months without a period and then three having one every two weeks- or less. The drop in activity level has, I suspect, reduced the amount of testosterone in my system. Since my body seems made to function with a relatively high level of testosterone, this is probably largely responsible for the recent flux. Again, I’m accepting applications for a workout buddy. Slow start and plenty of stretching before and after because scar tissue around several joints.

I don’t often pour personal crap onto the blog. One could argue that the entire experience is personal, but there is personal and there is personal. This has been the latter. It’s all but impossible to make any progress against the Gray Tide that is this particular mental illness. There’s just learning to tread water for a while.