Neural Journey

I ran out of refills on a prescription and had to go off my meds this weekend. My SSRI. The one that keeps the happy molecules moving the right direction in my brain. Don't worry, I got it refilled today!

I hadn't been off my meds for longer than a few hours since I started taking them 2 years ago. I knew it was going to suck, but I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. My first missed dose was Friday night. I planned to run some errands Saturday morning, because I knew I wouldn't feel any different until later in the day. (I bought a new sofa! That was a weird adult experience.) Around 1:00 Saturday afternoon, I started getting a headache, which could also have been attributed to hunger or a nicotine craving. I treated myself extra gently, stayed close to home, and took an almost 3-hour nap through the afternoon. In the evening, I met with a small group of friends to do arts and crafts. By 8:00, it felt like time to go home, where I fell into bed and stayed there.

Sunday morning, I woke up--more or less--at 8:30. My head felt foggy, almost like I wasn't in it. My bed was the only good place to be. I knew I needed to get up for a cigarette, coffee, or breakfast, but I couldn't tell which one. Somehow, I managed to make it through a morning routine of all three. It felt like I was moving my limbs through thick air. Initiating movement became difficult: Once I crawled back into bed, there was no getting up. I hid in caves of my blankets, playing in my phone. At one point I watched a 30-second video of a couple dancing to Bad Romance at their wedding reception, and I burst into tears. I barely moved until almost 3 PM.

I was surprised to realize in the midst of Sunday morning that I could tease apart what was withdrawal, what was depression, and what was anxiety. I worried about unlikely things: What if the doctor's office has to cancel my appointment? What if this new doctor won't write my prescription? Anxiety! I didn't want to leave my bed, and even when I was in it, moving was hard. Anhedonia found me again. That deep, dark place where there is no joy. I felt guilty and worthless for doing this to myself because I couldn't just make an appointment before the prescription ran out. I felt helpless. Depression. I'm not sure if I remember saying aloud, "Who unlocked the cages on these beasts?!" It was a solid reminder that I need these pills for more reasons than just avoiding physical withdrawal. I had been starting to question that. I wrote in my journal, "Life is ugly when my serotonin is fucked. My brain doesn't regulate that on its own, so I need to take medicine to help it."

I had saved an emergency dose for sometime Sunday so that Monday morning didn't have to be so awful. Within 5 minutes of taking it, I knew that I was going to get my brain back. Within 30 minutes, I felt like I lived in my own body again. What a simple solution for a brain disease that kills thousands of people every year, and almost killed me.

To Peter, on Lady Gaga

Dear Peter,

I just watched Lady Gaga's tribute performance to David Bowie at the Grammys, and I wept. I wish you were here to talk to about it. Gaga's androgyny recalled Bowie's perfectly. Her high accented cheekbones were not a portrayal of conventional white femininity; they honoured Bowie himself. The line of her cleavage left no doubt that she was presenting female, but the minimized breasts beneath it reminded us that there is more to gender than hypersexualized femininity/masculinity. Gaga's tenor was remarkable: She sang everything in Bowie's range with depth of sound and feeling. Her broad-shouldered white jumpsuit and laced oxford dancing shoes... They teased "Under Pressure" but didn't sing it, and I got really disappointed by that.

I want to talk with you about it. I want to smoke a bowl and watch the video twice in a row, once in silence and once for critique. Then I want to listen to Ziggy Stardust on your record player and recognize you as a teenager. I want to read the Pitt News article you would have written reviewing the Grammys, with specific emphasis on her performance.

We never read much of each other's writing. How ironic.

We did go to that Lady Gaga concert together. I remember you telling me, "This is like seeing Madonna at the height of Vogue. We'll be able to say we were there." The Monster Ball, after the "Born This Way" single had been released. That poster is still waiting to find its place in my home. You looked so happy dancing there.

I miss you. I love you.
K

Goodnight, Ziggy Stardust

David Bowie makes me think of Peter.
Disclaimer: My knowledge of Bowie is unfortunately limited. I saw Labyrinth once, when I was about 20. The only song I can name is Under Pressure. 
Bowie was one of the 80s icons Peter emulated in fabulousness. The blatant disregard for gender roles. The habit of saying only the right thing at the right time. The hair.

Hearing news of David Bowie's passing evoked memories of Nelson Mandela, of Maya Angelou, and of Peter himself. Peter would have been the one to tell me, simply and with urgency. He would expand my knowledge by sending me exactly the right link to the perfect video that would fill me with understanding of Bowie's cultural and personal significance.

All grief is the same grief. One loss feels the same as another loss, on a primal level, even though each experience of grieving is unique. Peter is David Bowie is Freddie Mercury is Nelson Mandela is my grandmother is the breeze and the waves and the stars. Once you have experienced grief, it never leaves you. It becomes part of your everyday life. You learn to live with it, and it fades into the background, until you experience another loss. All the loss feelings are connected, and one experience evokes memories of another and the feelings deepen in intensity. And you grow in your ability to manage it and to live with this part of your life. Our losses shape us. Grief teaches us. The ways we handle grief mark how we've grown.

She texted me, "If there's anyone who can make you think there's someplace to go after, it's him. I imagine there's a raucous concert going on right now." I replied, "David and Freddie are rocking Under Pressure in non-linear time. Peter is headbanging in his soft human way." "And that grin."

Let's all sing our hearts out from the midpoint of gender and the absolute certainty of our worth, not caring what they think of us because we care too deeply about our own Truth. Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love...

white rocks and yellow diamonds

I left rocks at the place we got married. There were two white ones that were supposed to fit together somehow. I threw those off the overlook. Then I took three flatter grey ones and stacked them on the stone wall. Proceed with caution.

I went back to the bar for the first night since the police came, on an exploratory mission for my girlfriend with a friend in town until the morning. I stepped outside for a smoke alone and was enjoying the relative quiet when Rihanna filled my head with yellow diamonds. I froze.

We found love in a hopeless place.

We used to sing it about Pittsburgh.

We left this city and moved to another one where we were completely isolated from anyone we knew. We started a new life together and became entirely dependent on each other. Then we came back. Thank goodness. This place holds my hope and my home-feeling.

yellow diamonds in the light
and we're standing side by side
as your shadow crosses mine
what it takes to come alive
it's the way i'm feeling i just can't deny
but i've gotta let it go....

I vividly flashed back to a night on the dance floor, strobe lights animating his face. Smiling that unabashed, charismatic smile of his at me. With me. He was always good at dancing with me...or always until almost the very end.

We were good, once.

Were we good, ever?

I only almost cried.

Bag of rocks

I am making a bag of rocks that need new homes. Rocks and an extra railroad spike. I don't know why I'm still carrying these heavy things around. I can let them go. I don't know where they're going yet. I'll know those places when I find them. If I'm going to do this, I should figure out the reason and the purpose.

I'm choosing the "Life is a Journey, Not a Destination" bag.

C always liked to pick up souvenirs. Everywhere we went, he'd ask if we could bring home a souvenir. He got kid in his voice when we talked about it. I don't remember where most of these rocks came from. Picked up in our travels and displayed on the altar, wherever it was. I need to put a more concerted effort into building my altar. I have a start, but I don't have a lot of intention.

There are other rocks in the kitchen, because the glass jar that used to be the meteorite jar is in the sink because I decided that if I am going to continue to have this thing, I might as well make it shine. The meteorite jar was a souvenir from one of our very first dates, exploring in Highland Park. It is a reminder that once, things were good. It's hard to look back on it now that I see it all as part of the trap.

These rocks need new homes. I feel like they should be returned to nature, or at least to the ground. To dirt, to concrete, to other rocks. I took them from their homes to put them in mine. I like this idea about moving rocks. They can't move by themselves, and yet they do. They travel so far for things that can't control their movement. And when they stop traveling, they tell long, long stories for anybody who knows how to look. I can aid them in traveling. In the process of releasing these heavy things that I no longer need to carry on my own journey, I can help them to continue theirs and have a journey where one might otherwise have stopped.

distraction

One of the hardest things about the harrowing process this divorce has turned into is that I get really sick of looking at things related to it. Legal paperwork. Emails. Lists of names and phone numbers and dates. There is plenty left to do. I reach a limit. I can't look at it anymore. I just read a court order related to my car three times. I still don't know how much I can write on the Internet--you'd be amazed what else is readily available if you know where to look.

I am surviving. I am doing what I need to do. I am always ok.

Having a solid set of affirmations means more than anybody ever taught me.

I'm trying to keep Kate Bornstein's rule for life: You can do anything you need to do to stay alive, just don't be mean.

Good news!

I got my car back yesterday!

Driving feels so good. That was the best trip through the Liberty Tubes ever. Window open, foot to the floor, screaming into the wind.