treefrog

So we moved and all. And I didn't write about it because I was exhausted and went into extreme introvert mode for a while.

I love the house we've got. There were some glitches at first, but that's to be expected. Okay, we didn't expect the hot water heater to break and to go for the first week and a half without hot water, but oh well.

It's very green here, and very very hilly. There are many, many flowers. Sometimes I think I'm in California again. Mostly, that doesn't bother me too much. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love it here. It's beautiful, and moving here felt like a gigantic weight lifted off my shoulders.

I'm working at the call centre for an online pharmacy that sells meds to Americans for Canadian prices. It's not a bad job, all told. Most of the customers are extremely friendly, and the few that aren't tend to be unintentionally funny.

...sigh. I'm happy but I think I've forgotten how to write about my own life.

My husband is going away in a few days, and it's only just now starting to sink in. I love having the house to myself, but I'm not looking forward to this much house-to-myself. I'm not looking forward to cooking meals just for myself, and not having anyone to talk to.

My parents are going on vacation, but Matt is home for the summer and he will be around. We're both introvert-types, but we've always been content to just lurk about with our respective laptops and be companionably silent.

So much has been happening lately, I feel like I should just shut myself in an empty room for a day or so just to unwind. It's not that it's bad stuff... hello, new computer!... it's just that there's been so much of it. I feel like my blood has turned to caffiene. It's not a bad feeling, just so, so overwhelming.

Uploading CD's to my new computer right now. I haven't had a proper iTunes playlist in years. Mostly it has lived on Yvaine, my dear, battered little iPod. It feels strange to have a full-sized computer again.

It's strange just to write about stuff for the sake of writing about stuff. All the writing I've been doing for school and freelance is all very specific. It's strange not to have keywords, word counts, political correctness or a feminist perspective in mind, depending on who I'm writing for. I enjoy it all, even the stupid keywords, but I sometimes worry that I'm losing my own voice.

So much is conspiring to make me feel like I'm in another time and another place. It's like somehow I'm afraid of moving on, so instead of taking new stuff for what it is, my brain matches it up with things from my past and says "Hey, this is just like that time when you..."

Except that it isn't. I'm in my early 30's now, not my early 20's. I've certainly got a lot of bullshit ahead of me to deal with, but the stuff from the past? That's... I've done it before. I can do it again. I don't know what's got me so worried. Especially since there are some things that are never going to happen again, so even though I could in theory handle them, I don't have to.

For instance, I will never have a jackass boyfriend again. I'm married to a man who respects me, cares about my wants and needs, and hears "no" when I say "no". I will never again have to negotiate a relationship where "no" means "I'll just pester, belittle and harass her until she gives in just for a bit of peace and quiet". That's in the past, and I'm never going to see that guy again. Before a few days ago, I literally hadn't thought of him in months. Now, for some stupid reason, my brain wants to go over the whole humiliating debacle and try to make me ready for it to happen again.

And then, of course, there's the move. I'm not going to be walking into another minefield! ...okay, well, I sort of am, but all moves are like that and in this case I know where most of the mines are already. And again, I can handle it. It's just that... things keep happening that remind me of the bad times. This is mostly a result of going through my stuff and seeing physical reminders of things I would like to forget (and throwing most of them into the trash, or at least the Goodwill pile).

Furthermore, I resent the implication on my brain's part that everything in my life has been bad. It hasn't. It's been an overwhelming majority of good. I'm not the sort of person who dwells on the bad stuff, and I'm not about to become such a person. I'm just so incredibly weary of feeling off-balance and unprepared. It's going to be just fine. Really, it is.

Dave and I were roused from our peaceable, computer-related activities by a tremendous commotion at the back door. All four cats were riled about something, and there was a lot of high-volume magpie profanity coming from the back yard.

Well, most of it was coming from the back yard. Some of it was coming from the basement. More specifically, it was coming from a baby magpie that Emrys had cornered under a chair in the basement.

Such a goofy-looking critter it was! It was about the size of a softball and fluffy as all get-out, with a formidable baby-bird frown. Its wings were not yet full-grown, so it was relatively easy to catch. It proved to be unhurt but seriously pissed off. I took it outside, where it stopped struggling to get free, clamped its claws onto my hand and cussed me out.

It was eventually persuaded to transfer its grip to the roof of the shed, swearing all the while. No question where it learned that sort of language; its parents were squawking magipieish imprecations at me throughout the whole incident. There's gratitude for you, huh? I'm amazed I didn't get dive-bombed.

At least it wasn't a live mouse this time. That was much harder to catch!

It's raining outside. Also thundering, lightning-in and hailing. Now, I love thunderstorms, but I was planning to go out and DO stuff, which would be somewhat impeded by being hailed upon.

So, my brain being what it is nowadays, I feel trapped. The same restlessness that's driving me to write again is making me feel like the rain is a cage. I can't stop thinking that I'm going to be moving to a place where it pretty much does nothing but rain. At any rate, that's what it's done the past two times I've visited there.

And I can't stop thinking that last time I moved far away, to a warm green place, things went so far wrong that it still hurts to think too hard about it. It doesn't help to remember that I loved California, that I made some of the best friends there that I will ever have, that love and life and magic were bound up with the misery and hurt. All I can think, like a rodent trapped in a grey rainy cage, is that it's going to happen again.

And when I think that, my hands go numb and shake, and my head spins and my stomach knots up and I can't breathe. It's not that I think I can't go through another California. I know that I can. I know that I can because I know that I'll fight and I'll burn myself out and I'll come out the other end still kicking, but it won't be over because these things always, always come back.

And this is why I have to blog. Because having written that, I feel about a hundred pounds lighter. Still terrified, but able to converse civilly with my husband and stepkid.

This will be okay. I mean, yes, if I move to BC I might get hit with a massive depression/anxiety episode... but if I stay in Edmonton, it's a sure thing.

See, this? This right here? This is why I need to blog.

My husband's ex-wife is hoping to move into this house when we move out. Which would be fine except that my backyard shares a fence with my parents' back yard. And my parents want to be good grandparents and would want to stay in touch with my stepson if at all possible.

But I don't want them getting cozy with my husband's ex-wife!!! I don't want her to be that much in my life! Part of the reason I'm okay with leaving is that I don't want her in my life anymore! Do you know how hard I've had to fight just to get her as far out of my life as she currently is? I DON'T WANT THIS!

But my stepson, who has trouble with bullies at school, has a lot of friends in our crescent. If he moved here, he'd get to see them all the time. He'd go to school with them, in a school where he doesn't have a history of bullying problems. As a kid who was bullied, I can't deny him that.

But... my husband's ex-wife! Talking to my family on a regular basis! Possibly about me! There are no words for how much I want this woman off my turf. But I guess even moving to another province isn't enough to make that happen.

And my husband won't stop talking about it. All he talks about anymore is this move. Which I want to do, really. But for him, it's going home. For me, it's jumping into the unknown. And feeling guilty for taking my stepson away from this neighborhood where he at least gets to be happy on weekends.

Looks like I can be happy, or everyone else can be happy. And I feel like a three-year-old, but that makes me angry.

Only got 1146 words out today, mostly due to not having a clue what I'm trying to write. Tomorrow, I will write an outline and the usual goal of 2k words. The day after that, 3k words to catch up.

Word count: 2001.

I really hate the part of new meds where the walls break down. I know it has to happen but holy fuck it hurts when it does.

I'll just pretend I'm Granny Weatherwax in Maskerade. I delayed the hurt when I wasn't able to take it. Now I can, so I have to. It feels a lot more badass than "I would like to hide under the bed and cry now".

I've about 90% made up my mind to go to the doctor tomorrow to discuss changing antidepressant/ anti-anxiety medication. I'm on the biggest dose of Effexor I've ever been on, and while I'm okay, it's a borderline thing, and it would take only the smallest nudge, next to nothing at all, to drop me back into the black hole where my humanity can't quite follow.

Weeks of insomnia are alternating with weeks of constant, restless sleep. I can feel the pitch-black weight of dread poised to settle in the pit of my stomach. I feel the familiar panic building in my muscles, ready to race through my body like sick, polluted lightning. I feel the stiff, isolating numbness creeping over my face like hardening clay while in the back of my head the screaming is starting and I know if I don't do something soon, it will grow until it drowns out all thought and leaves me paralyzed with fear and confusion.

I don't want to do this. Switching antidepressants is a bit like having someone rearrange everything in your kitchen, and then ask you to make dinner with a blindfold on. The new arrangement may be infinitely better than the old one, but that doesn't mean you have a clue how it works yet, and there are no instruction books for this sort of thing. Navigating the sudden mismatch between body and brain is exhausting and off-putting and sometimes it's tempting just to quit and settle back into the depression because at least it's familiar.

But I don't have that "luxury". I have a husband and a stepkid. I have school. I have people who need me... hell, I need me, and it's not like this is my first rodeo. I've hurt worse than this. I've kept on walking with less juice in my tank than this. I've kept on walking when my circuits were so fried with this mental bullshit that my body felt like a huge lump of pain a million miles away, a breathing corpse operating on memories of being alive. I've always kept on walking, kept on walking, kept on walking. I'm not about to quit now. I wouldn't even if I could.

And with this entry, I've voiced my protest and I'm good to go. That's right, Depression, Anxiety and the rest of you sniggering little trolls in the internet forum of my brain, I hate you all and having said that, I will cease to pay attention to you. Tomorrow, I'm going to the doctor and one way or another, you lot are all going back to the filthy void that spawned you.

Whereas I will be going swimming with my husband, taking another step towards being okay.