majordepressivedisorder

My Thoughts On Depression and Alcohol

I had to break up with my best friend and mortal enemy, Vodka, January 22, 2017. I went to sleep about 2:30 that Sunday morning only to wake up to gut-wrenching pain and a very high fever. The fever was so high that my teeth were chattering and smashing together so hard, that if I were to think about it at the time, I might have thought they were all going to break. But I couldn’t really think about anything except the fever and the pain. I had to get up and pee once, and the walk to the bathroom, from one end of the 20-ft camper I live in, to the other, was absolutely freezing cold and excruciating. I felt an immense surge of relief, after the voyage was made and I was safely back in my bed under about 6 blankets. The relief was slight, to say the most.

I experienced those same symptoms the entire day, symptoms that probably would’ve driven many others to the emergency room, but if I had so much difficulty getting to the bathroom, there was no way I was getting in a car and going to the hospital. NO WAY. Instead, I lay in my bed and waited. I drank as much water as I could, because drinking water required me to not only move, but come out from under the covers. I was able to go to sleep pretty early with the help of my other friend, Xanax, who I really do have a loving relationship with because there is no abuse, whatsoever, one to another. She only helps me when I need her help.

I woke up the next morning about 3 o’clock, soaking wet. My fever had broken and all of my blankets were wet, the ones closest to my body were soaked, the sheets beneath me were soaked, my clothes were drenched and so was my pillow. The smell was purely awful. It smelled of infection and death with a pinch of urine. One of my first thoughts in my groggy state of mind was that I peed the bed, but I didn’t really care about that, I was just angry that I was still cold and now my blankets and clothes were wet.

I’m not sure about this because I am not one, but I think at that point a non-depressed person would have gotten up and changed their bed clothes. I didn’t, I kept on laying in them. I think I moved the top blanket to the bottom, but other than that, I just continue to lie in it and wait for it to dry, feeling sick and irritated.

I made it to work later that morning. I didn’t bathe before I went, but that was mostly due to the fact that the shower doesn’t work in this camper and I’m forced to walk next door to my oldest son’s father’s house and bathe there and I don’t like to go over there.

I ran a low-grade fever all day that would intermittently, raise then break, then cause the sweats. I hoped and prayed I didn’t stink. I have never been a person with very active odor glands, and I have never in my life, save a few, smelled any type of body odor on myself. So, that’s how I assuaged the fear of my stink. I probably did, because I was sweating out nothing but infectious toxins, but no one at work said anything. Not saying that would be something they would speak directly to me about, anyway. That would just be good fodder for gossip.

Today it is three days later and I have not had another drink. I’m still doing the sweat thing, but now it is being caused by the detox. My kidneys still hurt, but not as bad. My body is aching, slightly, all over. I am feeling random sharp pains in different places in my body. These pains will come out-of-the-blue and hit me like a knife in places like one of my ears, or in some part of my leg, arm, back, or shoulder.

I feel much, much better, physically, than I did Sunday or Monday, but now I am alone with Major Depressive Disorder with seemingly no relief. I know I don’t want to drink anymore because at this point there is no denying that I have worn out my kidneys and thought of weekly dialysis scares the shit out of me.

I never had great kidneys to begin with, kidney disease runs rampant on my father’s side of the family, I never met my paternal grandfather because he died eight years before I was born, as a result of kidney failure. I have had problems with my kidneys before I ever began to drink six years ago.

So here I sit, in this tiny little camper, me and my big dog, who is just as depressed as I am, and I wonder if this is what I’m left with? This is no life. This is just breathing…staying alive, but not really being alive. At least alcohol brought some sort of change to the landscape of my thought patterns.

I think about how I won’t be as fun or funny, anymore, without Vodka. Or how I won’t do anymore really cool shit like make international news 2 years in a row. I think about how my YouTube channel which is finally making me money is going to starve because each of the videos were fueled by depression and vodka. Now there’s no vodka.

I feel like I won’t have the confidence or “liquid courage” to do or say whatever I feel like doing or saying. Yeah, I realize it will be replaced with a different confidence, one that I hated not having with the vodka….the kind that allows me to get into a vehicle and go out in public if I need to do so. But the fact is, I probably won’t even do that, because there is nothing I want to do.

So, my question now remains…which is worse? Only time will tell, I suppose.

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Gone

I have been very sick lately.

It has been awful.

The anxiety is so thick that if I could remove it from my body, put it in a pot and cook it on the stove, it would make a sturdy roux, but it would taste like straight fuck.

I feel like I am losing my mind at a very rapid pace.

Too much change going on….

I suppose I do not handle change well, anymore.

I used to be able to deal with it, well, in my twenties. Back then, my life was nothing but constant change. But then I got settled down and in and it felt good. I got used to the monotony of doing the same things every day.

I got used to be being a mom, a damn good one. I got used to taking care of my family. I got used to washing dishes and clothes and cooking supper and cleaning the kitchen.

Then one day, everything was gone.

Everyone was gone.

Barefoot

Dropping the weights, the load’s getting lighter..I’m getting monkeys from off of my back….
it’s been quite a struggle, as I’ve had to muddle, barefoot on hot coals with no lack.

height

I had to stop drinking but I had to start back,   cause I’m always fucking feeling like I’m running in a pack of only fucking one and I got no fuckin gun, and got no fuckin fun and when I was young my dad called me son I thought it didn’t bother me until i was past  thirty then I started realizing that shit was kinda dirty, i wasn’t just a girl, I was a pretty ass girl, who had in her palm the whole entire world but i didn’t even know it and all i did was blow it and  when I turned 18 …DOPE was only chosen …my whole fucking life been a slow sUiCiDe all out in the open I didn’t try to hide…or so I thought but I was really fucking wrong and  Now I know all  the words to my poor swan song that so far never really seems to END and when I think it is HAS that really means BEGIN a whole new chapter with ONE LESS FRIEND  and i’m trapped with some lions and I’m in their den and they didn’t invite cause I’m NOT so polite sometimes I’m rowdy and sometimes I  fight and when that shit happens you better run from my sight… demons coming  outta me tends to fright so run away fast RUN AWAY FAST and run to the light I’ll meet ya when you get there after you fall from your

height….

 

That One Semester

I think out of all the repurcussions stemming from my childhood, the one that pisses me off the most is that I buried all of my talents.

I am a very creative person, I always have been.  I am both musically and artistically inclined.  I knew I was good at music because my parents forced me to be in the band in Jr. high, and I was excellent at it.  But because they forced me to do it, I became angry with it and I began to hate it, vehemently.

By the time I reached 8th grade, I had multiple superior awards from Solo and Ensemble festivals.  I could play the clarinet like nobody’s business, and I never even practiced, at home.

The summer before 8th grade, I tried out for drum major and I won.  I did practice my ass off to win that prize, but once football season hit and I was out on the field, or leading the band in the bleachers, I quit.

I only was drum major for one game.  It was just way too much spotlight on me leading the band nerds, when all I really wanted was to be free of that dorky shit and hang out with the cool kids.

I could kick my ass for that now….and I guess I do…and I guess I have, for a long time.

My step-mom finally relented on band when I got to high school, and I was set free.  The only reason they let me out of band was because they intended for me to go to LSU and there were several course requirements that had to be met and being in band would take away two credits a year that I could be putting toward Physics and Biology 2.

So…fast forward to High School Graduation…

I graduated with honors and I was, honestly, mind-blown about that.  I ended my high-school career with a 3.67 GPA, which was completely due to my diligent studying 9th and 10th grades.  By the time I got to the middle of my junior year, I was sneaking out, drinking, smoking weed and not giving a fuck about school.  I have no idea how I passed Algebra 2 or Physics my senior year.

But I did.

I was excited to go to college, but I wanted to get as far away from my parent’s house as possible.  I got accepted to every state school to which I applied and when I sat down with my dad to discuss where I would be attending he said to me, “Son, you have two choices.  You can either go to LSU or you can go to LSU.”

My blood boiled.

He said not only could I only go to LSU, but that I could not live in a dorm room, or anything cool like that, I would be living at Salem’s Lot and commuting.

I can’t lie, though, once I settled in my first semester at LSU, I loved it.  The school is huge, I didn’t know ANYONE, there were very friendly squirrels in the Quad, and I really, really enjoyed that one semester.

 

Not Now, nor, forevermore

It makes me mad that I have to watch my back when I walk out my back door to let my dog go pee.

Seriously….I don’t think you know the struggle.

It’s like this everywhere I move.

Now…one might say, “Well, Athena, don’t you think since it happens everywhere you move, that it is possible that YOU ARE THE PROBLEM?

Yeah….I get that.

But the problem is, they do shit FIRST, and so my actions are a fucking REACTION.

And yes…I do realize that neither the black neighbors, nor the white ones, were expecting the reaction they received from their own actions…

NEVERTHELESS….

I put up with way too much shit as a youngster, to take any now.

So fuck them all.

I am the sweetest, most forgiving, loving ASS MEAN BITCH YOU WILL EVER WISH YOU NEVER MET.

Low

Oh my God, I hate being low, when I was younger I stayed doing blow, so I didn’t even know that reason I stayed on “GO” was a subconscious attempt at not being low.

I always stayed high with wings that would fly down though the pits of hell then back up to the sky and I remember asking, “why?” because being high all the time still made me cry (but only on the inside)

Now years have passed and though sometimes I ask I really do pass on the hard drugs.

I just drink the liquor, and my body is getting sicker but thing is…this week, I didn’t even drink and I’m still fucking low and I still want to go and I don’t want to leave my bed so yes, I do know, that I am sick in the head.

Will this ever end?  When did it begin?  When I lost my mom the first time?  Or when it happened again?

 

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed

Goodbye

I wipe it off on a tile, the light is brighter this time
Everything is turning blasphemy
My eyes are red and gold, the hair is standing straight up
This is not the way I picture me

I can’t control my shakes, how the hell did I get here?
Something about this, so very wrong
I have to laugh out loud, I wish I didn’t like this
Is it a dream or a memory?

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed

Get outta my head ’cause I don’t need this
Why didn’t I see this?
Well, I’m a victim Manchurian candidate
I have sinned by just makin’ my mind up
And takin’ your breath away

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed

Goodbye

You haven’t learned a thing
I haven’t changed a thing
The flesh was in my bones
The pain was always free

You haven’t learned a thing
I haven’t changed a thing
The flesh was in my bones
The pain was always free

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell I wait and bleed

I’ve felt the hate rise up in me
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves
I wander out where you can’t see
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed

Let the blackness roll on
Mother’s cool reptilian womb
Ain’t so cold tonight
My fingers trace the exit wounds
By graveyard light
There’s bone dust in my throat and everything is DEAD
But it’s all right

Take it easy
You bleed so easy
Bleed me an ocean
Bleed me an ocean tonight
By electric graveyard light
Bleed me an ocean
Let me lie beneath the sky
Teach me how to die
Bleed me an ocean
As the blossom eats the butterfly
Can you feel the cold death
That rides along your spine
Let the blackness roll on
You bleed so easy
Let the blackness roll on
I was sexless in clouds again
I was chasing a cold, cold wind
I’ve become bored with flesh and bone again
The deepest alone
I was riding the turbulence
An ocean of Hades
It’s all downhill from here
On the outer nowhere
Let the blackness roll on
You bleed so easy
Let the blackness roll on
I was stoned to the drone
Of the blackness that hums
I’ve become bored with flesh and bone again
The endless hum of the highway drone
I was riding the turbulence
An ocean of Hades
The taste of dead sex on my tongue
On my tongue, yeah
Let the blackness roll on
You bleed so easy
Let the blackness roll on
You bleed so easy
Just like a rain drop
I was born baby to fall
And scale these prison walls
It was over before you were born
Sucked into the vacuum of this universal tomb
It was over before you were born
Sucked into the vacuum of this universal tomb
Old blossom dies
Like a young man breathes
The insects hum with their hunger and grieve
An icon of pale bone
Static white dream
Blind in the wilderness
Everybody scream
I couldn’t find my way
Out the door
We all died
Woke up on the floor
I ride the painted whore
She gives good universal scream, scream
I ride the painted whore
She gives good universal scream, scream
I ride the painted whore
She gives good universal scream, scream
I ride the painted whore
She gives good universal scream, scream

The Haircut

“Come on Sarah, get your stuff together, we have to go to Baton Rouge”, my stepmother said, as she started gathering up her folders containing stacks of papers which had to be graded, later that evening.

My stepmother was a teacher.  She recently retired after twenty-five years teaching in the parish school district, but before her retirement she taught at the ONLY high school in the small city in which we lived. That was good, sometimes, but mostly it was bad.

After school, I rode a bus about two blocks to her school and she was always the last teacher to leave.

I was slow, as usual, to get my things together.  I hated going to Baton Rouge.  We went to Baton Rouge every single day, or at least, it seemed like it to me.

There were many reasons why I hated going to Baton Rouge, not the least of which was the fact that my stepmother drove a 1985 Ford Ranger, specially equipped with NO RADIO.  Seriously, she really, honestly, literally did not want a radio in her vehicle.

To this day, that haunts me…like… I am a strange person, but….that’s fucking strange, even to me.

Besides the Ford Ranger being almost as tiny as a go-kart, once my step-mom, my little sister and myself were inside, the Ranger was filled to capacity, even though two of us were children.  I am not saying my step-mom was fat, I’m saying the truck was freaking small.

I don’t know about you, but I am a person who easily gets carsick.  The tendency towards vehicular nauseousness has decreased with age, but when I was a kid, I hated just about every car ride I took for that reason.

Did I mention my step-mom chain smokes worse than a repentant hooker, fresh-off-da-crack, who is trying to change her ways, sitting on the back pew of her married boyfriend’s church on Sunday morning, listening to him preach?

There was no rolling down the windows in that tiny 1985 Ford Ranger, either.  Even though I knew the answer would always be, “NO!”, everyday I would ask, “can I please crack my window a little bit?”

My stepmother said if I cracked the window it would “blow her hair”.

Whatever that meant…

Speaking of hair, this was the day that my loving step-mother took me, unannounced, to the beauty shop and had the stylist (back then they were called beauticians) cut all of my hair cut right off my pretty little head.

I had no idea what was about to happen. I know it was traumatic for me because once we got to the beauty shop, the memory stops, and my memory never stops.

Nobody’s memory ever actually “stops”, but I have a very uncanny long-term memory.  I remember everything, especially from childhood, in pictures, or, if you will, movies.  I can click on a memory like you would click on a movie you’d like to see on Netflix.

I can remember every outfit I wore to school on the first day from first to twelfth.  I can remember ninth grade french class ‘dialogue’ (and I employ it from time to time).  I can remember the song that was playing on the radio when me and my step-mom got into a fender-bender when I was three, “Sailing”, by *Christopher Cross.  I can also remember the name of the guy who hit us, *Charles Gardner.  I have memories from before I could walk and I have scars to prove they are real memories.

As I remember things, though, I have surmised that my brain hides the especially bad memories where I can’t find them.

I went to school that morning with long, beautiful, chestnut brown hair and I came home with a bowl cut which was level with my ears.

I was only seven, that was my very first haircut and there’s so much more to go.