Lisa and Rolf got married on the fifth anniversary of their first date. It’s a fun little secret they’re keeping from people (including their parents), and as the actual wedding will be a non-traditional celebration in August, the paperwork was done in advance. I was honoured to be the only one to know, as well as their photographer, and on Sunday we did the engagement photos, followed by a quick stop at the officiant’s house to sign and witness, then a trip out to Denny’s for breakfast. Denny’s holds a special significance for them, as it was where Rolf took Lisa after he proposed, and ever since, they try to eat at a local Denny’s whenever they travel.
It’s been a long time since I had a project to work on, and to see how well the photos came out has been a delight.
Continue reading “secret wedding”…
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I started to feel better, which is a very peculiar feeling in itself. There hasn’t been any event to which I can attribute the fact that I’m not so anxious about how scary the future is anymore, or how I’m not depressed about everything that’s happened. The only variable has been the medication, which means it’s working.
The side-effect that still affects me most is the insomnia. I sleep for two hours, do something mindless for two hours, then go back to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. I don’t feel rested until night, at which point I’m soon ready to sleep again. It’s wreaking havoc with my motivation — not to mention my colitis — which is why I haven’t started rebuilding my life yet. For now, I try to do one thing every day that will make me happy, so I can say it was a good day. Baby steps.
But I’ve also lost all inspiration, and I’m left wondering if this is another effect of selective serotonin reuptake inhibition. When I walk the streets, it feels like a completely different world from what I knew.
I used to pick up my guitar throughout the day and noodle. I used to carry my camera with me everywhere in case something caught my eye. I used to write almost every day. Creativity was a driving force in my life, and a huge part of how I used to define myself. Now I never feel like creating. I used to be terrified of going on medication for this exact reason, but I’ve discovered that the medication makes it all okay. It’s like Cipralex is both the cause and the cure.
At least I can go outside now. I can face the world, and start fixing what needs to be fixed.
How quickly my world fell apart. How suddenly things have changed, never to be the same again. No one blames me for being unable to cope when so much has happened all at once.
When diagnosing the severity of your mood, the professionals always ask if you have a plan. Even the two cops who show up at your door at midnight cause your friends fear the worst will pose the question. I guess a plan is the sign that you’re in immediate danger, and I had three.
It means I get to be selfish now. I get to do what I need to survive. I get to think of myself for once in my life.
Even if my friends have never been through this, even if they don’t understand, they still care, and they prove it to me with every lingering hug, every meal they leave me, every call to ask how I’m feeling, every message left to let them know if there’s anything they can do, every reminder that they don’t want to lose me spoken through tears from those I’ve never seen cry.
I used to have nothing but guilt for worrying them, but now I understand that guilt is the last thing they want me to feel. They only want me to be okay. They’ve done so much to make me believe this, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
My life has taken another turn again. The days can go on with regularity over and over, one day indistinguishable from the next. A long continuous chain.
Time loses all meaning when you can’t sleep more than two hours in a row, and everything else becomes meaningless along with it. Some days I can’t eat, exercise, or face the world. All I can do is wonder when it’ll all end, and fight every thought that tells me to give up.
They said the medication may make me feel worse before I start feeling better. This is how I discover rock bottom is always relative. A strange little hole I find myself in, where the days grow brighter with the changing of seasons, insomnia means I never miss a sunrise or sunset, and I have nothing but free time, but none of it matters.
Sanity is supposed to come from little portions of Cipralex, but I have to survive long enough for the doctors to find the right dose. It may well be several months before they discover what works, and every day in between terrifies me.
Until then, I can’t sleep, I can’t come, I can’t eat more than half of what I used to before getting full, and I can’t go without Gravol to fight the nausea. The side-effects are supposed to be better than the alternative — and I suppose cottonmouth is good way to get me to drink more liquids — but every wretched day makes me question whether this unique form of hell is worth it.
This used to be one of my greatest fears, and here I am faced with it cause I couldn’t handle life by myself anymore.