Fallout from a Tryptophan Coma

Turkeys were on sale last week so I grabbed one. (All those feathers, what a huge PITA.) I just couldn't wait until Thursday for the bird and fixins so I cooked and baked and cleaned and ate all day yesterday. Part of that decision also had to do with wanting my daughter's first Thanksgiving meal to have been cooked from my hands. Like she cared. But I did.

But it messed with my routine - as if there was one after Friday night. It's strange when your weekdays become calmer than your weekends. I've committed to getting to bed by 9 every night but that only seems to happen when I work the next day. On the weekends I have felt driven to accomplish as much as I possibly can in those 48 hours of freedom from corporate drudgery. And if you know anything about the real force of my drive when it's not reined back by antidepressant medication, you can imagine that it's not a terribly comfortable way of being in the world - even for 48 hours at a time.

One of my friends suggested that maybe PMS had had something to do with my dark mood on Thursday and whoa, was she right. Thank God I don't feel that miserable all the time. (But I set up all the stuffed animals on the sofa in upright, lively postures, just in case. Granted, they're all looking at me now, but at least they don't look dead anymore.)

I wonder why I get so obsessive. I had a huge brainstorm on Friday and have not been able to stop thinking of it since. Would rather not go into details here, but suffice to say it could result in financial independence and retirement (mine) by 55. Or it could result in bankruptcy. Either way, it's a risk. But then again, so is getting out of bed in the morning.

Am tempted now to jump into my word processing program and get started on the logo I've been thinking of. Will try to stay focused here for a while, if nothing else just to be able to finish something today.

I'm at the point where there is so much flying around in my head that it's hard to make something stand still for long enough to catch it, sit with it a moment, and write it down.

Well, damn it I got a call from a friend and while I was talking to her and thinking about this journal I was working on the logo in three different applications trying to figure out which one would work.

So I s'pose I need to ask my therapist where this obsessiveness comes from. Also what is in inside me that is keeping me from starting and finishing projects? And what can I do about those awful bouts of depression that follow a big success? Why can't I just be happy about it?

And why is it that the slightest change in my routine these days turns me into a scary person even I wouldn't want to hang out with? Where is all this rage coming from? Why does it make me want to cry? And how long is he going to spend pussy-footing around this crap before we get into the real work?

Because something's got to change. I feel like I've got him

logo designed i think it looks pretty cool - smartdraw worked best oops there goes the cell phone these FREAKS keep TMing me as if i know them. they left me alone for a while but now they're back. it's like being stuck in a Verizon-wireless-Jerry-Springer-radio hour.

snowed in a way. Like I had my parents snowed through most of my adolescence, at least until i started getting into such egregious trouble that they finally figured out something was really really wrong. i had no boundaries back then, and damn it, i needed them. but by the time my parents wanted to rope me in it was entirely too late. i had already discovered my own ways out.

i don't want to waste my time with brent. I don't want to waste his time. and I can buy a lot of diapers with $20 a week.

I want homework. I want stress-fucking-management techniques. I want check-ins. I want to be pushed to go to the dark nasty places in my childhood and early college years and hell, even yesterday that I learned to avoid and have now become poisoned cesspools of rage and self-abuse. My soul is sporting large unhealed wounds -- the scabs have kept me from stretching for a long time now. My wings are wanting to fly again and those wounds are cracking open.

But yeah, I look fine on the outside. Just fucking fine. And if it weren't for husband's odd intuition on the morning after the election, my creepy ability to play it cool and fake wellness would likely have resulted in a pretty bloody mess later that day. I think it's important that I not forget the reality of that intention. And how freaky-fast it came upon me. And how determined I was.

I go to Brent usually from work. I wonder how much that has to do with it. I maintain that know-it-all, techie-nerd, highly-efficient I-don't-give-a-shit persona when I walk in there and while I'm sure it's great for him to have an amusing client, I don't think it's so good for me.

I haven't even cried in his office. What kind of therapy is that?