People have always said there was something about animal companionship that made life a little easier. Nothing like coming home, or staying home entirely for that matter, and just allowing yourself to be coveted into a fur infested feline pillow. Watching how utterly satisfied they are with their lot in life, to be an North American house cat – life doesn’t get much better than that after all. That said, my sister decided to take us out to the Vancouver Cat Cafe that has just recently re-opened its door since it had been looted of all it’s resident cats from hopelessly disturbed cat adopters. Sick.
Now I realize those who have known me previously here would be entirely too familiar with the ways of my, not one, but two fat asses I call my one and only. As I am typing this at work, I cannot supply you with hilariously inappropriate photos, though I hope you feel the tickling of my perverseness through the screen. And I may be laying it on thick right now with the sarcasm, with due understanding you see – when you’ve suffered through an in-explainable week of nervous break downs you sort of got to belly flop your way in the day to day stuff to get by. Granted, I’ve caught myself clutching my jeans, meaning to be dressed, while being rocked by a sudden onslaught of self loathe and tears. So in that respect, I think I have outdone myself in unreasonable douchebaggery.
Probably this whole style of self-denying narration delves into the many, plethora and myriads of problems in my human psyche…but we’ll keep it simple.
I guess I have a problem (yes, I will stick with my denial if it’ll make things easier). But so does everybody else in this damn bloggosphere – like why else are we here? What, you’ve got friends outside? So how do we dignify my abominable possible OCD with your loner aspect? I suppose you can’t. And I should stop thinking so much. Easy fixes and all. That’s where I was headed when I was talking to my sister over dinner about headed to the clinic and asking for a referral (as most suggested by a lot of people I know) or being prescribed (more opt for by myself) some on-the-leash medication to stop myself from being entirely too ir-radical in times when logic escapes you. My argument being it’s not fun to lash out with my accelerated over-concerness for things that are blown out of proportion with my invisible dialogues to people I actually care about. And if self-loathe was one of those things I’ve secretly been hoarding underneath my comfortable feline ass then expect the mental self beating I will give myself when logic returns.
The arguments against these medications are old though. I, myself, had written an essay about it back in high school more or less saying it was a useless sense of government approved escapism. My sister had personally been in a 3 year relationship with a guy who was on anti-depression medication and when this guy tried to cut down his doses, things went bad. I was only 14 at this time so I don’t know the full details, but I appreciate her saying she wouldn’t want to see me become like that. Drugs are addictive in the end and we are addictive beings. I get it. But let me just cut to the chase and say this: it is a fair amount devastating to have the most intimate people in your life tell you that you need/should go talk to someone – i.e a therapist. 6 1/2 years counselling took over my life in school. I’m not complaining, I’m sure it’s pulled me through a lot of stuff. But if the fear for drug reliance is evident, it should be noted that so is the goddamn dependency of an audience all your life. I am afraid of my own thoughts when things get too quiet – that’s my problem, and a lot of other people’s too. Now that I’ve spent almost 2 years outside this realm of counselling or therapy or any sort of help in my mental health I find myself entirely too reluctant to go back.
I quote my pride when I think about how badly I had clawed my way out of there. It’s not that it was bad, but social stigma will be what it is and even if I’ve been there before, nobody wants to take a look and subjugate themselves to people probing your minds again. It’s a humility thing, and I’ve lost that particularly streak of it. It’s the part where you try to hold yourself together and explain things you can’t explain in your own head; things that require a back ground of inner thoughts nobody else could ever guess.
My sister says everybody is just trying to help.
It’s hard not to get worked up talking about it. For the moment I’ve just been digging up on all my old books again – the ones that have stared at me while I slept every night. All my self-development, self-imagery, success minding and etc books. Things I thought I could oh so easily put behind me after the first grueling year of being on my own. It’s not permanent. Things still get to me on a minute to hour basis and it’s hard but I try. Try harder to believe that people will know I’m trying without having to be obedient as a mull or over compensating for my week-long sulliness with undue extremities of happy.
Mostly it’s probably just my pride again, sauntering its way into my happy-go-lucky attitude telling people (mostly myself) that I’m okay. My partner says he’s worried about me. I suppose when someone you’ve only known 3 months unleashes 10 years worth of self-destructing thoughts, you tend to get a bit winded about their sanity.
And just like that, I’ve ran out of words again.
Tonight when I return home, I’ll simply be eternally grateful for my two cats. Just for the soft purring, the sweet warmth of their paws. Their undeniable impressionable face that tells you how little they think of you. All great. Things that should further occupy my mind than anything else, that seems like the best therapy.