2003-08-18 @ 9:47 p.m.
|There's a song out. I don't know the lyrics exactly, but it goes something like: I once knew this young girl, who cried a river that drowned the whole world. Well, I'm getting very close doing that right now. I'm bipolar, but instead of bouncing between depression and manic, I'm bouncing between anger and sadness. And sometimes I experience them simultaneously.
I have what shrinks call a Mixed State. And there has been no week more noticeable for that than this week. If I'm not screaming the seven words you can't say on television, I'm weeping uncontrollably. And I'm medicated. Can you imagine what it would be like if I wasn't?
Sometimes I just want to chuck all the meds. That's every bipolar's dream. I really think this last med I was put on, the Wellbutrin, was like putting lighter fluid on a campfire in the middle of a dry California forest. If you didn't get a 50,000 acre blaze out of it, you were damn lucky. But I wasn't lucky. I have been riding a runaway train for over a month now. My shrink had said this was the real me, feeling real feelings, after being depressed for so long.
Get me back to depressionland. At least its quiet there. And you don't yell. And say naughty words. And want to smash your ex-landlord's SUV.
I had been suffering from a really bad sore neck so I called up Married Guy and went in for a massage today. I had not seen him since last week and he had again gone to Providence for the weekend. I vaguely knew he was going to Providence sometime in August, but he doesn't check with me, since I'm only the girl he says I love you to and then goes home to his wife. OK, he only did that once, but I have a really good memory.
So I went to his office, and he was eating a huge burrito. He's never on time for my appointments. Him or my shrink. I'm so unimportant. Appointment with witty kitty? Oh, we can eat lunch and make 50 calls. Being on time isn't important. It's no wonder I have such sucky self esteem. And then there's the vicious cycle. I get angry. I don't say anything. And they continue to do it and it continues to bother me, to i-n-f-i-n-i-t-y.
Guess I can only blame myself for that one.
So I got on the massage table. I was totally congested. Could not breathe, even though my face was poking through the face cradle. He finally came in about 15 minutes late. Maybe it was only 10 minutes, since I hadn't settled until 1:05. He told me about his Providence trip. His wife had gone with her parents to the Hamptons. Ah tales of the rich and not so famous. And then we fell silent. Totally silent. I was sniffing. I asked him for some Kleenex.
And before I knew it I was crying. Tears were falling on his shoes through the cradle. Its not the first time I've cried on his table. Last summer when I was angry at him about something I had cried, recovered, and then been fine by time I flipped over. But today I was a goner. My sniffing became more prominent and finally I had to tell him I wasn't doing well. He got me a big wad of Kleenex and I'm honking away through the face cradle. Talk about sexy. And I don't cry pretty. I'm Irish and I get very red and my nose looks like a beehive. He continued to massage me, but he didn't say much, except that I could come over to his house and get some *****-lovin' (that's his dog). Oh good...can we throw you in as a bonus?
It was kind of a lackluster massage. He spent about 24 minutes of a 30 minute massage just on my back and I hate that. I had to ask him to work on my legs for a minute. And he never got to my favorite part. My butt. I have the tensest butt east of the Mississippi. He did help my neck a little bit. At least I can turn it now. He's good at what he does. I just wish I wasn't so emotionally attached to those hands.
I did get a hug afterwards. But it was one of those married guys hug....the to the side kind. I hate those. Why bother?
Oh and I also found out how old his wife is (WHY IS HE DISCUSSING HER DURING MY MASSAGE????) Anyways, she's 37 and he's 46. I knew she was younger, but I thought she was younger than that. If I hadn't been so under the weather emotionally and physically I could have piped up with, "Gee I thought she was only 29, you cradle robber!" But I was too busy choking back tears.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty