I intended to post yesterday, but I didn’t, and if I had, it would have started like this:
I’m not here right now. Leave a message.
…
{this is where, if I had a horrible sense of humour and it was empowered, I would emoticon some form of beep sound.}
I’ll save us the eye roll.
I went to Chicago hypomanic. I got worse while I was there. I don’t remember much of it. I think I ate two or three meals during the four days and three nights I was gone, and that was it. And I only slept for four hours. I met a lot of people, I drank a few soy chai lattes, I smoked a lot of cigarettes.
I live-blogged four sessions – including Friday’s keynote, when Grace Davis‘ post literally tore the air out of me. Afterward, when I approached her and sobs were shuddering out of me, I couldn’t speak at first, I just touched my bony sternum, above where my heart was fluttering. Her name fits her, possibly better than anyone I’ve ever met.
I wasn’t okay after that for a few hours.
I spouted off matter-of-factly during the Room of Your Own that I was honoured to be a part of. I’m sure I came across as a class-A asshole, but you know, sometimes, that’s how shit gets done around here. “Every one is assholes.” Sometimes. {yes, I know that’s not grammatically correct, but it’s a you-had-to-be-there joke that suits nearly any occasion.}
I got to hang out with some of the damn cool kids, including my fabulous roommates and people rumoured to be elitist. I’m just some no-one mommy blogger (who actually usually fails at the blogging about mom stuff aspect, so) and I was included, so I didn’t get the need for drama to be created, but whatever, we choose to see what we want, right? </soapbox>
There were indiscretions and giggles, tears and more hugs than I’ve hugged in possibly all of my hugging history. There were some dark bits and some light bits and that’s about all that I will say about BlogHer’09. I’m glad I went, I’m glad it’s over. Wish I remembered more than 15 of the what? 80 hours? I was gone.
Then I came home and within a couple of days, crashed.
Until yesterday, I was suspended in ether, feeling nothing. No happiness, excitement, motivation, anger, frustration, love, joy, pain, passion or intrigue. Numb.
They call it feeling flat. It’s not depression, per se, because you’re not sad. You’re just nothing. I felt dead. I dreamed, which I rarely do, and woke up without interest in the fact that my brain chose to do things while I was sleeping. Before, I’d had few dreams in the past year and a half. Maybe two. After the crashed, I was having one or two a night. But I didn’t care.
The dishes that needed to be washed were, but factor determining their need was not usual. The decision was not based on whether there was a presence of dishes that were dirty, or that the sink was full, or because fruit flies had found a home in them. It was based on the fact that Isobel wanted cereal for breakfast and the bowls were dirty and so were all of the tupperware containers and all of the mugs and the drinking cups were too tall for her to be able to scoop bites out of, so I had to wash at least one bowl and give her a disposable spoon to go with it. At least until the next time I had to use a dish for her.
I was eating out of packages.
And holy fucking christ did I eat.
When I got home from Chicago, I had lost six pounds. As of the photo on my last post, I had recovered those pounds and added on an additional seven and a half. 13.5 pounds in less than 10 days.
I ate until I felt like puking and then a bit more. In single sittings, I ate halves of cheesecakes. Or entire pizzas and bread sticks as a chaser. Or a litre of ice cream. This made me sick for more than the simple fact that I was force-feeding myself because nausea and intestinal cramping were the only thing I was capable of feeling.
I’m not tolerant of dairy and wheat. I don’t have as definitive a reaction as Isobel does, but it’s definitely not my friend, and I got a lot of proof out of five days of eating non-stop.
Then came yesterday, when I woke up and I could feel.
I felt like I needed to go back to bed. To run away. Cry until the dehydration would fell me into a coma. Depression doesn’t describe it. I was the exact opposite of happy and also the antithesis to numb. I felt everything, I hated everything, I wanted nothing. My head was saying oh my god, please save me from this, I’m trapped with a fucking lunatic in here, yet I resisted speaking the words out loud.
It was a purely chemical reaction. The logical side of me knew it, and knew that no one could solve that for me unless they were holding and I certainly didn’t think drugs were the answer.
What was, was to allow myself to sulk a bit and rage a bit and tear up at a few points and miss a baby I don’t have who isn’t starting to walk right now and resent someone who doesn’t have his shit together enough to give me another baby and oh, is that more cheesecake in the fridge?
I woke up different today. Not all better, but there’s stitches in place. Not happy, but feeling something that isn’t about pain and aching needs that aren’t tangible and may never be fulfilled. With a bit more motivation, a lot less need for destruction, a few goals for the future and the intention to get back on the clean diet.
I woke up thinner, even though I still ate myself into a near carb coma last night. I woke up with the period from hell.
Now that is pain.
