  November 18/2002 Right. So another useless day passes, and I haven�t done anything to make it less useless, unless one counts healing. I wish I did. But, even more, I wish I had have got up at ten this morning and went out, made sales, made Kurt and Jim proud. But instead I woke up on the edges of a nightmare, feverish, nauseated, with a spiked marching band in my head. So I slept; that being what I do best lately, sold no satellite systems.
On the plus side, my withdrawal symptoms seem to be levelling off. My hands don�t shake, and I can now eat an entire bowl of porridge with no help from the dog. Yay me. Unfortunately, this does not directly help the financial situation. Here is the situation. Kurt and I are living in Atlantic Canada, he�s going to University, and I�m trying to support us.
After two months of searching, I found a job selling satellite systems; I get paid solely by commission. We�re behind on our rent; approximately a month and a half. One month behind on car payment. Two months behind on our phone bill. 45 dollars below our Visa limit. Perhaps this does not come off as stressful as it is to me.
The added thing is I have major depression, been fighting it with varying degrees of success for years, and I have trouble being in public. Recently, I made the executive decision to come off my medication; to rid myself of an anti-psychotic that has been knocking me unconscious for a year. I was put on the pills to get rid of �impulsive tendencies�, although my tendencies were only two events. The doctors said since my three suicide attempts were largely unplanned, I would benefit from being on a drug that would help me relax, help me think things through. It was also to help me sleep; but like I said before, it was more of a being hit with a cast iron skillet without the head trauma. 20 minutes after I took the required dose, I couldn�t speak coherently, couldn�t remember things.
The morning after, I could not remember things that happened, sometimes as far back as an hour before I took the meds. On several occasions, when trying to go to work in the morning, I would come close to getting into car accidents. It had to stop, and as of last week, I�m off the damn things. The withdrawal has been moderately awful, interfering with this job, my self worth, and my body. It has occurred to me, however, that I should not be experiencing withdrawal symptoms on medication my doctor prescribes me. I�m also on an anti depressant, of course.
This drug, number six of tried anti-depressants, is working well. I haven�t tried, or thought seriously of killing myself. Sometimes I can even see that the mess I�m in is not as nearly as grave as I think it is. This illness, and even more so, the drugs I�ve been on to combat it, has been a major �I don�t know, upset? Block? Huge pain in my arse and the arses of people I love?
Yeah. I had to leave school three times. I was supposed to graduate in 2000 from my undergrad, but I couldn�t do it. And I told no profs; so I really let myself down that way, I found out later there tends to be options for people like me. I know that now, but I had no idea then. Here�s my question.
What about me now? Do I tell my boss I have this illness, this thing I see often as being a weakness? My boss�s boss? Do I suck it up, and do my best, even though I know there�s going to be days, weeks, and maybe even months and years like this? Is it an excuse for my laziness, or is it a reason? How about a reason to fire me?
I keep thinking that maybe if I wasn�t like this, I�d be a good worker. I�d be a university graduate. I�d be, I don�t know, more, perhaps. Less scared. I know thinking like this is a trap. I can�t stop thinking like this.
I am waiting for that other shoe to drop, and me trying to avoid that shoe dropping is a nail I�m going to step on barefoot. And, my God, there is a dramatic difference in everything when I sleep the entire night. I�ve slept about fourteen hours the last week. I�m sleeping longer lately, which is truly amazing, but it feels like my body is now catching up on all the sleep it�s missed the last few years. The unconsciousness that I put on myself with the anti psychotics was merely that; there was nothing restful about it. I wasn�t lulled into sleep, I was forced unconscious.
In order to be the slightest bit functional, I had to have at least ten hours of this unconsciousness. My relatives think me lazy, and treat me as such. Sometimes I agree with them. I could not wake up unless someone had waked me; if there were no noises to wake me, I would continue sleeping; I think my longest stint like this was about twenty-four hours. At the time, I was living by myself, the dog had no inclination to go outside, and no one phoned or visited during that twenty four hour period. I should stop whining.
There are so many people out there who have it worse than me. But I can�t seem to let it go, this stupid weird brokenness. 
