where there's a will.

Vacation log, day one: Woke up one hour later than usual. Drank coffee. Checked the week's weather. Almost checked work email, but was denied due to server being busy. End report.

The wait is over. Vacation is here and I'm feeling mostly well. There are days now that I don't hear ringing in my ears, and I no longer have the feeling that all sound is muffled. I still have swollen lymph nodes, but thanks to a tiny dose of Paxil, I don't worry about them much. Mind you, I don't love the idea of a medicated life. I hate the idea that the pharmaceutical companies are winning me over. I have exhausted all available resources, and frankly, this is the one that works, because this is the one thing that they make more readily available than any other treatment. So it goes.

However I'm getting there--I am finally over the hump. I am working almost full-time. To fill the space, I applied to college. This is a long-awaited move for me. It will be free, because I work for said college. I would be a moron to not take advantage of the opportunity. In fact, I had been applying for jobs here since the 90s, solely because it would afford me the education I could never afford otherwise. I am elated and terrified. But a life being neither of those things is not the life for me.

To add to the confusion, the other and I are house hunting. We are happy. And pre-approved. Go us.

Also, we started a band. Initially, we planned it as a one-time deal. Somehow it worked out better than could be expected, and so, we are banded. Maybe this is no big deal. It's not meant to be a big deal. It is fun, and undaunting, just how it should be. We don't need to be the best, and we don't need the money. Just a mutual understanding that we love music, and that we want it to sound better every day. I used to feel guilty that I'm a mediocre guitar player, and that sometimes I sing out of tune. As with most things, you don't have to be the best to try your best. 

In fact, I feel guilty a lot of the time. This is not something new. As my new psychiatrist mentioned, I pretty much exhibit the classic traits of a child born unto an alcoholic parent. I refuse to blame my problems on this unfortunate stroke of fate, but hey, I pretty much blame myself for everything. Been doing it since I was all of five years old. I realized that you don't have to know that your parent is an alcoholic to suffer the effects of their alcoholism. 

My sister crashed her bike once when we were little. I was sitting at home, probably watching TV, and she came home sobbing, mangled and bloodied. All I remember is standing upstairs in my bedroom dormer, looking at her on the front walk, crying and telling myself it was all my fault. To hear my mother tell it, I had been downstairs when she came home, and when she opened the door I was standing there in front of her. By her account, I looked her in the face, screamed, and ran up the stairs to my room. I don't remember that, and she didn't know that I was up there telling myself it was my fault. While this is a sad story, it's one that I use to remind myself that I am not to blame for everyone else's mistakes or downfalls. I have two years of regular therapy to thank for this. 

While the subject of mental illness, and general dis-ease may be uncomfortable for some, I've found that it's helpful to be mindful of it. Not just mindful of it for me, but for the rest of the people in the world that may be affected with it without even acknowledging it. It is true that an incredible stigma exists between the people who know they have a problem, be it anxiety, or depression, OCD, you name it, and the people who have any of these problems and are afraid to confront it. And of course, there's always the normal people. Wherever the fuck they are. 

Regardless, why be afraid to talk about it? To write about it. To be it.