Mal

[Prompt: Bobby, early morning hours. Coffee, bullets and magic.]

The first trilling of bird song breaks into Bobby’s concentration and he raises bleary eyes from the faded pages of the book before him. His neck aches and vertebrae creak with the motion. How long since he last looked up? A weindigo ago, at least, he thinks, glancing over to the far corner of the desk and a discarded volume of Native American folklore.

A wendi-ago, he thinks then and has to quash a rising snort of laughter. Too much time spent around the kid.

Said kid snoozes peacefully, if noisily, on the beat up couch nearby. Dean Winchester - his, but not his. His all the same. Possession is nine tenths of the law, after all. All manner of discarded flotsam washed up on the junkyard’s shores over the years. Bobby takes it in, sorts it, and puts it all in its proper places; a caretaker to the lost. Although, none of his acquired treasures was quite so precious… aggravating, exhausting, exasperating… as the lanky figure snoring a morning aria to the tune of perky birds warbling just outside the window.

He shakes his head sharply and then stifles a yawn. Christ. He was a maudlin drunk and now, it seems, a sentimental old geezer when tired.

Coffee. He needs coffee or sleep and sleep is at least one potential poltergeist away, yet. He marks his place in the tome, pushes to his feet, and heads for the kitchen. Partway there, he stops to slide another book from Dean’s lax fingers and pull a tatty blanket up from the other end of the couch to cover him. Three hard, sharp sounds stop him in his tracks, reflexes and mental processing dulled after the all-nighter. He blinks down at the bullets, two rolling toward his boot and one disappearing under the couch. Two more brass jacketed shells wink at him from the couch cushions.

“Whzzat?” Dean mutters, shifting in his sleep, coming right to the edge of wakefulness.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to answer back that the kid needs to learn to put his damn toys away, but he resists the urge and after a moment of struggle, Dean succumbs to sleep once more. It’s a marvel, that. Part miracle, really, that the kid can just… sleep like that. Not just sleep, but trust that he’s safe enough to. Spells and wards and magic abounds, surrounding the house in a low level hum of spiritual energy that often keeps Bobby’s nerves on the jangling edge. Not Dean. He’s slept like a baby every night since he washed up on Bobby’s doorstep, bedraggled from the cold, South Dakota rain and whatever else he’d run into during those missing years. Alive. Alive and thin and ragged and alive. It had been all Bobby could do to choke out, “Get in here,” past the granite lump in his throat. Damn kid.

Damn kid who is now sporting another ten pounds or so and who could stand to put on a few more still. Damn kid who clanks and sings and get grease up to his elbows in the garage every other day. Damn kid who’s catching up on his Greek and Latin to help out with lore requests. Damn kid with his too young face and too old eyes and laser sharp knack for getting a laugh out of him when he least wants to laugh.

Bobby shakes his head, steps carefully around the bullets and finishes the trek to the kitchen. The smell of coffee will bring Dean out of dream land soon enough. He can pick up his toys then.

First four be here!

( Dazzler/Longshot: Clothing )

( Vampire Dean/Wolfy Sam: Books )

( Dean/Jess: Gambling )

( Dean/Daryl: Alcohol )

I feel like I've been on the go, non-stop, for a while now. I haven't, but it feels that way.

May 9th was my birthday and the following day was the graduation ceremony for the Metro Community college class of 2013. Technically, I'm not a graduate yet. I have two more classes to complete in the summer quarter to be totally finished, but since I was so close, they went ahead and let me walk anyway. I graduated with honors, which made me pretty proud.

I've also been attending therapy sessions once a week for the last couple months. My therapist's name is Naoko and is originally from Japan. She has a bit of an accent, so sometimes we confuse each other, but she's pretty nice. It feels weird to be pouring out all my problems to someone my own age, though. I feel like therapists should be older than me. :P

Today, I had an appointment with her and brought cookies in for the staff... only to find out they're all doing an office version of The Biggest Loser, so that may not have been the best plan. Oh well. I tried.

The psychiatrist I see in conjunction with my therapist is named Terri and she's been working on getting me properly medicated. I remember this being more difficult the last time around, but it's been 10+ years since I was last on medication for depression and it's also a different diagnoses from the last time, so I guess that explains why it all feels so different. They've both decided the diagnosis is Bipolar Disorder Type 2, which is the less manic of the two types. I've been struggling with that since, somewhere along the way, I got it in my head that Bipolar Disorder was "the bad one" and as long as I was anything but, I'd be okay. Now I'm kind of having to deal with one of my own worst fears which is, admittedly, not at all based in reality. I think, honestly, the mental image I have of Bipolar Disorder is what bad media shows it to be. Which is about as accurate as the Weather Channel, I know. It's just something I have to work out in my head.

I feel better, though. I really do. I don't want to jinx myself and look too closely at it, but I can tell a significant difference in how I feel since I started all this. I feel calmer, milder, and slightly more energetic. More hopeful. I honestly don't think I've ever felt this good before, in my adult life, so I'm definitely pleased with my progress. I'm just still worried that it's all just temporary and will eventually crash back down again. My pessimistic side at work.

In addition to therapy, I've also joined the local Kroc Center. It's a little expensive, but I think I can manage it and getting into shape is something I've wanted so bad for so long. Now that I'm feeling better in general, I think it's time to work on it. Strike while I have the motivation and all. So, this past Monday, I joined and did my first workout. The trainer on duty took my height, weight, measurements, and tested my endurance and flexibility. Then she showed me around the fitness area and how to work all the machines. We set up a beginners program for me on the strength training machines and I also add in about 30 minutes on the treadmill, as well as a pile of ab crunches. I went back again today and worked out again. I am really sore, but I feel good about it.

Downtown, when I go to my therapy appointment, I pass by a used book store that I've meant to check out for weeks, but it took me a while to get up the nerve to do it. So, last week, I finally did. It's amazing how many books, DVDs, and CDs he's got shoved in there. I could spend days looking through stuff. He's also got a store dog named Joy. She's an Australian Shepherd who is, apparently, afraid of everyone, but I am determined to win her over with treats. She wasn't there today when I stopped on, though.

Outside of school and therapy, I've also joined a couple of social groups for Omaha. One is called the Omaha Culture Club. Last night, I went to my first meeting with them. We got together downtown at an Indian Restaurant (Well, it used to be a restaurant. Now, it's more like a swanky bar with a handful of Indian appetizers available. The Tandoori wings and Naan bread were amazing.). I was there for two hours with a Frenchman named Jean-Paul. Get the man started talking about wine and he goes on and on. It's kind of entertaining. He tried to tell me the best place in Omaha to get escargot; I didn't have the heart to tell him there was no way in Hell I'd ever eat snails. He's an adventurous eater, though. Apparently he's eaten horse, monkey brains, and something else I can't remember because I was too busy being horrified by the idea of eating monkey brains.

He's also good friends with the owner of the Indian place and has a drink on the menu named after him: The Frenchman. It's a brandy drink with a lot of citrus flavors. Pretty tasty, actually, and majorly strong. It probably would have been good to find out that the bathroom was down a flight of steep stairs before I had that drink and three glasses of wine. He was impressed with my drinking, though. Ha, take that, France.

Apparently, the building where the Indian Oven is currently located used to be a speakeasy. He gave me an entertaining history of its use during Prohibition. He's only been in Omaha three years, so I imagine he is the sort of person who can and will strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere. I wish I had that ability.

Let's see... what else?

I think there was more, but my brain's full. I want to do some writing and some roleplaying tonight. It's been a long time since I sat down and RP'd very much. I've sort of fallen out of the groove or something. I don't know. I just feel weak with my voices and kind of like it's a chore to get the words out. I don't know how to fix that or if I'm just ready to move on from older fandoms or what.

Hopefully, I can figure it out.

Homework's freaking me out again, so I'll do this instead.

I’ve started composing this in my head five or six times now and I guess it’s time to finally get it out so I can stop thinking about it. I’ve seen a lot of blog posts and articles by people describing what depression is to them. There have been pieces and parts I agreed with and ones which also hold true for me. None of them really hit the bullseye for me, though, and I realized that’s because depression is one of those things that don’t come in a one-size-fits-all. It wears very differently on everyone and my experience will never be the same as anyone else’s. That’s just the way it is and, I think , what makes it so damn difficult to treat.

Well, for those who can afford to have it treated, but I digress. This isn’t about me bitching about health care in this country. I’ve never been very political and trying to wade in deep enough to form an educated option just depresses me further.

The description of depression I’ve seen written down which matched closest to mine was a woman who likened it to walking around all day with an anvil floating above your head. That anvil could fall at any moment and crush you, so you have to use every bit of your strength, energy, and willpower just in holding that thing up or else... bye bye, baby.

That is close, but it misses a very vital part of depression for me. It loses the fear aspect. In that analogy, the depression’s just there. It’s an inanimate thing that seems to have no will of its own. It’s just there because of some bad luck or strange circumstance, most likely. My depression is much more active than that. I’m afraid all the time: every moment of every day. For me, depression is a hunter; it’s a stalker.

I live in constant forward motion. That may sound smart and healthy when put like that, but stay with me here. It’s really not. There’s a difference between the act of running to something (healthy) and running away from something (less so). It’s a perfectly good survival instinct gone completely haywire. I’m in constant mental motion because I know if I stop, it will catch me. Depression lives behind me and just off to the side. I can see it in my peripheral vision or if I turn my head too fast. I feel it there. I know it’s waiting and if I miss a step, then that’s all she wrote.

It’s not fear of the unknown, either. I know exactly what’s back there. It’s me, pretty much. It’s my fuck ups and my failures. It’s all the incredible, irreparable damage I’ve done to my life and the utter certainty that I won’t ever amount to anything because I’ve wasted too much time and put too many road blocks in my own way. About how I owe so much to so many that I will never, in my entire lifetime, possess enough money to pay it all off. It’s the cold reality of the situation I’ve built for myself and for which I have no one else to blame. Outwardly, I pretend it’s not there.

I go through the motions: going to school and taking random classes, making friends I won’t keep, baking things I don’t care about, and singing, and fishing, and doing the normal things that normal people do. Only, it’s just a front. I don’t feel most of it and I certainly don’t mean almost any of it. It’s just another manifestation of that directionless forward momentum. It’s similar to a shark and how sharks have to keep moving or they’ll die. That’s me, except the shark’s behind me.

I have to move on from that particular train of thought, now, before my head turns too far. I feel anxious just brushing against it like that.

To protect myself I anesthetize myself with television, movies, books, online roleplay, fanfiction... anything that I can use to occupy space in my head. Anything that will keep me from stopping long enough to glance to the side or, God help me, look behind. There are bad things waiting for me there and if I can just block it all out with Dancing With The Stars, Supernatural, A Song of Ice and Fire, Food Network, or anything else that will keep me focused and moving, then I have a chance. It’s a weak chance filled with a whole lot more of the same, empty nothing, but in some ways I guess it beats the alternative.

Recently, I saw my own worst fear happen to someone else. I watched her dissolve into a panic attack that lasted more than half a fucking day because she stopped moving. She stopped watching the pretty pictures and turned around to look behind. There was nothing I could do to help, either. I was too afraid. I shut down, completely: My last refuge from losing it, myself. All I could do was watch and desperately hum Lady GaGa, Disney Tunes, and Michael Jackson in my head. I plotted out terrible fanfic and tortured characters in my head. Whatever would get me through the night. Neither of us got any sleep, but I got to stay on my metaphorical feet, so I guess that’s something.

This is why the anvil theory doesn’t completely work for me. That way of thinking doesn’t have the anvil as a malevolent entity. The anvil doesn’t peek out at you from dark corners while it’s sharpening its claws. It’s not eagerly waiting to pounce the way I feel my depression is. In my gut I know that if I stop ducking and diving long enough, I’ll trip and fall and, I know myself... I won’t get back up. I’ll never be free of it because it’s got my scent now and it wants my blood. I know that sounds overly dramatic, but it's exactly how I feel. It's not a question of if, but when it'll finally bring me down.

So, that’s what I wanted to say. A snapshot of the world from my view, such as it is. Now, I guess I'll go pretend to do some pretend homework for the pretend classes I pretend to give a damn about.

I'm actually a little scared. What I initially thought was a twisted, swollen ankle from yesterday has become two very swollen feet and lower legs. They hurt a little, they're so swollen and if I bend my toes, the skin pulls scarily tight.

I don't know what to do about it. I don't have a job, money, health insurance. I did a lot of physical stuff today, so maybe it's nothing...

Kind of sitting on the edge of a panic attack.

It's my birthday today. I turned 32. I have exactly nothing to show for it, by the way. Thirty-two years of... nada. (My Twitter feed tells me that The Pill turned 52 today.) This morning, festivities began when I made the mistake of telling my roomie's parents what I wanted for my birthday dinner tonight. I asked for Beef Stroganoff, because I happen to love it (I do not, however, love mushrooms). I then got a lengthy lecture on how there would be mushrooms in it, there would be lots of mushrooms in it, and mushrooms were one of the major flavor components in Stroganoff anyway! I got this lecture last time I asked for it, so you'd think I'd remember to just not ask, but I forgot.

... I have a thing about food, you see. I do not like people commenting to me about what I eat or don't eat, I don't like lectures, I just want to be left alone. I've had a weird relationship with food all my life, I've had people give me weird complexes about it growing up... and what's more, what I do or don't eat affects no one but me. I don't refuse to cook things for people, I don't insist they can't have things around me, I don't lecture, I don't scream. I leave you alone, you leave me alone, okay? Jesus...

And then, on the drive to campus, I got more complaining about how long the recipe took to make, how much effort was involved, all the onion chopping and meat cutting. And still more complaining about how such a heavily dairy based food would react with roomie's lactose intolerant mother. So, I feel great about the whole thing, really.

Then I went to class, same as always. Got my Psych exam back today and nearly cried because I got a B. My priorities are... a bit skewed. I don't know what's wrong with me in regard to grades. I covet A's. I bask in them. If there was some way to make a physical representation of all the A's I've made since I went back to school, I would gather them together and roll around in them like Scrooge McDuck with his money. It's that bad.

We discussed some psychological phenomenon in Psych (I can't remember what it's called) a few weeks ago about people who, if they don't get an A on an assignment, they might as well have gotten an F. That's me. I don't know why, but that's how it always feels. I actually do cry if I pull in a C.

The only pleasant thing I've experienced today is that I have a story building in my head. Not a roleplay story or fanfic. An actual, honest to god, original idea. This almost never happens to me, so I'm really excited about it. I'm also not going to tell anyone about it, because every time I do, someone manages to say something that discourages me from writing it at all and I end up back at square one. Less than square one. Square zero. It feels bad and I hate it, so I'm hiding this one. I want it to survive.

Tired now. Considering a nap.

Okay, this is not my picture, but imagine this happening in a 32oz glass jar:



I found a praying mantis egg case in the wild rose bush outside my window. Actually, I didn't know what the hell it was, but internet searches of bug cocoons + what lives in our area suggested it was the egg case of a Chinese praying mantis. I stuck it in a jar thinking nothing would really happen, since it seemed so light and empty. There was nothing but the egg case in there when I left for class this morning, so I guess they hatched out while I was in class today.

I am so stupidly amused by this. I may actually buy another egg case online next year and do it again if my babies don't leave me any. ;)

Today, I had this exchange with author Lilith Saintcrow (http://www.lilithsaintcrow.com/journal/) --

@lilithsaintcrow: It's happened. I suddenly want to run new, longer routes. They warned me about this, but I didn't believe them.
@lilithsaintcrow: When I started, I couldn't even run for 60 seconds. Now I'm contemplating 7-milers. #wonderment
@lilithsaintcrow: This is what a few years of plodding, incremental effort gets you. #applicabletowritingANDrunning

@ShadeBlossom: How long did it take you to get there?

@lilithsaintcrow: Three years? I go really slow.

@ShadeBlossom: That's better than I imagined. I'm out of shape, but I've always wanted to run. Especially when you tweet about #zombiesrun

@lilithsaintcrow: I started with four minutes walking and one running, for a half-hour. For MONTHS.
@lilithsaintcrow: Then three walking, two running--you get the idea. When it was four minutes running, I tried my first 11-minute runs
@lilithsaintcrow: Then I added a minute whenever I felt strong.
@lilithsaintcrow: I lost 70lbs--most of that was because I wasn't misery-eating, though. *grin*

@ShadeBlossom: I'm definitely going to try now. Thank you very much. :)

@lilithsaintcrow: I totally believe in you. You can try running, see if it works for you.
@lilithsaintcrow: Just see if you like it. No pressure, and nobody to measure yourself against. You can do it!

Here's the Zombies, Run! game I was talking about. It's an iPhone app that uses zombies as running motivators. My gift to myself, if I ever get to my goal of actually being able to run, will be an iPhone so I can use this. ;)

"Once you've got the approximate number of calories you need to maintain your current body weight, you need to determine if you are overweight, underweight, or at your ideal weight. For a woman, ideal body weight is calculated at 100 pounds up to 5' tall, with an additional 5 pounds added per every inch above 5'."

Am I nuts or is that telling me I should weigh 100 pounds? Is that... even possible for a grown woman? I think the last time I bothered looking at anything that suggested an ideal weight for my age and height and all, it was like 120-130. I'm not sure how I feel about this 100 pounds thing.

I have accomplished exactly nothing I set out to do today. Took three hours to get the software I needed downloaded. Now that I have it installed, I can't use it because I forgot to get the necessary information from my teacher today. And that's after I failed to actually accomplish anything at school today.

Now I'm reading "The Hunger Games" and bawling intermittently for no good reason.

Awesome.