“Price of Admission”

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I love my boyfriend.  He means everything to me.  He supports me in every way, despite his own struggles.

But he drives me nuts.  And he smells.  And he hogs the t.v.

Every day I am confronted with an ongoing obligation to be the house maid.  I know it’s partly my neuroticism but I can’t help but think, ‘Why can’t he put his dirty clothes in the hamper,’ or, ‘Why can’t he scrape the leftover crusty cereal bits so they don’t stick on for dear life to the sides of the bowl.’  He once used to casually point out how I never refill the Britta pitchers (New Bedford water is really fowl-tastes like dirt, chlorine, a fish-processing plant and sewage all wrapped into one.)  Now, however, it’s me who nags about the empty Britta pitchers or making sure the freezer door is shut so we don’t end up with a frozen cube of partly thawed vegetables.  Yes, he leaves the toilet seat up, and yes, he makes a mess of the bathroom when he showers.

I know I can’t be alone in this: doesn’t everyone have farting contests?  He says, “You have the most inhuman fart noises.  The sound like they are talking.”  In this category, I am the winner.  I have no shame.  I’m here to bare all.  He, however, often comes at me with SBDs; and because our apartment is just over 200-square feet, it fills the entire living quarters.  We keep Lysol in business.

He always disagrees with me on what we watch on TV.  “You don’t like documentaries.  I guess I’ll have to watch this on my own.”  I have no idea where he got this idea.  We agree on a few things:  Bob’s Burgers, Tim and Eric, Will Farrell movies, 70’s and 80’s cult classics (such as Running Man and Robocop), and anything with Crispin Glover.  But he hogs the TV.  Now, when he sits down on the couch, I surrender the remote, put up with whatever he chooses, and knit.

But, as my therapist says, “It’s the price of admission.”  Meaning, when you love and live with someone, you just have to put up with their eccentricities as well.  I am not without my own.  And with all the nagging and complaining I do, I know that his little annoyances are just that: little annoyances.  Nothing to get upset over.  Nothing that would at all make or break our relationship.  In fact, if he weren’t around, it would be those little characteristics that I would miss most.


Fluffy Butts and Cheese Sandwiches

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Hello world.  Goddamn I’m lost.  I have no idea how to start or how to finish anything.  I only know how to work on something.  Even then, I procrastinate.  So maybe I’ll just jump right in and hopefully as posts go by it’ll start to make some sense.

I’m currently unemployed.  What better time to sit around and finally get to publishing a weblog that I’ve always wanted to start.  Here I am, once swimming in ideas to write about, now an empty void.  The two things I think of most these days are food and knitting.  It could be worse I suppose.  I could be a meth addict.  Still, the days I keep are long spent on the couch, in my unwashed pajamas, stuffing my face with Cocoa Pebbles and cheese sandwiches, and knitting until the hand I slammed in the door jam to the chicken run hurts too much to lift a needle.  I am productive, you know (not Lather productive…); I try to do the dishes, the laundry, my homework, pay bills, feed and poop the dogs, and visit the girls.  All while suffering from a deep melancholy so debilitating that despite three hours of contemplation, nine time out of ten I decide to stay at home rather than leave to get a coffee every day.

I want to get something out in the open.  Something that I’ll keep referencing from here on forward, so it’s only befitting that I introduce it within my first blog entry.

I have a mental illness.

There.  I said it.  Just like, “I have cancer” or “I won the lottery” or “I have a cheese sandwich”.  I mainly suffer from Dysthymia, a chronic form of depression, which started when I was very young.  “Ever since I can remember” has always been my reply to any therapist.  The harder part is trying to formulate an answer when asked if there was any one event that may have triggered it.  Which leads me to thinking how boring my life was and worse – how I have no reason to be as miserable as I have always been.  Frequent monikers include ‘Moody Julie’, ‘Eeyore’, ‘Grumpy’, and my favorite, ‘Mopey Dick’.  It escalated to the point that I would be known to be miserable.  I followed my own fate.

During recent winter months, I have experienced many major depressive episodic flare-ups.   They just so happen to coincide with my unemployment and medication changes (more on that later).  It’s hard to say if things worsen because of the unemployment or if they would have gotten worse despite having a job.  Considering my track record, I would think there really isn’t one trigger to these flare-ups.  Although weather does play an important role.

It’s tough, not wanting to leave the house, and when I do, I find myself longing to be in front of the television, knitting, and drowning my thoughts with mindless TV shows and 1-star movies on Netflix.  I try to pinpoint the few times that I have slight relief and attempt to search for the one “thing” that sparked them so that I may replicate them, but I get nowhere.  This is because there isn’t just one “thing”.  There are a whole lotta little “things”.  The emotional instability, one of my many diagnoses, may cause these bouts of relief or it may be the intermittent doses of huge amounts of sugar.  Despite these moments of reprieve, however, I still find myself weighted down by that damn melancholy.


Because I have argued with David about whether or not to delete this post entirely and forget about writing a blog altogether, here is my fortune cookie advice for the week:

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Of The Boston Creme Variety…

Just a filler post…nothing more to read here, move along.