Everyone needs those days now and then – personal days off from work when no one else is at home and a constant state of PJs is allowed, even expected. But the crying and self-pity is not expected on those days. I can’t pinpoint the reason I would pity myself, for I’ve had social events galore, kindnesses from friends and the hope that the summer won’t suck too terribly bad.

Why, then, the self-pity? Why the crying? Why can’t I sleep, even with Ambien? Why aren’t my drugs working as they should? I still have mountains of fear about ridiculous things; oddly enough, none of these fears are of having a panic attack. The drugs, at least, numb that rising tide and gently push it back where it belongs. But what of the others?

I had a party for some work friends a few weekends ago and it was the first time most of them had been to our house. I was completely obsessed with it all going perfectly. Will they like my food? Is my house clean enough? Will they look down on us for the way we live (i.e. it’s not designer perfect in there, TRUST ME)? A few years ago my therapist chastised me, over and over, for my perfectionist tendencies. They only apply in certain cases though: entertaining, teaching, grades, work. I’ve yet to find the root for it, not that it would do any good. I haven’t made any progress there, Therapist, sorry.

I believe I need my college girlfriends. I need them to hug me – in person – and tell me that they, too, remember the good times when we didn’t worry so much. I need those familiar faces that are touchstones for me. I know this is completely selfish but I don’t care. If drugs aren’t working and the desire to emerge from the cave under my comforter isn’t there, I’m certain there is but one solution: their love.

This is all in my imagination, of course. I’m imagining that someone else’s happiness will just seep out of their arms and into mine. The reality is that none of that is true.

Mental illness has no quick solution, no magic potion. It lives in fear and detests change. It rolls its eyes at attempts to push it around the corner and forget about it. Mental illness is vicious and feeds on the vulnerable.

And I, at this point, am vulnerable.

Tonight I started listening to 8 Track (if you don’t have that app, download it immediately), and it reminded me of the days when we would make tapes FOR things. And give them Titles of Importance. My favorite tapes of all time are the ones other people made for me in high school, when we were digging music that was a little off the beaten path – this was way before “hipster” and “indie” entered our vocabulary.

I remember though, in college, sitting on the carpet in Josie’s room, smoking Camels and listening to her music, which was far less mainstream than what I listened to. Her bands were super sharp and edgy and I felt very cool listening to them. She made me a CD later on as a Christmas gift and did that for several years after for friends. I drank a lot of Bud Light in that room.

Lindsey and I loved fierce chick singers and we had this great ritual for every time we crossed the state line back into NC: light a Marlboro, honk the horn and turn on the Indigo Girls because we could harmonize. We harmonized the SHIT out of the whole Indians & Saints album, over and over.

Then when Tarrah cleaned on Sundays she would bust out the good tunes on the Top 40 station. She would bring her ironing into my room, where I was drinking cold beer in the afternoon and watching Lifetime movies. I did her ironing and then would head next door to rock out to the same shit everyone else was listening to. This was all until that night we ate Taco Bell drive through – for me the first time ever – and we sang Jo Dee Messina. Tarrah was then my country girl.

And Kristen used to play “Life in a Northern Town” on repeat in her room. Mostly it was to drown out the reminder of her crazy ass roommate and my CERTIFIABLE roommates. It totally worked. I hummed that song forever on my walks to and from the metro station.

Is there even that kind of shit anymore? Does anyone make CDs or MP3 lists or whatever FOR anyone anymore? Do they Title them with the Importance of the songs contained within?

I fucking doubt it.

Kids these days.

I read someone else’s tweet the other day about their annoyance with people who overshare. Like, their followers know the minute someone puts on real pants for the day (which, hello, pants? OVERRATED), or that they chose to switch from American Idol to Criminal Minds and OMG THE DECISIONS WE HAVE TO MAKE. The annoyed fellow felt like not every moment of the daily grind should be tweeted. How many times you peed yesterday is, contrary to popular belief, an unnecessary bit of information.

For me, Twitter is just plain hilarious. The beauty of it is that people can’t write a diatribe about their children’s poo like they can on Facebook (yeah, you know who you are, and it’s GROSS). You have only so many characters you can exploit to get your point across and if you’re not careful or witty, you lose people and no one cares whether you just met James Franco in a coffee shop or you wrecked your Audi on an overpass in a blizzard. Twitter just won’t let you get away with all the words. It won’t let you post paragraph after paragraph about your Tetris score. Twitter won’t send you messages about High School Classmates! Take this Cool Quiz now! Please send 4 friends a strawberry plant in Farmville! And for that, Twitter, millions of people thank you.

I both use AND abuse Twitter. I’ve drunk-tweeted, Ambien-tweeted, mean-tweeted (see Dooce hair debacle of April 2011) but I’ve also hit a few strides here and there where I am ABSOLUTELY HYSTERICAL to the point that I freely brag about it.

I’ve “given up” Facebook for Lent, which is just a lame attempt to stop stalking people and staring at their babies’ pictures to see if they look like them. (Technically I ought to be doing something for Lent, like something good for the planet, as Cher would say. And I already ate fries, so I can’t give those up, and I drank a Diet Dew AND I hit the snooze button AND I haven’t exercised. Facebook is all that’s left.) Immediately I got emails and DM’s asking if I was giving up Twitter too.

HELL NAW. Twitter is magical and love and light and all that shit. And if I met Jack Dorsey tomorrow, I would kiss that bespectacled face and declare him Hero of All Social Media Everywhere Ever.

Yesterday I lost my temper in the office. I let someone get under my skin something fierce and I literally had to remove myself from the situation and walk out. I had that fiery red face, the hot flash, the bright sparks of light flashing in front of this person’s face and I just LOST IT. I had shaky hands and sweaty palms until bedtime last night. It was the most rattled I’ve been in, well, I don’t know how long. But actually for the last two months, I’ve felt the panic start to rise again. I have never been happier teaching my class, work is fine and home is fine, but still I feel the anxiety simmering right under the surface. When people talk to me their voices are extra loud. When I have phone conversations my mind wanders and I have to force myself to focus, lest I forget who I’m talking to. I fidget in meetings, poking people’s backs or kicking them from my chair, just to feel myself doing something. This sensation of detachment could have a lot to do with allergies, believe it or not. It could be the very early change in seasons, or the down time I have at work right now. Who knows?

The drugs I take are, I believe, absolutely essential to my daily function. Perhaps this is psychosomatic, but I think I can feel the edge of panic more if I take my medication off schedule, like if I take it at dinner instead of breakfast. I guess this means they are working correctly, but I don’t really know. I don’t have another appointment with my doctor until April, so I suppose I’ll ask her then.

About a year ago I got the stomach flu and I didn’t take my drugs for a few days. I freaked the fuck out one day when Brian wasn’t at home with me, and that was the moment I realized that I can’t live my life in a normal, manageable way unless I’m on these things. If you can do it right and do it like you’re told, the right prescription can mean a world of difference.

Not everyone can do that, though. I know addicts. Like, know them know them. I know that for some people, drugs are just joints that float to the top on a Saturday night at a neighborhood party. For other people they are prescription pills that feel just a little too good to stop asking the doctor for them. For still others, they are shot glasses or fifths of bourbon or three bottles of wine. Addicts don’t have to use needles or lighters under tin foil. “Bad” drugs aren’t always illegal. I’m not saying anything here that you don’t already know.

My Nancy Reagan moment is here and I’M OWNING IT, BITCHES.

This stuff is slippery, y’all. There’s a fine, almost indistinguishable line between fixing a chemical imbalance and just a fix.

Some people judge me for writing all of this here, and to you I say WELCOME TO THE CRAZY. I am not nearly as crazy as probably 97% of the population, so probably you should step out into the world and meet some more folks. Diversify a little. For those that aren’t so judge-y but look at me as if I were an ostrich with six wings, who gives a shit? Really. And for those that read this and understand what I mean, HONEY, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. You take those prescribed medications just like your doctor told you to. You pick up that bag at the pharmacy with pride, because you were brave enough to get what you need to be who you need to be.

And finally, to those of you reading this who think pharmaceuticals are something to enjoy, something to take the edge off, something to make it through the rest of today and maybe tomorrow morning, get some help now. Drugs – in whatever form they come – are dangerous little fire pokers. They’re useful, they cause pain and relieve pain, and before you know it they will burn a hole in you so deep it will take years to heal.

Take it if you need it. But remember this: you’re not always the one who knows what you need.

There was a little note attached that said “Can’t wait to see you tonight.” I point THIS out because he told me when he was going to propose (an accident) and this afforded me time to get a new outfit and a manicure. Brian’s not so good at keeping the secrets.

But here we are, lots of years later, and Kroger tulips in cellophane or a Solo cup surely will appear on the kitchen table about 6:30 tonight. Dinner out? No. Balloons that say something cheesy and ridiculous? God, I hope not.

We’re not shiny or fancy; we’re just two people who get along most of the time, when we remember to count our blessings.

I have always been the kind of person that wears my life – and all that goes with it – on a fat billboard around my neck. Ask me anything. I’ll tell you way more than you ever wanted to know. Run into me at a party, mention my blog or tweets, ask me if that’s the way I really feel, and I’ll tell you YES. I feel that way; I think that way; I live that way. I’m not a secretive or private person and that’s just the way it is. I know people find it hard to believe that I’ll just put my shit out here on the Internet, but y’all? They’re my consequences and no one else’s.

(Well there’s a soapbox I didn’t see coming. Huh.)

So I have a friend who’s been going through some things. She’s in a tough situation at home and is facing some personal demons she has yet to wrestle. We’ve been talking this week about the how-to’s of sorting out problems and I told her about my panic attacks. I started with the part about having my first panic attack in college and ended up with “Look at me now! I’m like, totally cured! No, I know – I’m a BEFORE and AFTER commercial!” I told her all about my meds, my doctors, my therapy, my relationships and more than she ever really wanted to know EVER AT ALL, and the underlying message to her was to get some help because it works wonders.

So obviously the next day I have a mild panic attack at home. (The amazing thing about partners of those with mental disorders is that they have PRACTICE. They see the signs, they know what to do and they jump into action if necessary. They are also like dogs with bones and WON’T SHUT UP UNTIL YOU’RE AMAZING YET AGAIN.) Brian sits me down after dinner and I tell him all about how jittery I’ve been this week with the not sleeping, the hand-wringing, the shaking and dizziness, how I’ve psyched myself out about my job and how – while I love it – being someone else’s sounding board has taken its toll on me. And I’ll be damned if he didn’t lay out a step-by-step plan for how I should attack today. He reminded me this morning on his way out the door that I should take care of business and not leave the office until loose ends were tied up.

And when I got here today I did just that. My friend is feeling better, I put my work plan into place and I sat down to write this post. I can’t help but think that what I suspected continues to be true: the less I write here, the more anxious I feel. Even when the thoughts and words don’t come to me, I should still just try.

I’ve tried and tried and tried, but I just can’t write a decent post right now. There’s nothing tragic going on, nothing of any note, no real problems or excitement or…anything. Every time I sit down to write, I can’t think. I can’t write in WordPress so I try opening a Word document. The blank screen stares at me there, too. Neener neener, English teacher. Who’s the big bad writer now? (My brain isn’t THAT evil, but that’s the gist of it.)

I searched the Internet for writing exercises, thinking that would inspire me. All I got there were suggestions for stupid shit. THANKS, INTERNET. Twitter didn’t answer me when I asked for help with my writer’s block and when I tried to think of what I’d tell my students to do I just wanted to cry. Well, not really. But kind of.

I would tell them to Free write! Brainstorm! Walk away and come back refreshed! Outline! Reverse outline! God, I would hate me in my English class.

So here I am, writing a meaningless, nothing post, making you read all the way DOWN TO HERE with no point at all whatsoever. And here’s a picture of Swanduck, whose adventures are documented on Twitter.

This is Swanduck/Duckgoose. He/she/it loves Cheese Nips, Sunchips and friendly people. He/she/it is of unknown gender, therefore can't be called Gus like he/she/it obviously wants.

I only mention this because I’m interested in what her ideas are about education and her opinions about when and how to change jobs. Over the holidays, Brian – through a series of frightening days – was hired in a different department. He is working for the same company, but on a completely different side of the business. He likes it so far but has an incredible learning curve to overcome and feels like a fish out of water in this new place. Penelope Trunk says risk-taking is important, if not necessary, and that we’re better people for jumping into the deep in. I’m not so sure about that.

I did not get the job I applied for this fall. I wanted to be a full-time professor but the cookie crumbled a different way and now I’m doing the same job I’ve done for the last year and a half, plus teaching on the side. This time, though, I’m teaching a full-fledged, straight up, real live English class – not a remedial one. I don’t talk about my job here very much because, well, I read the Internet. I’m not that stupid. But I’ve been teaching this particular class for a week now and it’s refreshing to have students who already know some of what they’re learning in my class.

For the last 10 years I’ve faced classrooms full of students who have that same learning curve Brian does. It’s hard to show them that there’s a light at the end of the long tunnel, because many times I don’t even know that there is a light in the first place. It’s even harder to convince them that they’re capable of being good college students and that it’s worth their time.

But is it? Penelope Trunk says a graduate degree is essentially a waste of time. What does an MBA really get you now? If you’re competing with a 45 year-old senior manager with 20 years of experience, can you really beat him out with just your education? I don’t know the answer to this, but I do know that my master’s degree alone wasn’t enough to get me the job I wanted. Were there other factors? Absolutely. I feel sure of it.

So this semester will be a busy one, not unusual, but it will require more homework on my part and more thinking on my feet. Good practice for the future, since apparently my education didn’t teach me that.