Okay, so maybe I do have a little bit more to say than I thought a few hours ago. On with the unpleasant update on Bitscape's (lack of a) life.

I returned home from a (subjectively) most uninspiring day at work. I don't know what the hell's wrong with me. I've got an awesome new cube, a comfy chair, I'm surrounded by friendly, helpful people, and my tasks today were fairly light, but still... I sometimes just feel like digging a hole in the ground and burying myself in it.

So anyway... weather foggy, light snowfall, and chilly outdoors all day, I returned home in Tobias.

I barely crossed the threshold of my bedroom door into the Lair. I don't think the door had even latched before the first sob started to erupt. It was like the shakey enforcements holding the dam in place were finally coming loose. I went straight for the pillow, buried my head in it, and allowed the bitter moans to be absorbed by the cloth as it soaked up the tears.

[Bitscape pulls out an old cd, and proceeds to play a song that was going through his head earlier at work today.]

I won't bother reproducing the rest of that wonderfully miserable piece of music here.

So anyway, after crying for a bit, I still felt awful. Logged in, checked my email, blah blah blah.

Typed a rambling (in some loose sense of the word), walked up to the kitchen where my dad presented some possible options for supper. The thought of ingesting any food made me sick. I returned to the Lair, turned out the lights, laid down on the bed, and prayed for the waves of sleepiness which had plagued me this morning to return.

The wish was granted, but it was short-lived. I awoke less than an hour later at 7:20pm. Immediately upon regaining consciousness, I wished I hadn't.

My stomach wreathed with a bitterness matched only by the emotions I'm sure were the reason for this physical manifestation. I wanted to pass out of this world. I wanted to die. But I wasn't going to allow myself that escape.

I considered phoning the psychiatric emergency help line again. A doctor appointment a week away seems like an eternity to wait. But what could they do, anyway? Bother some other on-call person and have me chat with them for a few minutes? That wouldn't help. I needed (I need) real medical attention. Or something more than just a few nice words from a stranger.

I considered taking the advice of the police officer I chatted with the other day. He said if worse came to worse, I could call 911. I seriously thought it might be worthwhile. If this sudden inner turn were to go another notch, I'd prefer to exit the house in an ambulance rather than a body bag.

I dreaded what paramedics suddenly showing up at the house would put my parents through. It was plenty bad for them last time. Must not have a repeat of that. I weighed that possibility against them finding my lifeless corpse strewn out on the bed. Given those options, the paramedics would be preferable. But neither would be better.

Hell, I really ought to be in a hospital right now. As much as I hate them, I have to admit that given my condition... ick.

See, here's the other thing that was/is depressing me: Even after this week goes by, supposing I survive, and I make it to the doctor, and go through a checkup. What happens then?

I already know what happens. I'll get some lithium prescribed, take it for a while, get groggy head, dry mouth, nauseated stomach, blurred vision, and decreased ability to concentrate. After a bit of that, they'll take blood, check that it falls within parameters, and adjust the levels as necessary. Rinse and repeat.

So even when I do make it to the doctor next week, there is no magic "take this and you'll be all better."

Anyway, as I laid there in bed, whole body shaking, my thoughts wandered back to....

The sobs started again. Into the pillow, I bawled like a baby. Again, and again, and again. I cried out and stuffed my mouth with blanket. I soaked the pillow, and kept going. The tearful agony experienced when I arrived home from work had been but a tiny taste. This was where the dam collapsed completely.

After the round of outbursts subsided, it occurred to me that my face was sopping wet and dripping. I needed a kleenex. None in my room. Opened the door, peeked out into the darkness. My dad was watching tv. He didn't turn his head. I closed the door to the lair, and considered my options.

Opened the door again, and with my back turned, I strafed my tear-covered face to the bathroom. Blew my nose, cleaned up my face, and looked in the mirror. I did look bad, but not as bad as I felt. My eyes were stained red.

Returned to the Lair, sat down at Argo, and played the same song from my cd that had been on the radio while I drove home. U2's Walk On.

...And out came another round. Just when I thought that pillow couldn't get any wetter. I turned the music up, and it drowned out my open cries.

When I decided that I was finally empty, I went to the bathroom again, cleaned up again, and went up to the kitchen. My stomach was a bit better -- at least the awful knot had loosened away, and I actually felt a little hungry. I put a little bit of the stew in a bowl and ate it. I had a piece of frozen pizza.

Down on the tv room, my dad surfed channels. He flipped to UPN, and left it there. I think that's the best reception of UPN I've ever seen on that downstairs tv. Voyager was beginning. I sat down and watched from the stairs as a group of stray Klingons became convinced that B'Elanna's unborn child was their messiah.

Not a bad episode. At least it was something to let my mind latch onto temporarily.

After Voyager, I started a load of laundry, and contemplated whether I really would be better off living in a mental health facility right now.

I barely feel up to work, but I know that if I take sick time, I'll just sit at home and increase my chances of getting worse. Better to maintain something resembling a stable routine. That's how I figure it, anyway.

I'm gonna try sleep again. One of these days, I know life will get better somehow.