jump to navigation

“Here is the house, where it all happens…” – Depeche Mode November 29, 2004

Posted by introspectreangel in politics, work.
1 comment so far

I had 5 wonderful, beautiful, work-free days, and believe you me, I was not overjoyed when my alarm hissed at me at precisely 4:51 this morning. What’s more, when I got to work at 7, I discovered that I was not scheduled to be in until 8. All…bloody…week. I freakin’ hate coming in at 8 – I live an hour away from work when the traffic is smooth, and by that time of the morning it is definitely not smooth.

So, last post – what a downer, eh? I liked Shaky’s comment though – sometimes you just have to do what you can. I truly didn’t think anyone would be brave enough to comment at all!

I just saw on CNN while I was at lunch that President Bush is making a state visit to Canada tomorrow. I only caught the tail end of the report, but I heard something about if Canada were to decide to try the President for war crimes, he would face the risk of being arrested when he steps foot on Canadian soil. So, what the hell is going on up there, guys? Get your act together and GET IT DONE. That extradition process should be a hoot. The news blip went on to talk about the revival of the “ugly American” syndrome, and what is the root cause of it. Thank God for the media, because if I didn’t have them, I would have had no idea that Iraq was the cause of this division between us and the rest of the world. I mean seriously.

In work news, I have been kicked out of my office and had my desk moved to the public area of the open back office, where I cannot shut the door or tell people to leave me the hell alone. I feel like Milton from “Office Space”. Now where is my red stapler…and I think there’s a fax machine around here that I need to kick the shit out of…

I am, of course, still looking for other work closer to home. I no longer need to fear posting this information in my journal, since it is now public knowledge that “Angel looks around”. They’ve figured out they can’t get rid of me for doing that, and so a re-defining of my role, complete with official promotion and new job title, is apparently in the works for 2005. If it also comes with a raise, I will stop looking around. If it doesn’t, I will keep looking. In fact, I had an interview just last Wednesday with a hotel in a suburb right down the road from my house. Take that, suckers. Print this out and put it in the Human Resources mailbox – see if I care, you anonymous chickenshit motherfucker.

Muttering to self…”not bitter, not bitter, not bitter…”


“Love can make you weep, make you run for cover…" – Crowded House November 23, 2004

Posted by introspectreangel in depression, marriage.

So, no posties for awhile. I guess you could say I’ve been a long, long way from my happy place, and I didn’t want to bring you all down there with me. Or as we say here, “all y’all”.

I’ve posted in the past about my own struggles with depression, and the tools I use to battle it. It ain’t easy, babe, but battle it I do. Visualization helps – imagining myself as a comic book-style heroine with a mask, cute little cape and winged boots slinging lightning bolts to and fro can work wonders for my immediate mood. Visualization doesn’t solve the underlying problem, true, but it helps a little. It has its place in my arsenal of weapons.

My husband suffers from depression. Yep, you smart cookie, you – you noticed the difference in my phrasing. I battle – he suffers. In his darkest times, he sinks to depths that I can’t even fathom. He doesn’t fight it – rather, he succumbs to it. His monsters – low self-esteem, financial worries, anxiety, fear, lack of trust – are eating him alive. And it is oh, so sad. Oh, God – sad doesn’t even start to cover it. Shit, the English language is failing me today.

And what I wish, more than anything in the whole wide world, is that I could give my husband an intravenous transfusion of whatever it is I have that keeps me going. I don’t care that he hates needles, or if the transfusion would have to come directly from my heart instead of a normal place like the arm or leg. I would so gladly hook up my heart to his heart, or my brain to his brain – it just doesn’t fucking matter. I would stare into his eyes and chant that I love him, that his infant son loves him, that his parents and grandfather and brother and sister and aunts and uncles and cousins all love him, that we are all there for him in every possible way that we can be.

But then, I say these things on a daily basis, and I’m not making a single, solitary dent. Where are my words going? Surely it’s not in one ear and out the other…surely they are sticking somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my beloved’s brain. Oh God, they’ve got to be. Because if they’re not, then this man is going to kill himself, and leave all of us behind wondering what else we could have done.