Native American Zodiac

Otter: Jan 20 - Feb 18
The Otter has an unusual way of looking at things, but he/she is equipped with a brilliant imagination and intelligence, allowing him/her an edge over every one else. Often very perceptive and intuitive, the Otter makes a very good friend, and can be very attentive. In a nurturing environment the Otter is sensitive, sympathetic, courageous, and honest. Left to his/her own devices, the Otter can be unscrupulous, lewd, rebellious, and isolated.


As noted by a friend, I am SUCH an Otter.

I have to adjust for being born prematurely, otherwise I'm a Goose. And that can't be good.

You would think this would be sufficient...

...motivation to start practicing. But no. I've even assisted in research on this.

MBCT is an effective and efficient way to prevent relapse/recurrence in recovered depressed patients with 3 or more previous episodes.


(link, link, link)

Vote for Batts

Mind Hacks likes her, so I do, too. And therefore you should as well. So vote for Shelley Batts.

Walkin' the Line

Dear Readers,

Been a while, huh?

This post was prompted not by the plethora of ideas bouncing around my head, but rather by a song lyric from a band recommended to me by K. after I finished bitching about the past two weeks. That a song overcame my inertia isn't surprising. Music is supremely important.

The exposition of those other bouncing ideas has been suppressed by dysthymia and perhaps someday I'll write them out. There are a few good ones, too.

The song is Still Be Around from Uncle Tupelo's second album, Still Feel Gone (1991).

Throughout, a shimmering, light lead guitar balances the fermented lyrics. The guitar is reminiscent of some of the songs on R.E.M.'s Reckoning, which is their second album, coincidentally. Onto the lyrics:

I don't see you through the windshield
I don't see you in faces looking back at me
Alcohol doesn't have much that matters to say
Can't imagine where you and time to kill will stay

When the bible is a bottle
and the hardwood floor is home...
When morning comes twice a day or not at all...
If I break in two, will you put me back together?
When this puzzle's figured out
will you still be around
to say, you've just been there,
walkin' the line, upside down...

Walked and breathed many a cancerous mile
Where the bat of an eye is too slow to beat the coffin
They won't tell it on the TV, they can't say it on the radio
They pay to move it off the shelf and into our minds
'till you can't tell the truth when it's right in front of your eyes

When the bible is a bottle
and the hardwood floor is home...
When morning comes twice a day or not at all...
If I break in two, will you put me back together?
When this puzzle's figured out
will you still be around
to say, you've just been there,
walkin' the line, upside down...



The last line of the chorus, “Walkin' the line, upside down” is superb. Borrowing from Johnny Cash, kicking it on its ear so it fits perfectly. Walking the line drunk and alone, upside down. Sometimes I like clever a lot.

Shimmering is a trite, overused adjective for describing stringed instrumentals in songs. Including the R.E.M. album I mentioned. I apologize for using it. It's just so damned apt.

It's been two weeks since I've had a cigarette. I was smoking “only” three or four cigarettes a day at the end. Nonetheless, it's been difficult. I mainly smoked to cope with stress at work, and work has been insane. Hackers are a real bitch. As is unnecessary bureaucracy. Both of those are topics for separate posts. Comma dammit period.

I'm replacing nicotine, a stimulant and an antidepressant, with more coffee and alcohol. Alcohol is a depressant. And I suffer from recurrent major depression and dysthymia. Which makes smoking cessation a... bad idea. Whoa. Who saw that coming? And I don't want to use the patch or gum, because I like assuming the hardass façade and I want to quit like a hardass. I'm really stupid sometimes.

So the song's alcoholism is more apropos than usual. I haven't slept on the floor, and I've had much worse nights, but I'm now using moderate-to-heavy alcohol consumption as a coping strategy, without pushing my luck in terms of over-doing it. Occasional crazy nights are, I think, less bad than consistent drinking-to-survive. Especially when a CNS depressant is almost guaranteed to inflame any symptoms of depression.

I'm not walking cancerous miles, but I might as well be. Without consulting my psychiatrist, I am walking the line between depression and health, between intelligent decisions and stupid choices regarding psychoactive chemicals.

I'm not living at home. I'm not in a relationship that I can leech support from. If I break myself in two, who will put me back together?

And when the fuck am I going to figure out this puzzle?

Different from Yesterday

My cat is in the refrigerator.

Inside three bags.

Dead.

(This is what you do when your cat dies on the weekend and you can't send it to the crematorium via the vet until Monday.)

He was ~19 years old. And an outdoor cat. I find it amazing that he lived this long.

I had scheduled the euthanasia procedure for Monday night, and I'm relieved that Mike died on his own. It may have been more painful for him to die in that manner than it would have been for him to have been heavily sedated before his heart stopped, but I don't know. I do know that I would have had a much more difficult time coping with that situation, however.

Perhaps avoiding making an event out of it affords me the ability to deny / repress / ignore the situation. But perhaps it is more complicated than that.

I don't feel different than I did yesterday. However, maybe I am numb.

It's also possible that I do feel different and don't know it yet. Alexithymia makes for interesting times. Perhaps in a few days I will know that I feel different. Then I can figure out what word goes with that different feeling. The situation calls for grief -- perhaps this will be a simpler emotional puzzle to solve -- I already have the final label.

During middle school and high school, when I was most deeply depressed, Mike was essentially the only object I loved and felt love from. Overly-simplistic love, and unconditional love. But nonetheless, far more than I could give or receive from my family or friends. It would make sense, then, that his death would have a significant impact on my emotions.

But not yet, it seems.

You are a Datum

... and I think you should fill out this survey.
I am unaffiliated; just interested.
And more data points means statistically-cleaner results.