I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on
the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the
Stern Fact, the Sad Self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Wow. I could have written that. Well, of course I couldn't - I am not a brilliant driven white male with anti-social tendencies. Okay, I do have the anti-social tendencies.
I think of depression as an old friend. It's always there, hiding just beneath the surface of my skin, waiting for a chance to come out and turn me into some sort of dark beast. I spend most days keeping busy because the minute I let my guard down, POW! Right in the gut. It can take a careless throwaway remark, or the sight of a dear friend talking to a sworn enemy or my children bickering one too many times --- and I am lost, spiralling until I can snatch something to haul me up out of that pit. It's exhausting. And that's on anti-depressants AND mood stabilizers.

Fuck. Maybe there's a book in there somewhere.

Introverted Intuitive Feeling Judging
Well, there you go.
So my question is.... and one that my lame-o cognitive psychologist couldn't answer is....
Am I the same person on or off the drugs?
I am on Depakote, Effexor and Aropax (er... Paxil for non-aussies). That's some serious shit.

• Depakote regulates my moods, so I don't decide to volunteer for everything at Mouse's school, take on extra work, and cook a dinner party for 45. Seriously.
• Aropax stops me from jumping in front of trains, when all of the aforementioned doesn't come off just.quite.right. And I am useless and incompetent and a horrible mother and wife. And anyone would be better than me.
• Effexor allows me to sleep when I've been up and down at 4am solving the problems of the world and my household and reading like a fiend cos I can't shut my brain down long enough to get the sleep my body so desperately needs.
• Not to mention the wine. The wine on Friday nights which allows me to self-medicate long enough to feel less tense.

I tell you, my doc had me on Valium for a month and that was the absolute best. Unfortunately, it is addictive and I can... see... why. I felt normal for the first time in ages. But anyway, I am uber-mummy and superwoman and who-the-hell-cares-what-gets-me-off woman -- I refused another prescription cos above all, I don't wan to turn into some blonde-streaked tennis lady, who is medicated up to her tits, who gathers round the pool for Gin and Tonic's every Thurs and Friday, smiling vacantly at her kids and giving her husband blow jobs on his birthday. She may be not suicidal but.. Ewwww.
(That was a really long sentence, can you tell it's Friday?)
Anyway, I am finding my way. It seems to be two steps forward and one step back. The whole Who Am I question is really bugging me though.
Maybe who I am is supposed to be un-medicated.
Maybe I am supposed to go off on wild emotional rides and soar through the sky just to crash and burn.
Maybe that is who I am.
That person. The person who would be a lousy mother and a crappy mother.
Not the person who calmly deals with everything and only does her rag after two weeks of constant squabbling by the Divas. Maybe I am supposed to have blown up on Day 4.
So that's the thing that's bugging me lately.
Who the hell am I?

  

So I'd thought I'd give you a taste of what it's like when I get manic. Cos really, it could be mistaken for normal -- I am such a control freak.
Here we go:
The words are being typed on this page faster than I can physically get them out -- the spelling errors are horrendous.
My fingers are pulsing.
<<If I dint' spell checlk I would be t ypoing like this ai am typing so fast.>>
I am shouting obscure facts about music and books and other weird stuff (did you know that Duke Ellington's real name was Edward Kennedy Ellington and that a Tiger Snake isn't striped at all necessarily, and that Sting was voted the worst rock (read: popular) lyricist of all time and that my youngest daughter could break your heart in thirty pieces about thirty times a day?) at my husband who is grunting.
grunting.
And I am flying, flying, flying.
My head is full of all these huge ideas, my heart feels fit to burst, and my stomach feels full of butterflies.
I feel like I could fly. I really do. My breathing is faster than normal. I am listening to the rad
So obviously, the meds aren't working. I either have to come down off the antidepressants or try something else. Fuck this.
I really like this high. It's hard to give up.
Of course, the consequences are that deep awful hole, that black fucking pit with the slippery sides. It get harder and harder to haul myself out of it.
Not worth it. 
Not.
NOT.
Note to self: call doc on Monday.

Trying to get back in the habit of writing something, ANYTHING, everyday is hard. Also, I write better when I am polishing off a bottle of wine, and I have declared drinking off limits for a while. It's just an easy thing to sneak up on you when you are stressed or tired, isn't it?
Wasting time on Facebook instead of writing, that's what I am really doing.
Still I am here, and I've managed to write 5 sentences!!