People I deal with at work tell me how hard it is to live with a chronic illness.  And, yes, it is.  But I think, gee, if only I had a little magic monitor that I could check my depression/anxiety/repetitive negative thinking with four times a day like a blood sugar level and give myself an appropriate injection of happiness, of satisfaction, of whatever it is that other people have that I don’t have.  Just like a diabetic pancreas that doesn’t make insulin, my brain is just not…making…happy.

Sometimes I tell people that if I wanted to make people happy at work, I would work at the ice cream store instead of (workplace) but people can get bitchy at the ice cream store too so whatevs.

Anyway, I decided that I really need some yoga in my life.  I started craving a yoga class.  I never went to one before, but I saw it on Sex and the City.  Of course, I thought getting a pedicure with my friend would be like SATC too, and it was not wonderful at all.  But the yoga class I went to last night was way better.  I kept thinking, “Puedo hacerlo!”  which is probably unZenlike, but I didn’t hurt myself, even with all the downward dogging.  It was great.  I feel great today too.  I can’t wait to go again.

Jack is totally anti-yoga, he never wanted me to go before even though I knew it would be good for me, because of the weird Eastern-religion aspect of it.  I guess I don’t understand why it should be that way, why couldn’t it be just a lot of stretching, and the class I went to wasn’t really too much like that, which I was happy to report back to the skeptic at home.  He said, “That’s what you think.”  I’ll take what I want from it and leave the rest.

I had the brilliant (HA!) idea to purchase, instead, one of those “full spectrum” lights marketed to crafters, which I am, and which cost much less- $59.99 on sale at the big-box craft store.   It’s supposed to be the closest thing to natural light (even though it’s a fluorescent bulb; it’s counterintuitive). I thought, I’ll put it by the bed, turn it on when my alarm goes off, and it will be like beautiful morning sunshine pouring in like in one of those fake decorating magazines!    OK, well, it puts off kind of an off-putting cool light.  Not really super-appealing.  Neither my conscious nor my sub-conscious mind is fooled.

This morning Jack- who loves those curly fluorescent bulbs and has replaced every fixture with them- was getting ready and I saw a nice golden light radiating from his closet.  I thought, you hypocrite!  “What kind of bulb do you have in there?” I mumbled (I don’t have to work until 11 today).  He was kind of embarrassed.  “There are two.  The regular kind.”  Maybe that’s the secret?  Just regular, old, electricity-wasting round incandescent bulbs.  What an idea.  (Get it?  Idea?  Like, you know, the light bulb lit up over my head in the graphic novel of my life.)

It’s time for knitting and crochet.  I finished a crocheted cardigan (very cute, BTW) and started designing a new pattern.  It’s very repetitive knitting, in the round, just how I like it, in a fluffy warm yarn that someone gave me for free (even better!).   I’m actually writing down the pattern as I’m working it, something I’ve never done before, so that it could be replicated by me or someone else, should they choose to do so.  I always appreciate it when people share how they’ve done something.  It’s time I did the same!

The repetitive nature of certain crafts seems to increase the amount of serotonin floating about in the brain, per certain theories, and I am banking on that.  That seems to be why a lot of Northern knitting (Shetland lace patterns in repetitions of seven stitches, for example, or Nordic Fair Isle patterns) is the way it is.  I see the same thing happen with certain crochet stitches too.  The particulars of these repetitions do have an anxiolytic effect.  Try it.

I went by my dad’s last night.  He still thinks I am 12 years old.  Whatever, I am used to it, it works out.  He can’t get a change to stick in his head.  So, I could tell him one hundred times that I no longer drink coffee, and he will still offer it to me.  Anyway, he was making fancy martinis last night, with this raspberry liqueur, and I wanted one, but I said no, and really driving home on those dark country roads would be best unliquored anyhow.  So he made a pot of coffee for me instead and I drank it (yes, all of it, and it was good).  Except for not being able to sleep.

Jack and I have sort of a running joke now, where he says, “I don’t know you anymore!” because obviously I am a totally different person now that I have taken a couple doses of psychotropic meds.  I guess it is not funny in print, sorry.  At least I can check off “Used humor to deal with stress” on my weekly log.  It’s one of those corporate things- yeah, I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.  I’ve been able to check off few days for “exercise 30 minutes” but the “humor” one is in the bag.  In the bag!  (The prize- I mean, except for self stress awareness and reduction blah blah blah is probably a cheap tote bag or something, but I’m still a sucker.)

In other news, it’s getting chilly here.  THis morning I woke up with a cat under each arm.  That was awesome.

I thought about it.  I thought about it a lot.

I tried to do some research on it, utilizing my insurance’s formulary (since I know how much hassle that can entail)- which seems to be nonexistent.  I couldn’t find it online.  Calling the 1-800 number was unhelpful.  Finally I called my pharmacist.  And you know what?  She was more helpful and knowledgeable than the therapist, and told me more than the doc did- which ones are covered, which ones have a generic, which ones are harder to get off of, which ones seem to be more effective.  A good pharmacist is gold.  I’ve said it many times.

I just want to not get SAD- Seasonal Affective Crappy Feeling- this winter.  I have goals.  I have been exercising.  I have been spending quality time with Jack and friends.  I have been petting my cats.  I have been creative, not enough.  I’d like to be creative more often.  I’d also like to have deeper friendships, more meaningful somehow.  I don’t know if Zoloft would aid or stunt that, and that is the bigger philosophical conundrum.

The cats are black and white like most of these shows.

One other thought: how many episodes of The Incredible Hulk does a person have to watch to realize that…all of the episodes are the same?  Three, I reckon: two to suspect that this is indeed the case, and a third to confirm.  Jack and I did have a spirited philosophical discussion about the nature of The Hulk- is he really just a metaphor for David Banner’s righteous anger?  We concluded that no, he really does transform into a green beast.  I do continue to watch sometimes, hoping that *this* time Mr. Banner’s pants button will also pop- perhaps The Hulk did extra ab work that week in prep for his scenes.  No.  Never- boot leather tears, pants turn to shreds, the shirt is torn asunder- always, the waist stays intact.