Sunday, November 4, 2012

What Is It?

Is it the dropping temperatures?  The shortened days?  The oncoming winter?  Or is it something more . . .

I hate winter, and I'm certainly familiar enough with my current mood from years past not to be surprised by it.  However, I'm never really sure if the cause is seasonal / weather-related or "other."  The possibility of "other" scares me.

There is nothing major in my life that could be the source of my mood.  Overall, I'm not in love with my life, but, then again, I don't hate it.

I'm reasonably happy with my "partner" (a term used by his ex-wife-twice-removed when she refers to me).  We are not married, but we have been together roughly seven years.  Our relationship isn't perfect, but he and I get along well and I love him.  He's a good man, and I know he loves me even if two of his three adult daughters dislike me for being, perhaps, too blunt at times.  At least, I think that's the reason, though it may have little or nothing to do with me.  It may be leftover resentment toward the deceased second wife: their step-mother who was my predecessor (and whom, I'm told, they outright hated).  Another possibility is that they resent me out of loyalty to and sympathy for their addict mother (whose infidelities ultimately led to her divorce from my partner while their daughters were still children).  Too much involvement with these young women and I'm accused by them (and their mother) of interfering, not enough and I'm accused of not caring.  No win.  The fact that both of these young women have children complicates the issue:  how to show interest and caring without overstepping?  I tend to take my cues from my partner; however, if he hangs back, deferring to his volatile ex-wife's "territory" (such as for a birthday party we were all invited to but that he decided we would not attend in order to avoid the ugly scene that would undoubtedly occur), the fault lies with me.  I must be the cause; I am undoubtedly holding him back, keeping him from his daughters and their children.  Similarly, if he fails to fork over money to his oldest (whose attitude of entitlement is only one of her issues), the fault must be mine.  It can't, after all, be that her father feels that a 26 year old should be self-supporting.

But I am not new to the trials that spring from a "blended" family and a bitter, angry ex-wife, and I don't have daily interaction with my partner's two oldest daughters since neither lives with us.  So is this the cause of my mental state?

Nearly every Sunday night, I piss and moan about the beginning of a new week at the college where I put up with uncaring administrators' unrealistic expectations while I struggle to teach students who have been recruited despite woefully poor skills and non-existent study habits.  The attitude that has been prevalent among the Deans and their superiors is that if the students aren't learning, then the faculty are not teaching.  If students miss class, we are not dynamic enough to attract them.  If they miss assignments, we are not motivating them, etc. etc. Meanwhile, we are inundated with paperwork a la the public school system until the mere mention of the words "rubric," "data" and "template" causes bile to rise in our throats.  However, this is not the first time I have been employed at a college whose reputation I watched slowly sink into the mire as faculty fled like rats from a sinking ship.

I have two essays that will appear in literary magazines this month, and I am happy about that even though the book that I finished in July has yet to find either an agent or a publisher.  The MFA program that has occupied the last nearly two years of my life is all over except for the shouting (or, to be more accurate, the craft lecture / defense and public reading), so I no longer have that hanging over my head.  However, I still have trouble sleeping and poor concentration.  I lack motivation to do things I used to do (e.g. to put up decorations for Halloween) and too often feel as if I am forcing myself to get out of bed in the morning.

My sister once surprised me by stating (in a too matter-of-fact tone) that the Girouard family has a history of depression.  If that is true (and there was a first cousin whose unexplained death seemed very much like a suicide.  She had attempted it at least once before.), how does that "history" align with my mother's Irish side?  Not well, I'm guessing.  Too many of my Irish ancestors were alcoholics who drank themselves to death.  Those not addicted to "the beverage" suffered from stress and anxiety - my mother, for instance, who worried and obsessed over everything and had a serious heart condition that began in her early 40s and ultimately killed her.

When I went to a doctor last year for the insomnia, I was given a sleep aid that worked for a while but that my body ultimately built up a tolerance for.  The doctor had also suggested an "anti-stimulant" because I cannot seem to "turn off" my brain that hits high gear the second my head hits the pillow.  I tried one dose and was so jittery I couldn't even function.  St. John's Wort seemed to help even things out and melatonin (both self-prescribed) made sleep a bit less elusive, but after a few months, I became aware of an unwelcome decrease in my libido.  My God!  Sex is the only really fun thing in my life!  My reluctance to take any kind of anti-depressant is due to my fear of the sexual side effects!  I immediately discontinued both remedies and, thankfully, regained my "interest."

Alcohol, the great panacea of the Irish, does not always agree with me.  I can't seem to "hold it" the way I used to and I dislike feeling sick to my stomach.  I have also learned over the years that alcohol is generally not conducive to a satisfying sexual experience.  An obvious alternative is cannabis; however, the downside (its illegality) prohibits me from partaking in something that would both elevate my mood AND allow me to sleep.  Perhaps if I were not a college instructor, I might risk it, but I can't jeopardize my job even if I'm not deliriously happy there.  Did you say exercise?  I thought of that and joined the YMCA three months ago.  I work out 3-4 times a week, but those endorphins are not working for me.  Yes, I have lost a bit of weight (my clothes do fit better) but I'm not really any more focused or joyful.  I have my dark chocolate every day, too, but I'm not feeling those endorphins either.  At least not so I've noticed.

Perhaps I could whine on my blog more often, although, usually, when I'm feeling blue, the last thing I want to do is write.  I'd rather wallow in a facebook hole of Bubble Witch Saga.

To Be Continued . . .

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