Just another day in paradise.


It started out, as always, with my clothes. The “I don’t have ANYTHING to WEAR!” conundrum. I nipped this problem in the bud some time ago by bulk-purchasing simple black shirts from Target and wearing them like a uniform day in and day out, but now, with my more ample figure, the Uniform is a little snug. I don’t like feeling snug. And Target stopped making the shirts I like. So I’m really up a creek.

I settled on a black lightweight turtleneck over a black lightweight 3/4 sleeve over a black tank top, and set about organizing my day. I had stuff to return to Marshall’s, stuff to return to Target, and stuff to go to the post office, plus a ride up to Marblehead to settle some things at the office, plus grocery and booze shopping to do. I’m very particular about the order in which I complete my tasks – I really need things to be streamlined and efficient – but for some reason I couldn’t figure out a way to streamline any of my errands. Then I couldn’t find the receipt for my Marshall’s purchase (a fairly expensive piece of cookware that I agonized over buying) (because I’m pretty broke, now that I had to shell out $300 for 100 gallons of heating oil) and boy did that set me off. They don’t give you your money back without a receipt, don’t you know, and I definitely need my money back.

Sometimes, it’s all these little things in life that coalesce into one big snarl of paralyzing confusion. My shrink says this is actually a condition-specific phenomenon, which makes me feel a little better, but when you’re sitting in the parking lot of Whole Foods trying to figure out whether it’s even worth going inside, now that you’ve lost your Marshall’s receipt and wasted an entire day freaking out about nothing… it’s cold comfort. The feeling is like a snowball gaining momentum and girth as it rolls downhill, while you’re tied to a chair at the bottom of the slope, right in its path. You can breathe, you can Zen, you can distract yourself from the inevitable, but eventually, you know, you’re gonna get hit.

I stopped my Abilify recently, after an extended taper, and I’ve been feeling kind of off ever since. It’s getting hard to see the forest from the trees.

Things that kept me up until 2am last night, despite taking 150 mg of Trazodone

  • Money
  • Obama’s War on FRONTLINE
  • Grocery lists
  • A disturbing Jonas Brothers cameo from my dream on Monday
  • Morality
  • Mortality
  • The notion that I will, one day, have to straighten my hair
  • Being annoyed by the non-working television in our bedroom
  • And the bike in our dining room
  • And the bike in the hallway to our bedroom
  • And all manner of general clutter
  • Are humans meant to be monogamous?
  • Lobsters
  • The new film I’m working on
  • The old film I quit
  • Boredom
  • Motivation
  • $210 spent on a plane ticket to LA for New Year’s Eve
  • Money

In short, no more 9pm cappuccinos for me.

So I guess I wouldn’t do so great in a sensory deprivation tank after all.


When you’re wheeled into the ER on a stretcher, sent straight from the clinic via silent ambulance and complaining of dark unyielding depression, you might mistakenly assume that your mental health would be first on the minds of your care team. You might assume that the double-locked room into which you are deposited is merely a way station on your journey towards admission, or that the XXL brown scrubs forced upon you are a temporary costume until your inpatient processing is complete. When they take your clothes and your purse you might assume you’ll get them back, and when they say the doctor will be in to see you shortly, you might be inclined to believe her.

But guess what.

You’re crazy.

And also, you’re wrong.

I kind of laughed at the nurse when she offered a blanket and pillow “while I waited for the doctor”. I mean, yeah, it was 3:30 in the morning, but I really can’t sleep when there’s noise, and the intake desk for the ER was on the other side of the wall. Two hours later, I realized the wisdom of her words.


The room contained nothing – no pictures, no magazines. No power outlets. I had to ask permission to use the bathroom, an endeavor which required an official escort and a walk of shame down the ER hallway. Inevitably, I was the only one in scrubs.

I spent a long, long time staring at the ceiling.


Around 6:30, the nurse came in to take my blood pressure and offered me some juice. At 7:30, the shift changed. I watched the night staff wave goodbye and the day staff wave hello. I asked my new nurse, a burly leather-and-chains dude who looked as though Ramrod might be his bar of choice, for some water. “They were short staffed on the overnight,” he explained. “The doctor’ll be with you soon.”

By this time, I knew better than to be buoyed up by his words. I lay down and somehow, miraculously, fell asleep.

90 minutes later, I awoke from a nightmare into the sickest sensation that I was still dreaming, but that my *life* was a dream, and the *rest* of my lifedream would be spent locked in this coal chamber hospital room. I almost screamed.

The doctor finally materialized at 10:30am. My husband came at noon. And at 4:00, I was taken, by ambulance, to McLean’s.

12 hours in a locked room, most of it solitary confinement. TWELVE HOURS. I mean, if I wasn’t suicidal when I went in, who could blame me for being so on my way OUT?

KHW #9: Wauuugh


It’s the third day of our shoot, ten of six in the morning, and I’m already so tired I think my skin might fall off. Like, I’ve had a headache since Sunday and my back hurts and I’m starving all the time but I don’t have the energy to eat. Coffee makes me nauseous. Plus, last night I left the heater on in my room while I slept (for a whopping four hours), so I woke up feeling like a dried-out husk of fried asparagus.

Usually this doesn’t happen until at least day six, this kind of fatigue. Shit.

How to deconstruct a human time bomb (in the digital age)


So I was kind of pretty much doing OK until some shit went down, and since then I’ve only gotten out of bed to do laundry.

OK, to do laundry and go grocery shopping.

OK, to do laundry and make dinner and go grocery shopping and bring my boss the rent check. Apparently, depression renders me a domestic whore.

At any rate, whatever time I’ve spent OUT of bed has been spent wishing I was BACK in bed, preferably with two rounds of Unisom and a red wine chaser working their wonders on my cortex. So pardon my silence, but if you measure my mood by applying an analog scale to a digital scope, over the last four days I’ve displayed a marked lack of interest in:

(… and all associated links thereof)

If this lasts another two weeks, please, someone, contact the proper authorities. At that point, I’ll be clinical.

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