EDNOS

It’s amazing how time goes by, how the pages from the calendar keep ripping themselves off, even as individual days seem to drag on.

Perhaps it was listening to the New York Philharmonic a few days ago that reminded me that I had different musical tastes before Jay Chou and Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous” took over my Youtube playlist.

Ravel’s “Tzigane” is probably the second violin piece (after Sibelius’d minor concerto) that I ever fell in love with. There’s something incredibly exciting about the intense vibrato, the uneasy chordal harmonies, the thematic turnovers, and the way it can maintain its mystery and passion (well, except for the last two or so minutes, ugh) even when played unaccompanied. I didn’t like it at first, but after hearing it performed numerous times at string camp a few years back, I guess the mere exposure effect took hold.

The mood of the piece was far from the orchestra’s repertoire that night, but I suddenly remembered Tzigane’s opening bars and couldn’t get it out of my head. John hadn’t heard it before. The day after, when I saw him, he told me that he had listened to a recording when he got home. I was slightly surprised and touched to find out that he takes seriously what I say, however offhand in conversation. It was one of those moments that reminded me how grateful I am for him but also highlighted how much I don’t deserve that level of attention from him.

It’s nice to think we may have been enjoying the music at the same time—headphones on, awake at some absurd hour of the night, darkness falling around us. We both agreed that it’s a shame Ravel is mostly known for the ghastly “Bolero” fluff that is featured on my parent’s “Sensual Classics” love CD. Gross, on several levels.

Summer always feels so strange on a relationship. To go from seeing someone practically every day, every night, to a weekly walk home and a polite goodbye exchange on my porch is pretty jarring. I would like to think that this separation is supposed to revive the uncertainty and giddy anticipation of “next time” that filled our first summer and throughout his first year of college, four years ago. It’s supposed to make every encounter that much more satisfying, and encourage us to really appreciate each other’s company. I feel guilty because I allow my anxiety and insecurity, sentiments compounded by the fact that he’ll be off to med school come August, to prevent me from being present with him. I’m intensely afraid of being alone, especially since the past year has been a difficult one. It feels like shit to be depressed. The recovery process isn’t that great, either. As much as he thought that I was angry at him and that he was useless to comfort me during the last three semesters, I needed him with me, needed to feel to his breath softly on my neck and hand over my arm. I wish I could find a way to convey to him otherwise the gentle words and thoughts and all the memories choked up behind the vomit and behind the stupid, weak, immobile hands that couldn’t return a hug, no matter how much I wanted to.

He has seen more sides of me than anyone else, a lot of them extremely ugly. I believe that we have gotten closer, our lives increasingly intertwined. Though I don’t know if that is synonymous with saying that our relationship has improved, at least in his eyes. He takes every setback we have to heart, which worries me because how he feels and reacts affects how I respond. Rather than reassuring him that I love him and we’ll be okay, I end up breaking down too.

Currently, of course, many days are okay, even good, maybe even fun. Yet on others I find myself a crying mess—slouchy and unable to look anyone in the eye. Those days seem to weigh disproportionately on my confidence, motivation, ability to wake up and be eager for the hours ahead. 

It may seem really gross, but I haven’t gotten over thinking of throwing up as infinitely more therapeutic and gratifying than swallowing pills and talking to nodding figures who think you don’t notice when they discreetly check their watches. This is a totally inappropriate and nonsensical comparison but when I see the colorful contents of my dinner in the toilet bowl, and taste the flavors come up from my stomach in the order I’ve eaten, I think to the scene in the fourth Harry Potter movie when Harry’s wand forces Voldemort’s to malfunction and spit out all the spells casted that murdered others, starting with the most recent. It’s something to mull over as I ignore the burning in my throat and the rawness of my knuckles.

Unfortunately, the perverse benefits of induced vomiting are escaping me, since I’ve also been eating much more at home. In fact, I’ve gained 8 pounds since June 12. I feel so fat and unattractive, which in turn spurs me to mindlessly dip my spoon straight into a container of cookie dough.    

And those times I cut myself, they hurt but were never deep enough to cause serious injury. They have all faded by now, which is a good thing I suppose. I could not do it anymore after John found out and put a razor over his own arm. I totally freaked out and promised to stop. Though these past few weeks, I have small, tugging urges to do it again. I guess that’s a red flag telling me I need to see the doctors again.

The latest incident was a huge mistake. It definitely hurt me a lot more than I thought it would. And I definitely hurt John a lot more than I thought I did.

Do you remember that scene from the last episode of season 1 of “Gossip Girl”? When Dan said to Serena, “I didn’t sleep with her [Georgina]” But just before Serena could breathe out a sigh of relief, Dan drops the bomb—“But I may as well have.”

I’m really angry with that asshole of a guy. I thought that we could at least maintain a friendship. I deserve an explanation. Instead I get total silence afterwards. I feel humiliated; my body violated, dirty. Something more than dignity was taken away from me. I let him know that he was one of the first new friends (friend having an objectionable and flexible definition) I made in a long time since the onset of depression. I don’t know if that means my expectations have been any different but in any case, I opened a part of myself to somebody else, and he was a huge let-down. Not to mention fucking ungrateful.

I’m even more angry at myself for getting caught up with him. I was being a self-indulgent bitch. Sorry will not be enough. It’s only starting to sink in that I betrayed John’s trust. The question I knew was coming a long while ago that we’d have to face, is finally here: “What now?” 

Because I don’t see John as often, it imparts a sense of embarrassment and tentativeness I had almost forgotten. Even the prospect of holding hands kind of stresses me out . . . Though this kind of emotional throwback to our initial courtship period is charming, I feel a more ominous, pounding insecurity underlying the teenage awkwardness. The uncertainty of when “next time” will be is sometimes more scary than exciting; it causes me to cling even more in every goodbye such that when he leaves me, I feel like he’s actually leaving me.

And as for physical intimacy, it’s been pretty hard. The last opportunity, after a lengthy dry period, would ideally have been desperate and animalistic, but in the middle, I just completely lost momentum. Part of it I suppose was nervousness/ performance anxiety, part of it was feeling fat and gross, and the last part was the douchebag’s face flashing in front of my eyes. I did not expect to think of him but as soon as that happened, I felt so ashamed and disgusted with myself that I was about to cry. Thankfully, I don’t think John noticed the tears.

I remember some time ago, a different guy I met said something I found really perceptive. He told me that I had this fragile, vulnerable quality about me (incidentally, a quality which he found umm a turn-on). Others have commented that there was something soft or sad about me that they couldn’t quite put their finger on. I used to think I was very good at hiding my feelings, of making people think I’m a certain type of fun, gregarious person, but I guess not.

So, what now?

Question: aren't all first times so romantic?

Aren't they supposed to be? Maybe romantic isn't the right form of the word. Romanticized. Yes, they are so easily romanticized. First day of school, first 100 on a spelling test, first bully,first best friend, first pimple (or not), first pair of high heels, first bra, first drink, first flower from a boy, first kiss, first love, the "first time." Other possibly significant first times: first time swimming without floaters, first time on an airplane, first time watching a rated-R movie, first time being hit on, first time drunk, first time being groped by a stranger, first time with pot, first time heartbroken, first time intentionally vomiting, first time cutting.

I haven't done the last item yet, but it plays itself so vividly in my mind. Over and over again right now. Unwillingly, I let the thoughts consume me-- can't resist. I see exactly where I would do it, how I would hold the razor, the number of times, the pattern of the blood on the floor, how I would wrap it; I hear the casual tone of voice I would use.

"I'm really sorry. I wish I knew how to help you. I do hope you feel better. Take care."

Is there a worse way to end a session than with these sentences? Today was the last official appointment of the semester with the therapist. I spend my Monday nights with her, wasting trees with my snot. I hate the forced self-revelatory moment of each session. The one that comes when she nods, then sits back with her hands folded and asks me, "What do you think you can do?" Wouldn't I do it if I knew?

I have a problem but I think my real problem is myself. It's unfortunate, for there are so, so many terrible things happening especially in the world today.

Much like the tone of the sayings found in the "quotes to live by" section of Reader's Digest, she says that I'm my own worst enemy. I'm most frightened by the voice at the back of my head that keeps saying that I want pity and excuses, I want to keep holding onto the medications, and breathe sighs of relief when the dosages are increased. Please, more. When I recently had the flu, I stopped taking them. I was upset to find that I didn't go through withdrawal, nor did my mental "symptoms" change for the worse. Maybe there's nothing wrong. I'm cowardly and can't admit responsibility or initiative to understand why I feel this way. Am I afraid of getting better?

I would throw up but I haven't ate anything substantial in the past few hours, so it would only frustrate me if nothing came out.

I have two finals lined up for today. Maybe that is the momentary reason I have such a desire to cut myself. That it would be a way out. Don't get me wrong, I have no intention of trivializing cutting-- it's only that maybe I'm not rational anymore that I can think of the blade going through the skin as easily as the next thought of what I should eat for breakfast.

I would cut myself, skip my first final in the morning, and pathetically go to my dean, still in my pajamas, and show her my wrists. The rule for petitioning for Incompletes for courses is at least one day before the exam. Today are the exams. Maybe she can waver the rule. I thought only one Incomplete was necessary and the rest I could handle, but I really can't do this. I didn't start studying for either final. It's is past 5 in the morning. I can't claim I'm not worried at all, but frankly I don't really care much-- about most things now-- which is the worst feeling, that makes my heart feel like it disconnected from the arteries and veins holding onto it and hid itself somewhere in the recesses of my colon, or another terrible metaphor like that. I feel cold. I feel . . . unfeeling.

I don't know if I'm that desperate yet. That will be decided soon enough.

I thought about making this private or whatever function that is that will make this visible only to my eyes. But then again, these thoughts are so loud that I think that people can already hear them. Besides, there's something necessary if not morose about words staring back at me, telling me the things I struggle to ignore.

So it turns out there's a name for it.

Severe depression.