Mood: Better. I'm unloading on Matt. :)
Music: The Perfect Unrequited Love Song: Glycerine, Bush
Mind: "You are stupid. You are stupid. And don't forget, you are stupid." -- Dexter

I'm listening to Glycerine. I'm dancing in my head. I'd actually be up dancing, but I'm tied to my headphones. See, my suitemates apparently have supersonic hearing, which makes it almost impossible to get away with listening to anything.

Work is sucking, but I'm trying not to let it get to me too bad. I mean, things are going my way. Matt says he's coming to see me soon, which is a good thing, because it's reassurance. And on top of that, Paul and I got into a rather academic discussion about the proper way to stalk a source for a story. Amos & Co. (I guess that includes me) are trying to break a story. I think we've got something, but I've got to stake out some guy's house in Harbor Town this weekend. I think I'll be out of place in the cushiest part of Mud Island. ;-)

Okay. Now that I've attempted to sound happy, I'm going to talk about what is really going on. I'm bleeding. Profusely. This isn't a menstrual cycle; it's a bloodbath. I'm now wearing two pads at a time so I don't soak through them every hour.

The doctor changed the birth control pill I'm on. And when that didn't stop the bleeding, she's told me to take three pills a day. I'll go through a pack of birth control pills in one week. She's warned me that this is a temporary fix. Next Wednesday, when it's time to start the sugar pills, I'm apparently going to bleed worse than I am now. She expects me to go to an OB-GYN to figure out what's wrong with my body. It makes me feel old; it makes me feel bad. I shouldn't have tried to fix something that wasn't killing me.

This is now my daily dose of medicine:

1. 1 Zoloft (50 mg)
2. 2 BuSpar (15 mg each)
3. 2 Celebrex (200 mg each -- max dose allowed)
4. 3 Xenical (120 mg each)
5. 3 Ortho-Novum (1:35 ratio dose)
6. 1 Claritin-D 24-hour
7. Duradrin every time I get a migraine
8. Ventolin every time I can't breathe

You know, I'm feeling sorry for myself. But I'm not too down. That's what the Zoloft is doing to me. I don't feel much anymore. God, I think back to this summer. Things were so ... ARGH ... with Justin. I felt like I was under a rock all the time. I'd get to work at the Commercial Appeal, and I'd unload on Andy. I felt like shit all the time. Justin (and Kent at work, to an almost equal degree) had this way of making me feel guilty for things that I should have never been guilty of.

I just don't know that I like the alternative. Paul and I down these pills. No more depression, no more compulsiveness. Everything is by the book. Nothing is spontaneous and nothing is special. No more nights of driving down to Mississippi just to take the edge off a night. No more sexual desire. Nothing feels good. I don't want to be touched. This is not how things were supposed to turn out. Especially now that we're getting married.

I remember one night -- I still have the log here with me -- when Justin was so down he was going on about killing himself. It was a Sunday morning, a holiday. And I had to get up to go to church with my parents. I told Justin I'd do anything to make him stop. I'd breathe so he didn't have to. I said that.

Last night, I ran a story from Michigan about a guy who killed himself over EverQuest. He'd talked about it in his blogger. He'd told his friends online. Nobody did anything. I couldn't have done anything for Justin either -- especially not now that he's all fixed and we're like oil and water. But that night, I stormed IRC. I tracked down w00zy and BondGirl. I asked -- no, begged -- that somebody call him. Somebody get Nevin or Veran ... or Dominique, even, miles away ... to fix it. I wasn't the answer. I just wanted the answers to bounce off of me.

I'm getting to that point with Matt. The point where I slap myself around a bit because I prove to myself that all my friends are gay or depressed. (N.B.: Matt is depressed, not gay.) I want to just, for God's sake, make him see that it's going to be okay. I haven't found a friend more distant, and yet more compelling, than Matt.

I'm blathering on. I think I need to be cheered up. I know I need iron, and I'd like to stop bleeding. I just wish I had a friend -- a friend other than Paul, because Paul's unending, undying support is a given -- that supported me the way I attempt to support my friends. It would help, for sure.

/Me sighs.