A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-October, 2000
Wednesday, October 11, 2000
It’s 2 AM and I can’t sleep, and for about the past five hours I’ve been pretty certain that I’m not going to sleep at all tonight.
I feel restless and can’t lie still. I feel as though I’m on some drug that’s making me jumpy, which is weird, since I had no caffeine at all on Tuesday.
Perhaps my mistake was getting into bed too early, but I just wanted to block out all my bad feelings.
God, I am a mess, as I said yesterday. And of course I just can’t stop thinking of how I’m going to manage to drag myself through Wednesday.
I’ve listened to the TV, got out of bed, and read, I’ve done all the stupid stretching and lying still and breathing exercises.
What I probably need to do is to break down and cry. I want someone to hold me. I’m in so much pain.
And as I wrote at 7 PM, I feel guilty because it’s not as if I’ve suffered the loss of a loved one, like Alice, nor am I coping with a serious illness or anything resembling what people in poverty or war-torn areas have to deal with.
Can something positive come out of all this pain? I don’t think so. I feel all the doors are closing on my life.
I just flashed on Shelli’s father and how when he came back from that trip to Montreal in 1971, he was a different person, having slipped into a severe depression.
He got shock treatments at Gracie Square, but I don’t think he ever really recovered. I remember he used to sit by the window of that apartment they moved to on Avenue J and I would see him as I drove by.
I was in that neighborhood at Mark Savage’s three months ago; that was one of the last good times for me.
Yeah, I’ve had some good days here, like Saturday, when I felt unexpectedly happy – but cheerfulness used to be my default state and now depression is. And I’m keeping myself awake to show just how unhappy I am.
I can’t escape into dreams or the oblivion of sleep. I feel very much the way I probably did in the fall of 1968, at 17, when I was besieged by my panic attacks, when I slipped into agoraphobia and had what I’ve always referred to as a breakdown.
In 1980 in Rockaway, I was desperately unhappy, but I don’t remember feeling this bad, and then I had more to feel sad about.
In 1990, I had a few rough months, but even facing bankruptcy and living with my parents, I saw a way out: law school. Now I don’t see how to turn my life around. I feel lost.
*
8 PM. I felt awful from my sleepless night. By morning I was exhausted, of course, but I also had a terrible headache, a vague sense of nausea, and I had the chills. All I wanted to do was get through the day, and I somehow managed to do that.
I put my three story ideas for the Mesa School Board in Professor Sylvester’s mailbox because I couldn’t be sure I would be up to coming to class this evening.
In my own department mailbox I found my evaluation, which was fine. Trisha’s one suggestion was that I should have had a small group activity. Of course.
Frankly, I feel that most small group activity is a waste of time, a sop to current trends and an example of stupid educational theories.
But I’m a reactionary, and I feel out of place at ASU, where this Stepford Wife Rhet/Comp mentality is pervasive.
Demetria needed to take my photo for something, and she said a student (who must be absent all the time) called to see if I was canceling class for Yom Kippur.
All I could manage to do today was have my students write a memo to me along with their essays. Most finished after half an hour. I probably could have forced myself to teach, but I needed to get through the day with as little stress as possible.
Now if I don’t get enough sleep again tonight, I’ll be that much worse tomorrow.
I forced myself to go to Sylvester’s class. Next week we’ve got to do a story for our “beat” and that’s going to be a real pain. The Mesa School Board met last night, and of course I didn’t go.
It’s going to be a disgusting weekend, with all those ASU papers to grade. No wonder I’m miserable.
Mark Bernstein, to whom I unloaded, said I’ve got to give up teaching comp. Sat Darshan suggests I move to Europe, but Mark is closer to the mark.
Monday, October 16, 2000
5 PM. I just went through all my diary entries for the past three weeks, and it’s scary how little I’ve slept. Rarely have I slept more than five hours a night, and rarely have I gotten up later than 4:30 AM; often it’s closer to 2 AM. That’s what happened last night.
At 8 AM today I went to the Student Health Center to make an appointment with a doctor, but when I said my problem was depression, they sent me over to Counseling.
Eventually I ended up with an appointment for a week from Thursday with Greg Shrader, who runs the gay men’s group. My problem isn’t “urgent” – meaning, I suppose, that I’m not suicidal.
But what if it’s my insomnia that’s causing my depression rather than the other way around? I must have an accumulated sleep deficit by now.
Last night I didn’t get into bed till 9:30 PM and it took me an hour to fall into a refreshing sleep. But when I awoke at 2 AM, I felt a little panicky because I figured I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep – and of course I couldn’t.
I know that my anxiety about falling asleep keeps me from relaxing. I think I did manage to get into a light sleep from 5 AM to 6 AM or so, which made me feel a little better.
But I felt ill while I was teaching my first class and told them I probably was having a reaction to a flu shot. I felt better for the second class, and since I’ve been home, I haven’t tried to lie down.
I’ve been on the Web researching bilingual programs. Either I’ll do this story for Newswriting tomorrow – or else, if I feel sick after another bad night, I’ll just forget about it and skip Wednesday’s class, take a zero for the grade, and try to relax. My health is more important than my graduate work.
I did hear from Teresa, who still thinks I should move back to New York. She said, “I have money now, so don’t let lack of funds keep you from coming back here.”
I exchanged some emails with Sat Darshan. She told me she’d been on Zoloft and Paxil and got sick on the latter but eventually it made her feel better. Of course, I read that a side effect of SSRIs could be insomnia.
I’ve had problems sleeping all my life, but this is the worst I can remember. It’s a wonder I can function at all. In the middle of the night, it’s like my body thinks it’s morning, as I have to evacuate my bowels just as I used to do around 6 AM or 7 AM.
But I also seem to have Advanced Sleep Phase Syndrome because I don’t really feel sleepy that early. I mean, I want to try to sleep now, but if I could sleep six to seven hours from 6 AM to 2:30 AM, say, I’d feel a lot better.
I think I’ll make a medical appointment at the Student Health Center if I can’t sleep tonight. Tomorrow, at least, I’ve got only the Mesa Community College class, and they’ll be getting a library lesson.
I remember reading Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living when I was a kid and how he said you should never worry about insomnia because when you needed to sleep, you would. But is that true?
I think I’m as near to psychosis as I’ve ever been in my life. What a mess.
Wednesday, October 18, 2000
9 PM. Tonight was my low point – at least I hope so. After a nearly sleepless night, I probably should have skipped class this evening.
But I didn’t, even though I saw a suspicious puddle in my parking spot, and my car, which had been acting and smelling funny, wasn’t riding right. I had thought it might die while I was driving home from ASU, and I was right.
Worse than that, I left Professor Sylester’s class abruptly when I had what was either a panic attack or sickness brought on by exhaustion.
Indeed, I went to the parking lot and then felt so sure I was going to throw up that I went back to the building’s first floor men’s room until I felt better.
The car smelled really smoky as I drove down Mill Avenue and then, when I saw the temperature light was red, I pulled into a shopping center on McClintock and Southern, and it died.
I called my parents, and I guess I must have sounded really upset, but I decided just to leave the car and take a cab home.
Dad and Jonathan were already on their way here because they were so worried about me. Mom called and said they’re totally upset, and I feel bad about that.
Anyway, Dad and Jonathan and I went back to the car. There’s either a leak in the radiator or a problem with a hose – it seems like the same thing I had in late July and early August.
I don’t know if this is the end of the car or not, but I can’t even think about that now. Tomorrow Dad will come over and he and I will call the AAA and have it towed to Marc’s mechanic. Then I’ll probably rent a car at Enterprise, I guess.
I already called in sick at MCC; I could walk the mile to school, but I’m too stressed out.
Anyway, I don’t expect to sleep tonight.
Last night I watched the Yankees win the AL pennant – meaning there’ll be a Subway Series in New York for the first time since 1956.
I fell asleep at 10:30 PM and awoke three hours later with the usual feeling of dread, chills, sweaty palms, going to the bathroom.
But as I lay in bed, I wondered why I had started to feel good yesterday afternoon. I’d gone to Starbucks, then bought a pair of utility pants at Target, had a baked potato at Wendy’s, and felt like exercising when I got home.
I felt relaxed all evening. So why was I feeling so bad at 2 AM?
It occurred to me that Grandma Ethel used to be the same way: she would feel awful from insomnia in the morning and be depressed until slowly, late in the afternoon, her mood would lift and she’d be her old cheerful self in the evening.
That’s how I feel. I have read that depression often lifts later in the day. Somehow knowing that I had these symptoms made me feel better.
I don’t know if I slept or not, but from 5 AM till 6:30 AM, I lay very still instead of tossing and turning, so I might have slept. I didn’t exercise, turn on the radio or read the paper this morning, staying in bed till past 7 AM.
At ASU I had two good classes in which I felt enthusiastic and energetic, but by the time I got home all I wanted to do was rest. So I didn’t read today’s paper but rested instead, though later I did exercise lightly for 25 minutes.
My palms are so sweaty now that I’ve got a towel under my right arm as I write this page. But I can’t write anymore.
*
12:30 AM. I called Suicide Hotline and told them I wasn’t suicidal, but that I had depression, extreme insomnia and anxiety. I can’t stop shaking.
How did I get like this? I’m scared because it seems beyond the point where I can just relax and go back to my life.
Will I have to stop working and taking classes? Will I need to be hospitalized? I don’t understand how I got like this. Can lack of sleep make me psychotic?
What a mess. I wish I had gone for help earlier; this is such a waste.
Thursday, October 19, 2000
5 PM. I don’t know how much lower I can get, but I’ve got a hunch I’m going to find out. Last night was probably one of the worst nights of my life. I shuddered and shivered uncontrollably for hours. I called several crisis hotlines. I contemplated suicide. I slept for ninety minutes – not that it did me any good.
At 6:30 AM, I called Teresa. I’m sure I must have sounded alarming. She said I should probably just get on a plane to New York, but that’s Teresa’s answer to all my current problems.
What I did find a good idea was her suggestion that I go to the emergency room at Desert Samaritan Hospital across the street and just over the other side of the freeway.
“Maybe your health insurance will cover it,” she said, “and if not, we’ll deal with it.”
I am now certain that the HMO will refuse to pay for an ER visit for insomnia, but at least I have a prescription for Ambien, the sleeping pill Paul uses.
At dawn I put on a pair of pants and a sweatshirt and traipsed over to the hospital’s ER. It was as if I were in a movie. There were sick kids being brought in, ambulances with stroke victims, people who had bad accidents, and me with my shaking and insomnia.
First, the triage nurse took my symptoms, blood pressure and background, and eventually another nurse came and had me put on a hospital gown in a room with a bed. I talked to her, and she told me she takes Prozac and Ambien.
The doctor eventually came in, and we talked. He examined me and then brought in a guy to test me for diabetes – but the pinprick of blood tested at 104, “perfect.”
So I was given an eight-night prescription for the sleeping pill and was told to keep next Thursday’s appointment for evaluation with an ASU counselor.
I called Teresa when I got home, and I also called Dad, asking him not to come over till 10 AM so I could rest a bit.
I am so traumatized from the past few days. I haven’t read the paper yesterday or today, I didn’t exercise today, and now I’m certain I’m coming down with a cold. How could I not get what half the ASU students have, given that my immune system must be in tatters?
After Dad got here, we called AAA using his card, which has free towing, and the tow truck nearly beat us to the shopping center. We followed it to DGI Automotive in eastern Mesa. They probably won’t be able to look at the car until late tomorrow or even Monday, but at least I know they’re not crooks.
I rented a Ford Escort at the Enterprise car rental office on Country Club off Main Street.
After hugging Dad – he really came through for me in this crisis – I went to Osco to pick up the prescription. Because the doctor’s signature was illegible, the pharmacist was on the phone with the ER for half an hour trying to find out his name, which weirdly turned out to be Ricky Arnold.
I came home and spent the afternoon . . . well, I’m not sure. Alice called, and I told her all my problems, and of course she was sympathetic.
Even though she’s still terribly depressed over the loss of Andreas, Alice feels she doesn’t need to see her therapist. She said Andreas was like her third parent: “He gave me the kind of unconditional love I can’t get from anyone else – not even Peter.”
Sat Darshan called and offered to come over to “pat [my] hand,” but I told her I’d be okay.
I’m lucky to have three good friends. If I am going to go through the same dark depression I did when I was a teenager, I won’t be facing it alone.
Nor will I be afraid to talk about it. I emailed Professor Sylvester, explaining that I left class abruptly because I was having a panic attack. I am not ashamed to be mentally ill.
How this will all play out over the next months, I have no idea. I don’t even know if I’ll sleep tonight, though I suspect I will.
Hopefully I’ll get enough sleep to get through the next week till my appointment with Dr. Greg Schrader and then I’ll start getting some help with my problem.
Just being looked at by doctors and nurses at the hospital may have been worth a thousand dollars or whatever they charge me. I don’t care about money. \Today I got a Walmart credit card with a $1400 limit and a Saks Fifth Avenue card. I can use all my credit lines and go bankrupt next year if that’s what it takes to save my sanity.
I probably should have tried to get help sooner. Unhappy teaching comp, I’ve got to realize that these jobs will only last another seven or eight weeks, as Teresa and Alice both reminded me. Maybe I’ll have a bad cold this weekend, but I can try to relax.
I’ve missed writing about so much lately:
Marc’s license was suspended for November because of his DUI, and he’ll be fined later, though Sat Darshan said the real punishment will come in the form of humongous insurance rates.
Aunt Sydelle and her boyfriend are in Scottsdale.
It rained and was cloudy all day.
Well, as evening falls, I feel myself becoming a little anxious. I’m shivering slightly.
I think I’ll take the Ambien at 7 PM or 7:30 AM. It says you need to make sure you can sleep eight hours after you take it. I hope I don’t have any bad side effects from the drug.
I’ll try to read some of the Times now and just hope for the best. God help me.
Friday, October 20, 2000
7 PM. Within minutes of taking the Ambien tablet, I began to experience severe vertigo. I called my parents, and Marc said he would come over if I wanted, but I told him I’d call back if I felt worse. I lay down in bed and must have fallen asleep within another few minutes. I woke up a few times between sleep cycles, but basically, I slept nearly eleven hours.
I had a headache upon awakening during the night, but I felt better when I woke up this morning, and I wasn’t drowsy, at least not until late afternoon. I was planning on taking half a tablet tonight, as Tony and the ER nurse suggested, but now I don’t think I will.
I feel a little queasy and somewhat depressed. My body and mind have been going through so many changes, and I don’t want to keep upsetting them by taking new drugs.
I’m concerned that without my Triavil, a drug I’ve been used to taking for thirty years, I’m just going to get more depressed, but we’ll see what happens and how I manage to get through the night.
I felt very good this morning, so this pattern of my depression only lifting in the evening doesn’t hold up for today, when I felt more energetic, both before I went to ASU and on campus, than I did after 2 PM, when I lay down after exercising.
I spoke to Sat Darshan for a while, and I tried to go to the English Department social at a Tempe restaurant and pub at 4 PM, but instead I came home after mailing some letters and getting the rental car gassed up; I just felt too tired to try to socialize among people I barely know.
Maybe it’s not tiredness but depression. All of a sudden, a blue mood seemed to take over.
I had enjoyable classes at school this morning. Next week I’ve decided to lift some of the pressure on myself by having individual conferences with about eight students a day as they work on their next paper; that way I won’t have to prepare lessons for the three sessions.
It doesn’t seem that my students notice how fucked-up my teaching is. But as Greg Glau said, there’s a great a deal of bad teaching at ASU, so maybe my classes aren’t horrible by general standards.
(I just felt so nauseated that I took a swig of Emetrol and a Triavil – so I won’t be taking any Ambien tonight.)
Looking at the Writing Program newsletter, I was surprised to see how badly some faculty associates and teaching assistants wrote their little bio notes. I was listed as “Richard Graysonk” with a K at the end of my name, and either I didn’t mention any publications or they didn’t print them; I suspect I just didn’t want to write very much.
Anyway, I came home at noon and spent the afternoon lying down as I read the paper, and tried to stave off depression.
Next week I’ll have to deal with the car (I didn’t call the mechanic this afternoon) and cover the Mesa School Board meeting Tuesday and write about it, take the Newswriting midterm, go to all my classes.
Then there’s my appointment with Greg Schrader on Thursday. But at least I’ll get some help with my mental/emotional problems. I still wish I could work this out by myself.
Well, I need to take some deep breaths.