p>I often think about suicide. Too often I think. Well, I'd say way often, as I roll over in bed every morning and try to think of a method that no one else has thought of before. It has become a game of sorts. Sick, huh? Well...one must do what one must to survive. I know this is wrong thinking, so I fit it into my routine just as I would the ritual of brushing my teeth and then forget about it. If I brushed my teeth everyday...just kidding...I do brush them but only because it is an activity I pretend to enjoy when my daughter is around, and truth be told...I smoke, and even I cannot stand the smell...that crusty film is gross too.
The secret to knowing how depressed I really am comes to my hair hygiene. I have that black irish bushy curly hair that bings right after I wash it. After seven or eight days, I get that Johnny Depp grease dripping look...I wonder if his itches the way mine does? It actually looks quite fashionable, but I don't want my daughter to think it is normal to go a week without some suds, so I wash it in the sink...if the dishes have been done. Yes, my dishwasher broke at the height of this depressive episode. Isn't that depressing?
You see, I don't like to get my ears wet when I am depressed. Shhh. I really don't want to mention that to my healthcare provider. A couple of years ago, I was taking paxil, the tenth anti-depressant I've tried and told my doctor that sex felt like my husband was poking me in my ear. I even gave him an illustration. I didn't know he was taking it literally. It was a simile. It was a joke. He did not get it. He did not understand. He wrote it down in my chart. "Patient says sex feels like someone is poking her in the ear." Try explaining that to your new doctor and see how it works out for ya'.