4:45 Tuesday afternoon found me standing outside an Exxon station at some random exit off of 83, drinking a Frappacino and smoking a Marlboro Light 100. I had just bought my first pack of cigarettes in over 7 years. If I was looking for rock bottom...something tells me I'm headed the right way.

Now, I don't know if its because I was in Maryland, or if this is just what you crazy kids pay these days, but $7.50 for a pack of smokes? How long has this been going on? I didn't care. Took 'em outside and started packing them - whack whack whack - on the side of my left hand. 3 whacks, turn the pack, 3 whacks. Pulled the top plastic off, opened the pack, and did away with the front foil. Pulled out the second to last cigarette in the back left, turned it upside down, and put it back in to save for last. Do adults do that?

There was no conscious thought involved in this ritual, it was like...what athletes call 'muscle memory'. My hands so easily remembered how to hold a cigarette, how to flick the ash and bring it back between my thumb and forefinger like a joint, have another hit, and nestle in between my first two fingers. flick, grasp, suck, nestle. flick, grasp, suck, nestle. Without a blink.

Immediately following the heavenly cigarette buzz (around hit #4) I start panicking. Seriously panicking - like "what the hell are you doing Jeanine?" I'm sitting there, in my professional skirt, blouse and heels, on a curb at an Exxon trying not to flash the people getting gas and smoking a cigarette. I watched it in my mind, like a scene from a movie. Flick, grasp, suck, nestle, sip...who is that girl?

The reason quitting was so hard the last time (which was, say, the 12th time) was because "smoker" was such a big part of who I was. Wife. Daughter. Poetry Lover. Mountain-pie Maker. Smoker. Student. What have you. And to spite every trick in the book - including meds & hypnosis - I couldn't break the habit until I began to build an self identity as a non-smoker. Not even ex-smoker - that's a perilous condition - but a non-smoker. And with one purchase...poof. Up in smoke.

5:10 Tuesday evening found me driving home, having my first-ever, true-blue panic attack. Now, the cigarette so lovingly eulogized above was probably the 12th I've had in the last 10 days or so, so I can't really blame this on a physiological response. I'm driving (back on 83 now) and I can literally feel my veins constricting. I realize my heart is racing and figure the Frappucino, my 7th 'coffee' of the day, is to blame. But while my heart is racing I'm simultaneously SO sleepy all the sudden. Barely able to hold my eyes open. Then I realize I'm sweating. So as I turn the AC to max and put on some loud music, I realize that my hands are shaking.

I can't really put words to the thoughts that were going through my mind. I vaguely recall blaming the cigarette, the coffee, the long drives. I remember feeling sympathy for my husband, thinking "this is a panic attack? this is what it feels like? this sucks! how does he deal with this?" I ended up pulling over and meditating for 10 minutes (yes, on the side of 83, next to an "emergency stopping only" sign).

So, while I'm lamenting the lack of clearly marked "Now entering Rock Bottom" signs, I'm grateful for the arrows along the way. They line that 1-lane highway that divides 'flirting with addition' from 'addiction'. Stay tuned, I'm thinking maybe crack next week.

Down. I am just...down. And while I'm down I know that sometime in the hopefully-not-too-distant future I'll be up again, or at least even. And when I'm there, I'll look back on here and say things like, "If I would've stuck with my exercise routine, that would've helped," or "I forgot to take my pills on that camping trip and I think it threw me," or "when I started drinking 4 glasses of wine a night I should've seen that as a sign; I should've known I was heading into a spiral."

The thing is I did know. But till you recognize the spiral you're usually too far into it to pull up.

I don't really want to, either. Pull up, I mean. This is what really gets me - really gets to me - about Depression. Not 'depression' but 'Depression' - this is how the character of Jeanine interacts with the character of Depression in the play that is my lie. I know we'll have it out but honestly there is something inside of me that just...requires that I see it through to rock bottom. Like the tragically, mythically unhappy housewife that can't bring herself to leave because things "just aren't that bad yet." And of course there's the children. (Not the real children; I'm referring to the children that the characters Jeanine and Depression share.) I love the children and if I leave, I have to leave them: Martyrdom. Booze (a nice name for a girl?) Identity. And the beautiful Excuse for those things at which I fail for lack of trying because - lucky me - ambivalence is a classic symptom of depression. ('depression,' not 'Depression')

So I don't 'pull up' - I really prefer to ride it out to the bitter end. For one, it makes a much more believable excuse that way. A much better crutch. Can you really claim to be struggling because of your depression if you never hit a slump, ride a low or go on a binge?

It's part of me. It seems...somehow...dishonest, I guess, to try to disown it. I'm so many things - mother, wife, daughter, friend, employee - and woman with depression. This was the case before I started the blog, though I suspect that...cements it, a bit. And lucky me I can claim, with some honesty too, that battling the stigma of depression is important enough to me to continue with the blog anyway. Throw a little more honesty at it, though, and it's likely just the self-absorbed ramblings of an egomaniac that likes to pretend that people connect with what she has to say.

I see this in my son - this need to hit rock bottom. It's an anxiety thing for him. For example, he's currently obsessed with Lego Star Wars on the Wii. When I way 'obsessed' I mean, quite clinically, 'engaging in obsessive behavior'. So we only play Wii on the weekends and after a warning or two about keeping our cool (yelling, throwing the remote, etc) we lose the Wii for the day. Funny thing is anytime you even glance at the kid he asks, in a freaked-out, anxiety-ridden voice, "Did I lose the Wii?" This goes on for quite awhile until he actually loses theWii. Then, following a short tantrum - no more anxiety. It's gone. Because worrying about losing the Wii is worse than actually losing the Wii. He needs to hit rock bottom.

So I am with my spirals. I almost welcome them because I've been worrying - when's my next Bout going to show up? When will Depression and Jeanine have it out again? and when it shows up...well, I don't have to wonder anymore. And that, honestly, is a bit of a relief.

And, since I'm being brutally, sadistically, humiliatingly honest here - come on. I loves me some melancholy. It so plays into this "oh I'm such a misunderstood genius" lie I like to tell myself. Virginia Wolfe, Sylvia Plath and me. We're quite a bunch. Imagine what havoc Zoloft would've wreaked on the literary world had it been available to Virginia and Sylvia! Imagine what we would've missed out on!

This is the part where I romanticize Depression. "Yes, I know he beats me when he's angry," I say, "but he really loves me and I'm usually asking for it." This is the relationship Depression and I share. Its not a disease to feel things more acutely...it's an...artistic bent. A necessity. I suffer for my art. (Really, dear reader, you're supposed t laugh out loud at that.)

So, bring on the spiral, though the timing sucks. (When is a good time, really, for a Bout?) It makes me feel...honest. Real. Flawed and Human and Genuine. What would I be, really, without it? Is it possible I've become addicted to Depression?

potential

There are few double-edged swords sharper than that of "potential".
My whole life I've heard that word. I have potential to spare. So much, in fact, that its seemingly impossible to live up to. Semester after semester - the bane of my report card: Does not work up to potential. Fails to meet potential. Does not meet expectations.
And potential is directly linked to expection, isn't it? My potential dictates your expectation. Your expectation is, really, your assessment of my potential. Which is why I must get much better at that old customer service hat trick: managing expectation.
Webster's (okay, dictionary.com) defines potential as "a latent excellence or ability that may or may not be developed." Through nature or nurture, I've somehow come to view it as "the opportunity to dissapoint." Which is, in itself, dissapointing as I of course pride myself on my positivity...
This week I became one of people that didn't lose their jobs in my company's layoff of 15% of their employees - which is odd as I've been in my current sales position about 6 months. At this point, I've cost the company more in locksmiths and replacement blackberries than I've actually brought in in sales. A senior rep was let go, as was a fellow newbie (but one who had been with the company for 10+ years in another role). The same question keeps rolling through my mind like a mack truck: Why do I still have a job? And the same sickening answering keeps rolling through my stomach like a cement mixer: Oh dear god they think I have potential.
Its terrifying.

Preemptive Pain

Last week found me in my absolute least favorite place in the world - the dentist's chair. There are a number of things I learned from this experience: Nitrous is not nearly as fun as it used to be, I really should floss, lying down on my back with my mouth open while an old guy hovers above me is just way to submissive for my liking, and there is value in preemptive pain.

So first the nitrous. It wasn't that long ago that I actually looked forward to at least that portion of a visit to the chair - took me back to my younger youth. Memories of buying a dozen cans of whipped cream and a chocolate bar come to mind...only I was much more relaxed then. Now, the internal dialogue goes something like this: "okay so the thing's on my nose...do you think that's just oxygen or did they start the nitrous yet? I hope they didn't start the nitrous yet because I'm still really tense and if they did start it its not on high enough. Oh - okay, a little floaty. But still pretty tense. Maybe I should ask them to turn it up? If I ask them to turn it up will they think I'm a drug addict? Maybe, but if I don't ask them to turn it up then I've squandered my one opportunity this year for whipits. Wow so does that mean I am a drug addict? oh shut up and just listen to the muzac." This disappointing experience was followed by 2 days of vague headaches and somehow getting carsick while I'm driving.

I think the flossing is self-explanatory.

Okay, the creepy submission thing. First let me say that it took 20 years but I did find a dentist I actually like. But still - you're lying there, you have to be perfectly still for fear that if you flinch that drill will somehow slip and permanently disfigure you, you have to choose between keeping your eyes open (which means seeing the creepy magnifying glasses the dentist wears, which always remind me of something out of A Clockwork Orange) and closing your eyes which, let's face it, is even more submissive. You're on your back, there's a spotlight shining on your face, and I have a sneaking suspicion that both the dentist and the hygienist are making judgments about your personal hygiene. AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. Frankly, childbirth is more dignified.

Then there's the shot. One of the reasons I like my dentist is that he takes a cotton swab and numbs my gum before he gives me the Novocaine shot (my last dentist insisted this was only done for children). Of course the shot still hurts, but not as much and you know that in the long run you're avoiding greater pain.

I do this in life. I pick an irrelevant fight with my sister to avoid the heavier topics we should address. If I sense my husband getting annoyed with me, I find a reason to get pissed at him first. And I occasionally push friends away when they get a little too close to whatever tender spot I've been hiding lately. These are all little shots of Novocaine for my psyche - but since the hard work isn't being done (I'm not the 'drill baby drill' type) the problems continue to build. Its like putting on a crown without performing the root canal first.