Instant Winner

One of my grandma’s favorite memories was this huge party we had for her 80th birthday. It was all she wanted, her friends and family all in one room celebrating, and she loved every minute of it. The week before this party, unbeknownst to my grandma and pretty much everyone in the room, I had almost killed myself by taking a bunch of pills . The whole time I was at the party I just kept thinking, thank god I didn’t kill myself and ruin this moment, and that is what I had been thinking about the whole last week of her life.

It seems to me my grandma never really knew about my depression. I had never talked about it with her. It wasn’t part of our relationship. I surly never told her about Funnel Cakes Not Included. Our relationship was cookies, and scratch-off lottery tickets, and love. That was it and that was plenty.

And then today my Great Aunt gave me the most beautiful gift. She came up to me and said “The last conversation I had with your grandma, she told me all about your play. She told me what it was about and how hard you worked on it. She was so proud of you.” Someone must have told my grandma about the play and then my grandma was doing well enough to tell my aunt and then my aunt thought to share it with me. How fuckin lucky is that? So fuckin’ lucky I might go and buy another scratch off.

Feeling Good and Sex Analogies

I feel good. I started a new drug. I got some more zaps. Maybe it’s one of those two things, maybe it’s not.

Will it last? Like the erection of a scared virgin giving it up, I gotta hope so. Though like said virgin, it involves luck, strength, and practice. I think?

It’s interesting, the certain kind of good I feel that feels different. It sinks in more. It’s the best kind of familiar.

I have been struggling a bit with the toll the memory loss has been taking on me. Struggling as an improviser and writer. Not knowing people’s names, taking 20 minutes to get to a place that is 2 minutes away, forgetting experiences that sound so lovely yet not at all placeable (maybe a word?) when they are told to me.

Though like an old dude taking Viagra, all of those side effects will be more than worth it if this feeling good lasts.

Rule of Three

When my son was a toddler, like most little kids, if he said something that got a laugh, he would keep saying it over and over again.

Anyone who has witnessed a child (or bad stand-up) do this, knows it can be super annoying.

So to stop it, I told him, in comedy, there is “the rule of three.” – We will laugh at your joke three times and then it is no longer funny or welcome and you have to come up with something new. (This is not actually what the rule of three is at all, the actual rule is about how creating patterns in comedy breeds humor, but whatever. My fake definition worked for the situation.) Anytime my son would try to keep doing the same joke, I would just say rule of three and he would stop.

I was so glad it worked because for me, a big part of good comedy, is knowing when to be done. I am trying to make this just about comedy and not about my life.

I don’t remember ever saying “I am proud of myself” before this weekend. Not that I haven’t been proud of myself before, but I’ve lived under the (false) assumption that if I say “I’m proud” it means I’m cocky.

But this weekend my play happened (with amazing people involved) and people’s lives were affected. I felt proud in a way I hadn’t before. A step was taken in removing stigma from depression and suicide, and I made that happen. That’s pretty kickass. It felt good. And in that same space I thought okay, maybe this is it. I should be done. I should just end my life.

Having those thoughts angered me. A lot.

I went into my therapist and said “I want to enjoy this. I want my brain to not go to this “ending it” place. I want to make these thoughts stop.

She has some ideas and we are going to work on it.

I just wish it was easier.
I just wish I could fully enjoy this moment.
I just wish someone could say “rule of three” and my brain would realize these thoughts are no longer welcome and it’s time to come up with something new.

Belief, Marijuana, and Sitcoms

I took a new med. It has caused me to feel the worst I have in a long time. When are they gonna prescribe medicinal marijuana for depression? I so want to just not give a shit.

I have spent this week fighting with my brain. I find myself so angry. Angry that I feel like such a whiner, like this depression is all I talk about. I don’t want to be that way. I want to be in a good place so bad. There is no reason to feel like wanting to die except for that is where my brain goes. A lot

My head feels like it is vibrating all the time. I am not sure if this is an ECT side effect or not. I still believe the ECT will work. I still believe the way I feel now is just temporary. This is what I hang on to, this belief. I feel lucky I can feel that.

I live a life surrounded by kind, caring, creative, giving people. I feel very lucky about that too.

I have no patience. Sometimes I wonder if there is a yet to be discovered disease called 80s/90s Chronic Sitcom Watcher-itis, where the symptoms include a belief that all problems, no matter how bad should be solved in a 1/2 hour, or at most a special two parter. Maybe medicinal marijuana can be prescribed for that.