I just left a message for my psychiatrist.  We have an appointment for later today.  And I know I really need to speak with him.  But for the first time since I started seeing him, for the first time in about six years, I can’t do it.  I’m too tired.  I am just too, too tired.

Hopefully we can do the appointment over the phone.  We have in the past (yes, this is the same psychiatrist I “cut ties” with – long story).

But six years of appointments, one every three weeks, and I think, no matter what state I was in, no matter how depressed, what a mess, even during the ECT, when I wasn’t allowed to drive and someone had to haul me down to his office, I think I missed four appointments.  Two because I slept through my alarm, and those we did by phone, one because of a scheduling screw-up on his staff’s part, and one because I dinged a car – in his parking lot.  There just happened to be people in the car, one of whom was an asshole lawyer who insisted we call the police.

The two most difficult aspects of mental differences to me are both sleep related.  The first, and the one which I hate more, is when my brain won’t shut down and let me sleep.  Do you know how many people have told me, “Oh, I know exactly what you mean?”  Do you know how much that makes me want to throw rocks at them (I don’t care how many miles away they are) and scream into the phone, “Oh you do?  The how come you can fall asleep at night, whereas I have tried every sleeping pill in and out of the book” (psychiatrist actually threw out a book on sleeping medications in the middle of an appointment because of me, that was fun) “and the only one that ended up working, I still had to put on a film to distract me and focus myself on counting to drown out my own brain?  And then we discovered the only reason it was working was because of another drug I was on, and the interaction could have killed me.”  No sleep for Ruby.

And when I do eventually manage to nab a little, well lately the PTSD has made it impossible for me to get any amount longer than three hours, so when I wake up my body is still exhausted and greedy for more.  Finally the scales balanced a little on Monday, and I slept for almost two solid days.  Apparently at some point my anger and frustration boiled over and I posted a blog – good for me – but I woke up this morning. . .  And then I slept for a few hours more.  My body is trying to do what my mind has been doing, which is take back what it has been denied.  It wants sleep and rest and downtime.  I think it should get it, whenever necessary.

Do you know why I don’t eat much more than cheese or potato chips as a regular form of sustenance when I know I can’t afford to lose an ounce more, weight-wise?  Because I’m too tired to even boil water.

Do you know why I seldom leave the house, except to go through the drive-through at the pharmacy to pick up medication?  Because I’m too tired to make myself look even remotely presentable (and I mean presentable by my standards, which are pretty low).

Do you know why I’m late taking my medication – which is on my night table – all of the time, and why the bills pile up, phone calls don’t get made or returned, and books are not finished?  Because I am so goddamned tired.

Moral of the story:  There’s a good side to all of this, too.  Killing yourself takes effort, however minimal, and I am too tired to ever attempt even that.

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