Monday, July 06, 2009

Vitamin K hangover

I don't know why I was so sad last night. I went to a museum with friends of mine -- a museum I hadn't set foot in at all this century. (Which describes too many museums, alas.) It was fun; I like looking at paintings, even though I don't know much about art. Then we went for a late lunch, topped off with Cold Stone Creamery ice cream (medium Chocolate Jello pudding with peanut butter and oreos mixed in), and I went home.

But at home, I felt melancholy. I'd like to attribute it to the excess sugar and fat -- I usually get a small scoop, with just one mix-in -- but I don't think it was that. It could have been the way I felt ignored by the men at Shabbat lunch. Or the afternoon spent with my two lovely friends, all of us so unappreciated, so unloved, so unmarried.

I decided to take a couple Vitamin K. It took me a while to find them -- I hardly ever take them, and my apartment is such a disastrous mess, piles of papers and pill bottles everwhere. Anyone watching me would have thought I was tearing the place apart looking for a bag of cocaine or heroin. Instead of swallowing them whole, I chewed them. They're stronger that way.

While I sat moping, OS called again and we chatted.

"I have a question," I said hesitantly.

"Go ahead," he declared. "I have nothing to hide."

"You told me you were 11 in 1975 when you went on that feminist march," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"But that would make you 45 today," I finished.

"What? Wait... let me think. Math isn't my strong point...." I waited. "No!" he said. "I was 8 when I went on that march. I am definitely 42."

Am I a mistrustful person? That denial sounded like... denial.

"Okay," I said hesitantly.

"You're upset," he said.

"No," I said. "I just saw there was this discrepancy, and I wanted to clear it up."

He had to go make dinner for a friend who was coming over to watch a movie. "How late can I call you?" I told him 10 p.m., but by the time he called at 9:32, I was asleep.

And I slept until 8:15 a.m. Which is great for getting rest, but made me late for work. Losing my keys made me even later for work. I had put them in a small purse to carry with me yesterday, and I remember taking them out of the small purse. But I didn't put them in my big purse. I have no idea where I put them. I scrabbled through the apartment mess for 15 minutes before giving up and looking for my spare keys. Mercifully, those were easier to hand. Even more mercifully, my clients forgave me for being half an hour late.

Last week I was worried I was becoming manic. I kept feeling like I wanted my clients to stop talking so I could talk, and probably jumped in a few times before they were quite finished talking, or pointed out my observations a little more forcefully than necessary. Once I caught myself I was more mindful of my behavior. So I was already a little unstable, and last night/today isn't helping.

This blog was supposed to be a serious (or seriocomic) exploration about functioning well as a mental health professional with bipolar disorder. Lately it seems to have devolved into a series of my dating misadventures.

Please remember that underlying all the hilariously bad dates and disappointing encounters with men is an undercurrent of illness, like an underwater stream. My goal is to keep it underground, and not let it erupt like a geyser. Sometimes it's closer to the surface. Hopefully today it will submerge and stay down.
Copyright (c) "Ayelet Survivor"


  1. I feel you, girl.


  2. It sounds to me like he is 42 and has got the date of the event wrong. It's hardly worth lying about three years. But one does get sensitised to these details. I once went out with someone who claimed on his profie to be 15 years younger than he actually was, and he had an old photo up as well. Predictably, that turned out to be the least of the problems with this man, sigh..

  3. Your feelings yesterday are understandable. Keep on keeping on with your goals.