These pages are full of what makes Penny Penny. Lots of crafts, rants, and fan girling.

Something not even hand knit socks can fix

I went to the doctor today to ask about the side effects of my lovely friend Cymbalta. You know, the one that made me feel better, the one that cut down my sleeping time...because the bad dreams it gave me got more intense. Last night, I dreamt that the friend who's wedding I'm going to in April asked me to be a cocktail waitress for a pre-wedding bash, in rollerskates, no less. And a teeny black skirt. I have a crappy sense of balance. I've never been able to rollerskate, or rollerblade, or ice skate, or ski, or even snowboard, no matter how much I tried. I could barely stand up! And mini skirt? I hate wearing shorts, for crying out loud. Can anyone say roadrash? Big, massive, ass road rash and spilled alcoholic beverages with my friends laughing at me. It's like that old classic, the naked at school dream, only with a quite realistic panic attack, and I can't wake up. And it's every night. So I wake up feeling extra crappy, like what I dreamt was real. And now the fantasticness of the Cymbalta is wearing off, and I am back to feeling like I need 14+ hours of sleep every day.

So, I asked my doctor about options. Wasn't he the epitome of asshat. He took away my hope. He told me my body chemistry might just not work with any antidepressants. And in so many words he told me I might have to get used to myself. At least he didn't get me in on one of my totally hopeless days, and tell me that it's all in my head. I don't even want to know how I'd get out of that pit of despair.

For those of you that don't suffer from depression, the closest thing I can say it's like is quicksand. You're in your own personal pit of quicksand, and everyone is walking around you on nice, solid concrete. And when you find a medicine that works, it's like you're floating. Hey, this feels pretty good, you say. Is this how normal, healthy people feel? I feel so good it's got to be a crime.

And when that stops working, your back to your usual struggle. It's a fight to get out of bed, and you feel like you're sleeping your whole life away. But that's the only place that you can escape the sinking, suffocating feeling. It's hard to move, it's hard to take care of yourself, it's hard to be. If you're really lucky you might have someone to hold your hand, and connect you to that fairytale concrete world rushing around you. It's beautiful, and you so want to be part of it, and not afraid that you might not be able to hold down a permanent job, or worry about what might happen if you lose the people that hold your hand.

So, I'll be finishing off this bottle of Cymbalta, and then it's off to Wellbutrin City. I hope the word "well" at the beginning bodes a bit of floating.


I finished my first full pair of socks. They're made out of Koigu, and I can never capture the real color. They're so pretty. But big. I used Wendy's Toe Up sock pattern, so I could knit as much cuff as I wanted and not worry about running out before I finished the toe. And I left a little bit for fixing up the worn out parts.

Keepin' on keepin' on

If it smells like funk it must be funk