Saturday, April 27, 2013


I've been scouring the house and praying for St. Phanourios's mother (it's an Orthodox thing) to try and find a little Pentax point & shoot. It's purple, it's shock-proof, and it can go underwater. And it appears to have gone up in smoke. Thing is, until I find it, I can't get rid of my Nikon D90.

I took my D90 to San Antonio on my birthday trip with my mom (did I seriously not blog about turning 30?) and thought I took some pretty awesome pictures. The computer revealed otherwise. And I've had enough. I, who once went to art school to be a photographer (and subsequently dropped out), cannot stand the complicated nature of this beast.

I had a camera I once loved that got me interested in photography. Now my mom has it ... and loves it too. I miss that camera. When I was in Marfa, I used to go out every day and take pictures of the weird things I'd find in the yard, and I got some really good pictures out of that. Now I don't even like picking up my camera. I miss my point & shoot.

So here I am, up at 3AM, searching the house for a camera I got for hiking (and swimming), thinking I might just ought to switch entirely to film. No matter what, it's time to say goodbye to a camera that just doesn't agree with me. I may one day move back to a mirrorless system because there are certain features on the dSLR I like (I click button, it takes picture immediately--astounding!). Until I have the money though (bearing in mind that I once paid $600 for a lens for this thing--I can get a whole mirrorless system for less than that), I'll keep searching for my Pentax. And taking film pictures.

So, anyone want to buy a camera?

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Food Bloggers: DIAF

A friend on Facebook (thanks, Heather!) posted something that has made me quite content. I'll owe a dollar for saying its name here, but that's okay: 21 Tips to Keep Your Shit Together When You're Depressed. I had some thoughts on it.

I think the medical professionals in my life all agree that depression is something I'll be dealing with for the rest of my life. Major depressive disorder has now become part of the fabric of my being. And there are those who would tell me to rise above it, but I can't. Depression is part of my life just like the infertility and my exceptional mode of speech (once described as "inimitable" and "Chandlerian" in the same sentence). Right now, it's not bugging me because of swift work on the part of my psychiatrist, but one day I'll be depressed and at least mildly suicidal again. Such is my lot. I trust that God knows what He's doing. But as I sit here writing two novels (one is fanfic, so don't be impressed), I like one of the things I read in the piece:
There is a long history and link between depression and creativity. It’s a bright light of this condition, so utilize it to your best advantage.
Writing has helped tremendously. There are days when I'm too depressed or too stomach-buggy to do it (and either way all I want to do is nap), but it is my bright light. Photography makes me happy as long as I'm not busy comparing myself to better photographers (see the thing about the artist temperament in the previous post), so I consider myself lucky to have two things I love to do.

Some things about the article scare me--in particular:
4)   Understand that antidepressants will only do so much. They’re useful, they’ll level you out and give you the time you need to figure out your own path to getting well. They can be helpful. There are lots to choose from. They may not be for you, and even if they are, they take some time to kick in. Conversely, they may not be for you. Work with your doctor.
I feel like I'm using my drugs to do everything. And it's not just antidepressants--it's two kinds of mood stabilizers and an anti-anxiety drug as well. Psychology has become a sort of hobby as I sort through my own malady, but I still don't trust myself to be able to make good decisions involving my meds--every one I've tried has backfired, and I've ended up deeply suicidal. I was good at high school chemistry, but I don't get my own. But that's why we have psychiatric professionals, right.

And now to the blog's title: Food bloggers! I'm calling you out! Your special way of eating that you present with little to no scientific merit will not cure my depression! Exercise will not cure my depression! (It's here that I add that exercise can do wonders and I've seen it in action, but cure? Seriously?) Stop talking about epidemics! There have always been "mad" people! I have the book collection on the history of mental illness to prove it! Write recipes for roasted chicken and leave me alone with your amateur-at-best medical advice!

It's out of my system now. Anyway, Chris promised me a trip to the Dallas Museum of Art to the Chagall exhibit, so I better get back in bed before I'm too tired to go. It's just that 1:00 in the morning is when I do my best blogging. Toodle-loo.

Thank You, Mr. Chesterton

The malady I'm suffering from right now:

"THE artistic temperament is a disease that afflicts amateurs. It is a disease which arises from men not having sufficient power of expression to utter and get rid of the element of art in their being. It is healthful to every sane man to utter the art within him; it is essential to every sane man to get rid of the art within him at all costs. Artists of a large and wholesome vitality get rid of their art easily, as they breathe easily, or perspire easily. But in artists of less force, the thing becomes a pressure, and produces a definite pain, which is called the artistic temperament. Thus, very great artists are able to be ordinary men--men like Shakespeare or Browning. There are many real tragedies of the artistic temperament, tragedies of vanity or violence or fear. But the great tragedy of the artistic temperament is that it cannot produce any art."

~G.K. Chesterton: 'Heretics.'

Friday, April 5, 2013

I'm Okay

What a strange thing to say: I'm okay. After a terrible year filled with suicidal ideations, I'm doing just fine. The secret? Extra Klonopin. Apparently it was my anxiety and not my depression that was giving me such fits.

The psychiatrist seems to have figured it out. If I could stop being sick on Wednesdays, my psychologist would be great. Well, he is great--tummy bugs are not. I'll have a nice scar where things went wrong between a knife and a head of cabbage. I've got the world's best husband, two worthless yet lovable dogs, too many cats--life is actually good.

Know what else is strange to say? I'm turning 30 on the 22nd. I'll be making this for the occasion. I even got pistachio flour so I could make it taste reeeeeeeal yummy. And since it's such a terrifying, round number as 30, you have to do as I say. I want you to donate to Dolls for Downs in honor of the big 3-0. Alternately, gifts to the suicide hotline are always appreciated. And I like flowers. :)

Thanks, everyone. Looks like it's all uphill from here.