Things were looking up for about a week. My meds were working and I felt good. But then I started to get the awful side effects I got several years ago from these same meds -- hands and feet swollen and numb. I cut my doses of both meds, and started feeling depressed again. I had hoped that my mood was lifting due to something real, but it was only the drugs. And the side effects are getting rapidly *worse*, even though I'm taking one-fourth the dose of meds I was taking when they actually worked. This morning I woke up unable to move my hands; my finger joints were stiff and immobile. Even an hour later when they had loosened up a bit, I could barely grip my toothbrush.

On the mental front, every morning I wake up blinded by suicidal urges, but after I take my meds (located conveniently within reach of my bed), I start feeling better. At least the knowledge that the misery won't last gives me a will to live. But later it comes back, and I can't take more meds. I spend a lot of time thinking about which is worse: mental agony, or the physical agony of the side effects. So far I haven't decided, but it doesn't matter, because I still have both!

One benefit of working a shitty job is that I can have as many hours as I want -- I'm working six days this week, 11 - 7:30 each day. Other than working, all I do is lie around my house nursing my aching feet and joints. But today I got off early, at three. I thought I should do something "fun", but didn't know what. I ended up walking home from downtown, thinking maybe walking would make me less depressed. It didn't.

One of the only things I can concentrate on is reading the newspaper, so I settled on the porch to read Sunday's New York Times. But after I finished all the sections, I started brooding again.

I listed my woes over and over again in my head, trying to figure out which one was the worst, which particular thing was making me so empty and suicidal.

Working at a place so gross I find moldy cheese and bagels in the sandwich line. Making minimum wage at age twenty-six. Living with people I can't be real friends with. Not being able to live with Donna. Not even seeing Donna, ever! Not having any friends (glimmer of hope: maybe Ashley wants to get drunk with me tonight?). I didn't finish college. I'm a loser. I'm not stable enough to go back to Reed and I'm too pretentious to go anywhere else. I'm getting old. All my talents are unrecognized. I'm too insecure to ever do anything with those talents. I have mountains of debt. I've gained weight even though I'm barely eating, and the swelling from my meds makes it worse. I always look like shit no matter how hard I try. I don't want to be with Brian and I'll never meet anyone I do want to be with. I want to have kids and I'm running out of time. I'm too neurotic to try to meet anyone, friends or boyfriends. I can't even take pictures anymore, or read books, draw, or anything I used to enjoy.

Which is the worst thing about my life? And does it matter, since there's little I can do to change anything? I watched people ride down Ankeny on bikes, thought about how perfect their lives probably were, and started crying. My life seemed to be a downward arc, culminating in this horror, alone, living for nothing, not even being able to enjoy Portland. Eventually I stopped crying, because eventually, you just stop crying. I sat there thinking that maybe having a cat would help, and considered taking a cab to pick up Suzy Creamcheese.

Crying always makes me have to pee, and I was getting cold on the porch, so I got up to go inside. The door was locked!! Steve locked the door when he left for dinner!!

[insert minutes of pure shock]

I was wearing a short skirt and a hoodie but I was already cold and it was getting dark. I had flip-flops, but no phone, no money, no keys, nothing warm. And I had to pee. Bad. And my eyes were caked with tears. I knew from a previous time being locked out that there are no alternative ways into the house.

I thought of going across the street to Il Piato to use their phone, but I don't know Steve's phone number by heart. Pete never picks up his phone, and he works late. And I look horrible. I don't want to walk in, demand to use a bathroom AND their phone. And what good would it do? Pete can't leave work. I'd have to sit on the porch, freezing, in the dark, until around midnight, without even anything to read!

I am pretty good at squat-peeing after living in Thailand, and I found a napkin on the porch, so I went to pee in the backyard. At least I could take care of my most pressing need. There is a large wall next to our house, so there is a totally secluded spot. As I was walking around the house to that spot, I came face to face with the kitchen window, wide open! No screen! No storm window! And -- there is a God! -- there was a large trash can right next to it, like a step. I hopped up on the can and in the window, easy as pie.

I've never been so happy to stand in my kitchen. And suddenly I wasn't so sad anymore. I just forgot about it. There may not be even one good thing about my life, but at least I don't have to wander around in the cold with nowhere to pee and no one to call. I can sit in my warm house and listen to The Arcade Fire and do whatever I want.

It's kind of like banging your head against a wall -- it feels so good when you stop.