My First Modeling Gig
Gary W, the Illustration advisor here at PC, asked Georgia to pose for his students today, so she came in at 1:00 and sat until 4:30. I started worrying about her driving home in traffic (She had JackMan with her!), so I offered to sub for her during the last half hour, something I am loathe to do. At this very moment, I'm typing as I pose for six artists who had better NOT spend too much time sketching around my eyes and who had better be kindly blind to the crow's feet between them. Most of these guys are my students, too, so I imagine they're getting a big kick out of my embarrassment. I'll take a shot of their work when the session is up.
In the meantime, what to write or rant about? The only real news is that I started Celexa last Thursday, after twenty years of staunchly resisting boarding the anti-depressant bandwagon. My biggest concern has always been that medication would affect my writing. But since I haven't written a single poem anyway since I finished my manuscript in January, I figured I've got nothing to lose. I'm hoping the meds will help not only with depression, but also offer some relief from the anxiety that keeps me awake at night, wondering whether I should have bought 1% instead of 2% milk, as well as the obsessive thinking that drives me to google the kid who stole my Donnie Osmond lunchbox in fifth grade.
So far--9 days into it--I feel calmer, less anxious, if slightly blue and flat. Still, I'm sleeping better, and yesterday when Biggy and I had a bit of a "conflict," I was able to go about my day and function pretty happily until he got home from work. In other words, I didn't call and email him, seeking an immediate resolution, which always just compounds the issue. That's a major improvement from where I stand. I haven't gained any weight, which was also a huge concern, and I haven't lost the desire to jump my husband's bones--so far. The good outweighs the bad, then, at this point. It's supposed to take a month or so to really tell if I'm on the right pill.
We've sure come a long way since Valium and Xanax, the mother's little helpers of the late 20th century. When I was in college, suffering from bulimia, I saw a shrink at the UGA clinic. I had a difficult time trusting she could help me, because she was an obese chain smoker who looked and sounded like Jabba the Hut. Anyway, she made me keep a food journal and prescribed Xanax, which turned me into a zombie. Zombies don't eat anything but human flesh, though, so hey. It made the journal-keeping easy. That was my last venture into mental health pharmaceuticals. Until now. I'll keep you posted.
Well, time is up in the studio. Their sketches make me happy.