14 November 2006
13 November 2006
cracks
Upon hearing of my adverse side effects (slurred speech, memory distortion, confusion and unsteady walk) to Lithium, Dr. F instructed me to cease consumption. She did, however, tell me to continue taking Klonopin for my anxiety/paranoia.
Apparently an alternative treatment for my bi-polar disorder will be explored at my next appointment, one week from tomorrow. Earlier this evening I came home from work and for 10-15 minutes balled like a baby, sobbing uncontrollably; the fear was back and I wasn't sure what to do, wasn't sure what was around the corner... A soul curdling fear. Now, typing this, things are quiet and relatively peaceful.
As my condition progressively worsens, I'm beginning to consider some kind of hospitalization. The reality in my head the reality of "the real world" is becoming harder to discern. Hospitalization would be the last resort, and unless things improve dramatically -- and soon -- that could be my only refuge.
My sister gave birth to a bouncing baby boy yesterday. I should be elated. Proud. But that reality feels a million miles away. And I'm here, seemingly unaffected by it all -- and everything else.
mc (Thanks, M)
12 November 2006
sunday
Sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy today, and I'm an uncle.
This weekend has been a blur of distorted time lines, slurred speech and other troubling side effects. I've contemplated going to the hospital but I think I'll call Dr. F. Monday morning. Something isn't right.
Fucking meds.
mc
This weekend has been a blur of distorted time lines, slurred speech and other troubling side effects. I've contemplated going to the hospital but I think I'll call Dr. F. Monday morning. Something isn't right.
Fucking meds.
mc
11 November 2006
oh christ
Here's the number one reason why corporate America sucks. This song "celebrates" the merge of Bank of America and MBNA -- at the expense of U2's masterpiece "One." Where is the gang from Mr. Show when you need them? Christ.
10 November 2006
first
My first appointment with Dr. F. was anticlimactic.
I have a second meeting, which I plan to attend, scheduled for 21 November.
I want to thank those of you who have left kind and supportive comments. Your concerns are greatly appreciated.
mc
I have a second meeting, which I plan to attend, scheduled for 21 November.
I want to thank those of you who have left kind and supportive comments. Your concerns are greatly appreciated.
mc
soon
In approximately 60 minutes I'll be leaving for my appointment with Dr. F. I wish I could say that I'm looking forward to the experience, but that isn't true.
M called last night; she wished me well with today's appointment. The phone call ended rather abruptly, but I guess it's the thought that counts.
My head is swirling with anxiety, fear and uncertainty, and I feel nauseous. But this is nothing new. Every day is the same.
mc
M called last night; she wished me well with today's appointment. The phone call ended rather abruptly, but I guess it's the thought that counts.
My head is swirling with anxiety, fear and uncertainty, and I feel nauseous. But this is nothing new. Every day is the same.
mc
08 November 2006
disambiguation
If I'm completely honest with Dr. F. about my mental situation I will be "involuntarily committed" to a mental hospital/program. I came to this conclusion after researching Indiana's laws and protocols regarding the matter. While I don't consider myself a "threat" to others I'm certainly a "threat" to myself. I'm extremely hesitant about taking pharmaceuticals to address my situation; I'm totally against any form of inpatient/outpatient treatment.
I don't know where to go from here.
As my appointment nears I'm feeling trapped. Cornered. Threatened.
When the concept of death/dying/suicide is a daily thought and constant presence, one forms a symbiotic relationship with the notion and explores it with a logical and inquisitive mind. It's difficult, if not impossible, to fathom the reality of nonexistence. It's also painfully difficult to imagine the pain and heartache one leaves with his or her permanent absence.
Fuck.
I don't know.
I want to disappear.
No new beginning.
No ending.
Just disintegration.
A complete and total removal from everyone and everything.
mc
I don't know where to go from here.
As my appointment nears I'm feeling trapped. Cornered. Threatened.
When the concept of death/dying/suicide is a daily thought and constant presence, one forms a symbiotic relationship with the notion and explores it with a logical and inquisitive mind. It's difficult, if not impossible, to fathom the reality of nonexistence. It's also painfully difficult to imagine the pain and heartache one leaves with his or her permanent absence.
Fuck.
I don't know.
I want to disappear.
No new beginning.
No ending.
Just disintegration.
A complete and total removal from everyone and everything.
mc
07 November 2006
things
Earlier today I spoke to mom. Apparently last week's mammogram showed something in her left breast and a nodule on a lymph node. Further tests are scheduled for Monday. I didn't react to the news. I couldn't. I suppose on some level I was expecting it. I said, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." She asked me to pray for her. I don't believe in god. I'll hope for the best.
I feel like I'm stranded on a vacant street in a city in shambles. The citizens have escaped to higher ground. With no sense of direction I don't know where to turn. The hospitals are wounded, empty. Telephone lines, cut. The sun is obscured by smoke from distant bonfires, burning somewhere far away.
I finished reading Camus's The Stranger. At 117 pages it's a short read, but it took me two weeks to finish; I read it at a leisurely pace. There is something comforting and, to a certain degree, familiar about Meursault, the book's protagonist. I've begun reading the book again.
Dr. F. moved my appointment from 1 PM to 4 PM. I've spoken to her twice. She sounds ancient. I'm afraid if I'm completely honest with her she will have me committed, but I'm unsure of the legalities of such a maneuver.
Monday was a better day. While I struggled to quell the highs and silence the lows, it was mostly an even day, emotionally speaking. Today, however, hasn't been so kind. High episodes make me want to leap from my flesh; low moments leave me crawling, looking for an escape.
Today was Election Day. I voted. But things won't change.
Outside a fog like a heavy ghost chokes the street lamps and blurs headlights. Forty-five degrees feels nice. I'm chain-smoking cigarettes wondering what will come next.
Colorful products glow inside warm and bright convenience stores.
American dreams are fueled at $2.34 a gallon.
Wet dreams are soaked by young girls dancing naked inside a dimly lit club. Music blares. Bass pounds like focused erections. And a man feeds "Rachel" dirty dollar bills. He doesn't want her to leave. He spent his last $4 on a poorly mixed drink. Alone, he'll stumble from the club looking for a ride home.
Home is where the heart is.
Organ transplants and empty refrigerators.
Fluorescent light and narcotics.
A hangman's noose and smeared lipstick, a forgotten valentine.
A fog like a heavy ghost chokes the city.
I'm chain-smoking cigarettes.
mc
I feel like I'm stranded on a vacant street in a city in shambles. The citizens have escaped to higher ground. With no sense of direction I don't know where to turn. The hospitals are wounded, empty. Telephone lines, cut. The sun is obscured by smoke from distant bonfires, burning somewhere far away.
I finished reading Camus's The Stranger. At 117 pages it's a short read, but it took me two weeks to finish; I read it at a leisurely pace. There is something comforting and, to a certain degree, familiar about Meursault, the book's protagonist. I've begun reading the book again.
Dr. F. moved my appointment from 1 PM to 4 PM. I've spoken to her twice. She sounds ancient. I'm afraid if I'm completely honest with her she will have me committed, but I'm unsure of the legalities of such a maneuver.
Monday was a better day. While I struggled to quell the highs and silence the lows, it was mostly an even day, emotionally speaking. Today, however, hasn't been so kind. High episodes make me want to leap from my flesh; low moments leave me crawling, looking for an escape.
Today was Election Day. I voted. But things won't change.
Outside a fog like a heavy ghost chokes the street lamps and blurs headlights. Forty-five degrees feels nice. I'm chain-smoking cigarettes wondering what will come next.
Colorful products glow inside warm and bright convenience stores.
American dreams are fueled at $2.34 a gallon.
Wet dreams are soaked by young girls dancing naked inside a dimly lit club. Music blares. Bass pounds like focused erections. And a man feeds "Rachel" dirty dollar bills. He doesn't want her to leave. He spent his last $4 on a poorly mixed drink. Alone, he'll stumble from the club looking for a ride home.
Home is where the heart is.
Organ transplants and empty refrigerators.
Fluorescent light and narcotics.
A hangman's noose and smeared lipstick, a forgotten valentine.
A fog like a heavy ghost chokes the city.
I'm chain-smoking cigarettes.
mc
05 November 2006
closer
The countenance in the mirror is not a familiar one. Something has changed. My eyes look different. Is it the shape? The color? Something is no longer recognizable.
I woke up this morning feeling angry. After identifying the anger's source I wasn't sure if that emotion was appropriate. I don't believe that my so-called friends care about my circumstance. (I should exclude Ryan from this barrage; he made the drive and visited on Friday. We went out for drinks, shot some pool and had a chill time. I was truly grateful for his presence -- it meant a lot to me.) I've never been one to mince words, especially when someone or something draws my ire, but in this case I'll restrain myself because unleashing my disappointment, my anger will solve nothing.
Mom called around noon and my anger turned to sadness. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her; I hid my true feelings behind a facade of small talk and agreeableness. I did, however, tell her of my forthcoming appointment with Dr. F. I don't recall her response to this bit of news. She mentioned plans for Christmas and I cringed. It's strange how so many people assume that those in the present will be there in the future. Assumption has led many a man down a false road. Mom spoke of other details but I don't remember them.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my meeting with Dr. F., but I've contemplated canceling the appointment. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. This, of course, is assuming that I can be saved, that diluting my brain with chemicals can erase the feelings of despair and hopelessness and somehow make me reclaim my validity. But what if I deny salvation with a clear and untempered mind? What if I want to extinguish the light and fade away?
I keep telling myself that this is all inside my head -- but what isn't? The brain is the steering wheel of reality, and ultimately, perception is reality.
I don't know.
I've looked at my reflection and pondered what it will look like when I have passed. I've "heard" the shrieks of my mother upon hearing the news of my death. Heartbreaking.
I don't know.
I read that Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Styron passed away on 1 November.
From the AP:
William Styron, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of "The Confessions of Nat Turner" and other novels whose explorations of the darkest corners of the human mind and experience were charged by his own near-suicidal demons, died Wednesday. He was 81.
Styron's daughter, Alexandra, said the author died of pneumonia at a hospital in Martha's Vineyard, Mass. Styron, who had homes in Martha's Vineyard and Connecticut, had been in failing health for a long time.
Although often cited along with Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer as a leading writer of his generation, he produced little over the past 15 years. Styron was reportedly working on a military novel, yet published no full-length work of fiction after "Sophie's Choice," which came out in 1979.
"He had a lot of things wrong with him," Gore Vidal told the AP. "He had a bad ending."
In his book "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness," he wrote, "Death ... was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, and I would soon meet it face to face."
I'm tired now, and I'm going to bed.
mc
I woke up this morning feeling angry. After identifying the anger's source I wasn't sure if that emotion was appropriate. I don't believe that my so-called friends care about my circumstance. (I should exclude Ryan from this barrage; he made the drive and visited on Friday. We went out for drinks, shot some pool and had a chill time. I was truly grateful for his presence -- it meant a lot to me.) I've never been one to mince words, especially when someone or something draws my ire, but in this case I'll restrain myself because unleashing my disappointment, my anger will solve nothing.
Mom called around noon and my anger turned to sadness. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her; I hid my true feelings behind a facade of small talk and agreeableness. I did, however, tell her of my forthcoming appointment with Dr. F. I don't recall her response to this bit of news. She mentioned plans for Christmas and I cringed. It's strange how so many people assume that those in the present will be there in the future. Assumption has led many a man down a false road. Mom spoke of other details but I don't remember them.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my meeting with Dr. F., but I've contemplated canceling the appointment. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. This, of course, is assuming that I can be saved, that diluting my brain with chemicals can erase the feelings of despair and hopelessness and somehow make me reclaim my validity. But what if I deny salvation with a clear and untempered mind? What if I want to extinguish the light and fade away?
I keep telling myself that this is all inside my head -- but what isn't? The brain is the steering wheel of reality, and ultimately, perception is reality.
I don't know.
I've looked at my reflection and pondered what it will look like when I have passed. I've "heard" the shrieks of my mother upon hearing the news of my death. Heartbreaking.
I don't know.
I read that Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Styron passed away on 1 November.
From the AP:
William Styron, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of "The Confessions of Nat Turner" and other novels whose explorations of the darkest corners of the human mind and experience were charged by his own near-suicidal demons, died Wednesday. He was 81.
Styron's daughter, Alexandra, said the author died of pneumonia at a hospital in Martha's Vineyard, Mass. Styron, who had homes in Martha's Vineyard and Connecticut, had been in failing health for a long time.
Although often cited along with Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer as a leading writer of his generation, he produced little over the past 15 years. Styron was reportedly working on a military novel, yet published no full-length work of fiction after "Sophie's Choice," which came out in 1979.
"He had a lot of things wrong with him," Gore Vidal told the AP. "He had a bad ending."
In his book "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness," he wrote, "Death ... was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, and I would soon meet it face to face."
I'm tired now, and I'm going to bed.
mc
04 November 2006
help?
I have scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist, Dr. F., for Friday, 10 November.
I'm tired.
I'm giving up.
I'm giving in.
I'm in need of a reprieve.
Something.
mc
I'm tired.
I'm giving up.
I'm giving in.
I'm in need of a reprieve.
Something.
mc
31 October 2006
drive
In an attempt to touch base with something familiar and mentally regroup, I took the day off from work and made the two hour trip to Hometown.
I spent two hours with Mom and struggled to inform her of my current mental issues. While the words "suicidal thoughts" were never uttered, she clearly grasped the gravity of the situation. She tried to convince me to seek professional help; I told her I would think about it.
I then spent some time with Sister. She's in the waning weeks of her pregnancy and, considering the circumstances, doing well. I don't know if our relationship will ever fully mend.
My body boiling with anxiety I drove to Dad's but he wasn't home -- which was probably a good thing. By that point I was ready to crawl out of my skin, and being around Dad when I'm out of sorts is always a difficult -- and frustrating -- experience. I could have killed some time and waited for his arrival but I had had enough. Sorry, Dad.
I don't like visiting Hometown. Wonderful memories were made there, and I love Mom, Dad, Sister and Step-dad, but frequenting that city fills me with anxiety and sadness.
Living two hours away is a manageable and safe distance. I can keep the demons from the past at bay and I'm able to remove myself from the drama, the conflict, the heartache.
This "thing" is whittling me down to a mess of exposed nerves and whitewashed emotions. I feel like I'm screaming for help yet no one is paying attention. Or maybe they're just disinterested. Or maybe people are knocking but I refuse to answer the door. Or maybe I'm so cliche and full of shit that this is what people expect. All the lines have been rehearsed, the stage directions choreographed, and I'm just a cardboard cutout of an actor, shuffling along with a script of dust and bullshit in my hand.
"And tonight, playing the role of 'The Selfish Self-loathing Asshole'..."
mc
I spent two hours with Mom and struggled to inform her of my current mental issues. While the words "suicidal thoughts" were never uttered, she clearly grasped the gravity of the situation. She tried to convince me to seek professional help; I told her I would think about it.
I then spent some time with Sister. She's in the waning weeks of her pregnancy and, considering the circumstances, doing well. I don't know if our relationship will ever fully mend.
My body boiling with anxiety I drove to Dad's but he wasn't home -- which was probably a good thing. By that point I was ready to crawl out of my skin, and being around Dad when I'm out of sorts is always a difficult -- and frustrating -- experience. I could have killed some time and waited for his arrival but I had had enough. Sorry, Dad.
I don't like visiting Hometown. Wonderful memories were made there, and I love Mom, Dad, Sister and Step-dad, but frequenting that city fills me with anxiety and sadness.
Living two hours away is a manageable and safe distance. I can keep the demons from the past at bay and I'm able to remove myself from the drama, the conflict, the heartache.
This "thing" is whittling me down to a mess of exposed nerves and whitewashed emotions. I feel like I'm screaming for help yet no one is paying attention. Or maybe they're just disinterested. Or maybe people are knocking but I refuse to answer the door. Or maybe I'm so cliche and full of shit that this is what people expect. All the lines have been rehearsed, the stage directions choreographed, and I'm just a cardboard cutout of an actor, shuffling along with a script of dust and bullshit in my hand.
"And tonight, playing the role of 'The Selfish Self-loathing Asshole'..."
mc
26 October 2006
24 October 2006
disappear
Saturday night was bad. I should get help. Just give up. Admit myself to that palace of white walls and locked doors. Eat medications supplied by "qualified professionals." Talk about my feelings.
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."
Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.
The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.
Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.
I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.
mc
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."
Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.
The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.
Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.
I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.
mc
11 October 2006
...
Whenever I see the Verne Troyer GEICO Auto Insurance advertisement, I feel really sad.
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?
Ugh.
mc
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?
Ugh.
mc
01 October 2006
relevant
"You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."
-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"
A very apropos lyric for this dark night...
mc
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."
-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"
A very apropos lyric for this dark night...
mc
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