Seroquel, epilim, cymbalta, lithium. The holy quadruplicate (if we don’t count the copaxone…)
At least I’ve received my pocket knife back, it’s been at least four years.
The worst part about having a chronic illness is that the cycle of adjustment to your “new” life. One day, I can run 3 miles and the next I can’t bend my fingers. I can’t get past grieving the life that I have every few days if I still experience it.
Not my rock; but I had a share and I think I’m starting recognize the general adoration for cocaine. It doesn’t matter now I suppose, long up the holders nostrils and in an effort to bat away the beast of addiction there won’t be any in our circle for a very long time (not to mention every other source is terrible).
Still on the never ending search to find something to replace the MXE in my muscles.
On the other hand, amazing gift from an amazing person and now I’m half motivated to re-attempt my hand at getting crafty. I’d like to fill the bottles with minuscule precious stones or something along the like, but I also need to track down somewhere to purchase either black cord or silver chain… I’m unhappy and feel like pissing away the rest of my meager monetary rations for the week as you do, so maybe to the arty parts of the city I go come the morrow.
I really need to delete my facebook, I guess. When I’m feeling manic and pop on just to be barraged by blatant racism, sexism and ignorance I want to bash mine (read: others’) heads in because how the hell could you still be so when you literally have the worlds largest wealth of knowledge at your damn fingertips? I usually don’t say anything because my loosening grip on coherency is amplified under the pressure of a real-time exchange.
But I won’t. I hoard in real life and I hoard online too; there is a goldmine of memories hidden in my conversational tabs and with how my hippocampus is going I can’t really afford to lose it. Or should I say, I don’t really want to. Need to find another time sink than passively observing such a promising study group.
During my last session, my psychologist inquired as to whether there was anyone else in my family with any sort of mood disorder, and I answered to the negative. Today I find my 29 year old sister pulled a knife on her (now ex) boyfriend, much like she did on her ex fiance during a heated argument.
Last time, her fiance called the police and she was admitted to a ward for two days - this time, her boyfriend contacted our eldest sister and asked for help (which among other things like a display of extreme trust); an act of kindness towards my kin. If he had brought the police into the matter, she would’ve had a record/another stint in a mental facility/possible probation if not straight jail time.
Maybe that would have been worth mentioning. Oh, not to mention another sister thinks it’d be best I stay with her for the time being until she sorts out her living situation and to be perfectly frank with you I’d be fearing for my life every moment in that household. We don’t have the best history.
Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.
Ain’t that a thing where you dream of drugs long finished (and much missed).
I have absolutely been wanting to sit down and write my little heart out, but the fear always seems to set in before I can extort a word or two. I’ll see if this one makes it past the printing presses. It probably hasn’t even been that long since I last wrote in; however way it feels like an eternity to me. I’ve run out of MXE and very low on benzos, I haven’t been so close to total chemical deprivation for such a long time that it’s definitely left me slightly panicked and one minded. Coping mechanism, or something.
I saw my psychologist again recently, and he knows I haven’t improved one bit in the months that have passed. Despite this, he always ends the sessions telling me that I’m stable - and I guess I am stable and dependable in my mania and delusions and constant depression, but I’m not entirely sure it should be a focal point of praise - I’ll probably be thrown the rhetoric that “things could be worse”, but in a time where just about any situation one finds themselves in ‘could be worse’ it’s not much to be thankful for (nor does it help soothe any wounds).
I don’t know. He had an odd stature and expression when I came clean (ha) about some things that have been happening to me recently and I think if I continue to indulge like I probably should be doing about what’s been happening to me both inside and out I may be sent away. I guess I’ll find out in good time.
sext: i cover my body in unfinished math problems and you seductively work your way up, they are very complicated, it takes hours
This is the plot of
one of my favourite stories
, in fact.
It’s been a while since I’ve read one of Comeau’s shorts and I am only poorer for it.
My sister turned 22 today.
And when I say that failure and I are intimate, I wear this as a positive defining quality.
Failure is the conception of plan b, plan c and plan d;
it’s the agent that transmutes your skin into armor,
and your fear into a conquerable thing
Failure is not “no.” but “no,"
It’s the softer no suffixed with the comma that forces you to look for other possibilities—possibilities found within the doors less traversed.