The omission that shines so brightly that it begs not to be given voice, but rather painted red with shame, the unsettling omission that lends an aspect of nullity to my existence, the freakish, jaundiced dementia that brooks no respite save in work and sleep, the defining aspect of all I am and will become. It bounds me. I am closed and bounded by a serpentine labyrinth of fear. Without hope, without solace, without love.
And the unsettling lie that birthed it all, the lie that haunts my nights, obfuscates my better motives with a sheen of apathetic hope, the lie that decimated my life with the apocalyptic efficacy of an atom bomb, leaving a shattered mind peopled with cannabilistic phantoms. In sorrow, I cannot escape it. In anger, I cannot forgive it. In the endless nights, where once the darkness hid more than has been dreamt of by gods or men, I see only the barrenness of my own soul.
|Through the abyssal years of all that has come before, through the shattered mosaics of dreams, the metaphorical green light across the harbor has drawn me forward. With all that is wrong with what has been and what might come to pass, the green light beckons to me still. When I feel freakish and bereft of hope, it coddles me to sleep. When the oppressive starkness of my life weighs too heavily on me, I see it still, out of the corner of my eye, twinkling. It is the eternal carrot, always present, always distant.|
|I feel like I should do something fun today. I just don't know what. Christ, something more fun than sitting here, trying to scrape together a blog entry when I don't have anything to say. What I need are nine high-speed hours of productivity. I've got too much stuff to do today and not enough time to do it. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit amphetamines . . .|
|After midnight. Five hours of sleep yesterday. I'm loaded to the gills on anxiety medicine, did it to sleep earlier today. Now I haven't had a dose in 11 hours and probably won't be able to sleep tonight without more even though I'm barely half-awake. Christ, after working unti 4:45am yesterday, today was practically a zero day. If I just could have slept 8 hours without drugging myself into oblivion. I don't have the first fucking clue what I'm going to do until 4am, but I promised myself I'd stay awake that long before I resorted to pills to sleep.|
|The sun'll be up in two and a half hours and, finally, I'm done for the night. Now the problem is sleep. I'm all coffeed up and that fat old sun's going to be coming up and I'll just plain be hosed -- up until noon at least. Today's going to be a damned waste. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling or staring blankly at the television. It doesn't matter. Where's a rack of reds when you need one?|
I've got a "syntax error" in one of my "FROM" clauses that I can't see a way to fix. Meanwhile, I've only been awake for 12 and a half hours won't be sleeping anytime soon. I wrote something earlier today that I thought would make a good blog entry:
When the idle musings of my mind cannot find solace in playful thoughts, when darkness blankets all that I perceive and little can be wrung from it but surety that I will one day die, when the collapsed vein on my cock precludes my escaping into libidinous fantasies, when all that is wrong with life transmogrifies that life into a life in which all is wrong, do I still rise from bed, place one foot in front of the other, and trudge into the unknown future? No, I wallow. I wallow in misery and grief and bankrupt fantasies of what might have been. There is always tomorrow for pursuing the future and, conveniently enough, tomorrow, there will still be tomorrow. I want a shot at redemption. I want a loaded shotgun.
For the record, the collapsed vein is healing. Anyway . . .
|I'm sitting down, getting ready to finish up my end of a school project, feeling pissy that half of what's left is going to have to be written in SQL. I want a photo opportunity. I want a shot at redemption. What I have is this fucking program I have to write. Text parsing and SQL queries. And my mind's about as limber as the Maginot Line. The sun'll come out tomorrow, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar . . . FUCK. All this medicine is making me feel like the kid from Deliverance, with about the same prospects for life. Except I don't play the banjo.|
|This process of growing up, growing old, whatever . . . no, Christ, why would I arrogate myself to thinking I have any thoughts on that which are worthwhile? I just want to comment that the vain dreams of youth . . . well, Chris Farley put it best: "You think you're going to go out there and take the world by the tail, swing it round, and put it in your pocket . . . but then you wind up living in a van down by the river." It's not that bad and some people's dreams do come true. I've just never met any of them. What's my point? There's no light at the end of the tunnel. There's not even a tunnel. There's just me, holding a candle in the dark, a candle whose flame obscures my foresight.|
If you're going to shag a sheep, take it up to the edge of a cliff so that it pushes back better.
I've been trying to kill myself in my sleep. Three times in the last two months, I've woken up gasping for air, strangling myself with the quilt. I remember when I was young enough to think I could figure the world out, I quipped that death is a means of consolidating one's problems, that, when you're dead, you only have the problem of being dead. Things are getting better, whether I want to acknowledge it or not. Instead, I want to take a bottle of pills that will kill me in a rather nasty fashion followed by another bottle of pills that will ensure I'll sleep through it.
My shrink says that my brain is in a state of flux, that it's healing, that the medication can be changed to match the symptoms. That doesn't change the fact that I put the wrong weight oil in my car and have been obsessing ever since about having a breakdown. "I could conceivably have a breakdown." I've always wanted to get, "If you don't expect too much from me, you might not get let down," discreetly tattooed somewhere on my body. Anyway . . .
I remember a time when nothing seemed without meaning, a life a bereft of even the stimulation that a golf tournament provides, but still a time when . . . no, what I wanted to write about was clarity. I remember a time when . . . okay, I'm being silly. Christ, I don't know what to write. I feel like I'm trapped in my own private hell. I had a dream in which I died many years ago and always thought it mildly interesting after the Nightmare on Elmstreet movies. I was wondering about that earlier today because at or about that time, my life turned into a rather dull version of Jacob's Ladder. Nothing I do or say can make any difference in the short term. That's what's killing me. I mean, if I were to threaten the president's life, Secret Service people would track me down but, other than that, nothing I write tonight could possibly make a difference. So, why am I doing this? It's not an outlet. It's not a forum. It's not even a soap crate with an overturned hat beneath it. But still, I've been writing these things for six months now and I feel like Dana Carvey doing his Robin Leech impression: "I don't know why."
People write blogs to bitch about things or to share the details of their day to day experiences but absolutely the most interesting thing that happened to me today is that Windows Media Player randomly generated a playlist while I was gone this afternoon. I started to write a blog entry about that but, Jesus, it would have turned into a bigger wrist-slitter than The Brothers Karomazov. Nihilism in action, people. And don't think it's not dangerous. Nihilists are worse than Nazis. I mean, say what you will about the tenants of National Socialism. At least it is an ethos. Great, I'm plagiarizing. I feel like I'm on the verge of turning into that guy from the movie Network who winds up giving a speech on television every night about how we're not even people anymore, just cogs on wheels, and gets shot for his bad ratings. I seriously do tend to suspect that autism is nature's Final Solution. Unless they do find out it's caused by mercury in breast milk from contaminated fish or something, I can't help but think that the diathesis for autism has survival value. We're social creatures, but we've lost track of the pack mentality of our ancestors. That beautiful, unique snowflake crap? The only time you get the feeling that the group is more important than the individual anymore is if you're participating in a riot or if you're on the right drugs. Christ, I'm starting to sound like I have a point. No more coffee for me . . .
Christ, well, I'm all coffeed up from working on a paper today and you'd really think I had something to say, but I'm drawing a blank. I'm back on the skag (cigarettes). It sucks to have to pollute my system with a pack of cigarettes and eight cups of coffee a day in order to function, but that's how it is. I suppose it beats having to smoke a crack rock the size of a small dog's head to get out of bed in the morning. Speaking of drugs, my shrink offered me an amphetamine to help get me through the next month. I turned him down and have regretted it the past two days. Of course, if I had accepted, by this point, I probably would be going on fifty hours without sleep, ranting about how I have been purified by the fire of the righteous and will emerge to judge the innocent and guilty alike.
I was reading a poem someone sent me earlier today. Part of it was about how God's lost His patience and about how much humans have had to suffer for the original sin. There's an interesting dichotomy in the Bible between the God of Abraham who will turn you over to Lucifer so you can suck cocks in hell for all eternity if you covet your neighbor's wife and the God of Jesus who, though I've read much more of the old testament than the new testament, will take you back and forgive you again and again like he's running some sort of spiritual rehab program and you've got good health insurance.
For some reason that reminds me of the notion of human needs. My brother used to say that all you need is air to breathe, water to drink, and food to eat. Then he had a kid and started caving into the kid's crying and rationalized it by saying that he wanted to teach his child that emotional needs are met. Some joker named Maslow actually bothered to design a "Heirarchy of Needs" with "self-actualization" at the top. It should be noted that not everyone buys into Maslow's Heirarchy of Needs. There are plenty of people who replace it in their minds with the strata of the socio-economic caste system. There's validity to each, I suppose. There's a lot to be said for money, mainly for the freedom it can bring. I tend to suspect that money's rather like marital stability -- those who grow up without it want it more and are less likely to have it. Balzac wrote that poverty is the one form of suffering that doesn't build character. Who gives a shit about Balzac, though, right? I mean just because he observed that it's an intriguing question to ask if a woman can remain faithful and an absurd question to ask if a man can remain faithful . . . I don't have a point. Call it sour grapes.
|I tracked down the person who's been attacking my computer to an address between 1506 and 1511 Bordeaux Place in a neighboring city. That's the best I could narrow it down to. Then I spent about two hours wondering why s/he's been doing it. Three hours down the drain. At least, since I've blocked that IP address, my hard drive doesn't spin while my computer's in suspend mode anymore. I guess it just goes to show that, just because you're paranoid, it don't mean they're not after you.|
|I've woken up before dawn two days in a row now. It's kind of peaceful to have that "only awake person in the world" feeling that you get either late at night or when you wake up at 5am. The sedation's growing faster than I had expected. I've had two cups of coffee and no pills this morning and still I feel vacant. I've got work to do today and tomorrow that I should have started yesterday. I took yesterday off for whatever selfish, lazy reason, and didn't enjoy it. I've been thinking about how my life will probably be a mess for at least another year. Well, it'll still be a mess in a year, but it'll be a palatable mess. Anyway, I should take the pills and get a shower.|
|The sedation started picking up this morning. I spent about an hour lying on the couch, staring off into space. Ten or eleven hours of work yesterday and today I can't muster the effort to do a damned thing. In two or three weeks, I'll be completely useless and will have to lower the pills again. In other words, I have two or three weeks of getting more tired and dumber ahead of me then I get a week of strong anxiety. Why am I writing this in here? Because I've run out of people to bitch about it to.|
|Well, I finished up my end of a project for school yesterday. I'm sure I'll just get assigned something else to do, but it still feels good to be finished. I actually put in more than ten hours of work yesterday. I don't remember the last time I was able to do that. I haven't eaten anything in 18 hours. Kind of weird. I just haven't been hungry. Anyway . . .|
5:52am. It would seem that I no longer have my sleeping schedule problem. Now, if I go to bed early, I wake up early. This is a waste of time. I have work I could be doing, but the sun won't be up for another hour and starting work in the dark is more than a little depressing.
That sums up my mood pretty well right now.
|Well, myshrink said I have to work harder if I want my brain to heal faster. That means getting an internship this summer. He's also talking about putting me back on adderal. Christ, antidepressants make me hallucinate. I'd hate to see what amphetamines do. The rationale is that he now things that, in addition to having Wilson's Disease and an "atypical form of schizophrenia", I now also have an "atypical form of attention deficit disorder". Wilson's Disease mimics schizophrenia and one of the other symptoms is inability to concentrate. Wilson's Disease seems now more than ever to be the most parsimonious answer. Wilson's Disease isn't a psychiatric disorder though and he has no experience treating it. He refuses to even talk about the possiblity that my brain will heal all the way and I can get off the antipsychotic.|
|Nothing like getting up two hours before the sun rises with work to do before 9:30. I got five hours of sleep Friday night, none on Saturday, and maybe eight to ten hours last night. I blacked out a little from exhaustion and don't remember exactly when I went to bed. The whole time, I was chewing anxiety pills like they were breath mints. It'll be days before they wear off. After sleeping 12 hours a day for a week, I guess my body wanted some awake time. Anyway, I should get to work . . .|
I'm trying to tap into that delirious lucidity that sometimes comes along with lack of sleep. I haven't felt awake in over a week now. I need some alcohol and drugs to help get my mind limber. This life . . . well, what's there to say about this life. The incessant mewling of the part of my brain that believes it "knows better" leaves me cold. Christ, for a moment's respite . . .
Life has become a waiting room, drab with outdated magizines that you wouldn't want to read anyway. This purgatorial condo with its unadorned walls. It's hard to believe people build lives in places such as these. I shouldn't complain. Too much strife, too much worry. The foreseeable future promises nothing but more of the same. Life is a vale of tears and the only thing we can count on besides dying is never understanding why. But that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
|Christ, my brain's been dead recently. Today's day 6 on 11mg. If I was going to run into problems, I probably would have already. I'm not even making an effort to be interesting in this thing, not that I'm that sure I could be if I tried. I saw Barack Obama's full speech on race in America on Tuesday. That's about the most interesting thing that's happened to me this week. Granted, it was a good speech, but that's still kind of sorry. Oh, and I haven't had a cigarette since Monday. Life was more interesting when I was crazier. Well, eight more months and the insanity will be gone for good. That's a guess, but it seems like a good one. I'll wake up some in two weeks when the higher dose of medicine finishes working its way out of my system. Then I'll probably have a whole two or three weeks before I have to lower it again.|