On Going Down

I’m so fried that I can really only do busy-work. I did data entry for hours tonight. It’s alright; I had to catch up on that anyway. Today I worked long hours again, because if I do that, I forget everything else sometimes.

I put the radio on in the background. It was hard to find something I really wanted to listen too. Nothing seemed right, which I guess is a pretty good metaphor. But when I did fall onto beautiful songs (which for me usually is related to the lyrics, because I don’t have a great sense of music), they almost moved me to tears.

Every time I stop taking meds that have worked well for a long time, it is sort of interesting (beyond the “look at the car accident” kind of interesting) to have the real me resurface. It’s horrible, no doubt, but also sort of familiar. Hello, there, you! You’ve been gone a long time. Nice to know you are still alive somewhere.

While I certainly cannot fathom actually writing something worthwhile, being effective, doing something useful, when I am like this, in some ways it feels right to be back there. It channels a certain kind of energy, one that is usually surpressed with drugs. These drugs undoubtedly make me a better person, relieve suffering, allow me a normal life. I would probably be dead without them. That said, I wonder how long you can cheat the universe. Letting the real me stumble back out from time to time feels like letting things return to their natural order. It feels wrong, but also right. The drugs pound back reality, alter it. It’s nice to know that they don’t really change it, that without them, everything is as it was.

The monster is back, the freak. It’s funny how for so long I became normal, and then I don’t even miss her. But now, at the beginning of sliding back, before the horror becomes overwhelming, there are a few brief moments where I remember the freaks, the twisted, the broken. I remember their odd beauty, which, when I am well-medicated and happy and normal, is either too odd for me to recognize the beautiful part, or too frightening to look upon closely. I forget that I am one of the grotesque. I work hard to do so, and with long term drugs, it becomes more natural. But I’m not sorry when I am reminded of what I am, even if life is easier when I am not that.

It’s funny that as all the color, even if it is dark, comes back into the world, I get hungrier for sex as well as for tears. Tonight I want to really cry, to read some really amazing poetry, but I also wouldn’t mind really fucking. Which I also haven’t done in about a million years.

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2 Comments

  1. Good one!


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