Still alive, beyond comfort of man or spirit

Thank you to everyone who left me comments or emails or anything. All much appreciated. Sorry I haven’t written back.

I am, indeed, still alive. In fact, the longer days are making some things easier. But I don’t feel better, am not getting better, am just biding time, this version of bardo, laced with apathy and terror. I started Wellbutrin intermittently again. The shrink has pretty much given up on me – tells me to just prescribe for myself and take whatever I want, because that’s what I’m going to do anyway. Not true, but it is very difficult to argue with a shrink.

Except when it isn’t, like the last time I was there, and ended up yelling at him for an hour straight. I feel bad, couldn’t have been very pleasant, but still, throwing psychodynamic interpretation shit at someone in my condition…well, seems like that’s asking for yelling. “Why are you so angry?”

Well, I guess I’m still angry about the borderline comment.

I wish my shrink weren’t so complicit with my self-punishment.

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I woke up after a weekend of physical pain; unfortunately my GP is out until next week. I called the shrink  but then hung up on the answering machine.

Maybe, since I obviously am not going to work today, I should try writing something. I’ve thought of what I need to write, but haven’t been able to care enough, to drag up the energy, to do it. Which, in and of itself, is probably loaded with unconscious meaning that I also can’t quite seem to bring myself to care about.

* * *
Also, I have about 6 more weeks before finishing a certain stage in my training, after which I will have vacation. I have decided to try my hardest to avoid suicide until after that point, so that they can’t say that it was the pressure of the job or that I couldn’t take it or anything like that. Because, God knows, it isn’t that. It is me, all me.

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Thanks for continuing to read

When a poster on a blog like this stops posting, usually one of two things has happened: either they’ve hit a significant remission and have somewhat lost interest in all things mental-health-related, or they have taken ill in a way that keeps them from writing, usually either a severe depression, hospitalization, apathy, or the black hole, in which there is nothing to say. And, I guess, sometimes they die.

Usually they come back to writing sooner or later, good for the second group, not so good for the first. As far as I know, there are no reports from anyone from the third group hasn’t returning to blogging.

I, unfortunately, belong to the second group, have had a tremendous crash-and-burn. I’m not sure why I’m writing now, and I apologize for the quality; it is written through a haze of legal psychiatric drugs that makes it difficult to stay conscious, let alone coherent or eloquent.

I just wanted to say that the other night, I went outside in a miserable state, where there was no peace to be found – not in drugs, not in music or poetry or adventure novels, not in trashy magazines, and not in sleep, which, anymore, is haunted by nightmares. I sat under the stars and smoked a cigarette. The moon was half full; soon, it will be full, and then, after that, the next time it will be full, it will be Passover.

And I thought: I really would have liked to see another Passover, that holiday I love so much, when I really do feel the holiness in the air, the meanings, the social and the mystical. The elision of time, when it is that same night as it was so long ago, in which we start out bound and by the end, hopefully, will be freed. And the merging of the physical and spiritual – the tastes of the bitter and the sweet.

I always loved Passover, the one time when my skepticism and atheism faded into a sentimental belief in magic. I would have liked to see this one. One more. One more full Nisan moon, one more race to bed before midnight. One more hope for Eliyahu to come and save us from this sorry world. To save me, on the wings of the Shechinah.

But I just know that it isn’t going to happen. That I won’t have one more Spring. I think it’s too late now. I’m too far lost, beyond a way back, beyond where I can even want one.

And finally, after all this time of numbness and dead souls, I sobbed. I could imagine something, anything, that I did want to see, would have liked to see, to be there for. Knowing that, I could sob. Not for missing the rest of my life and not for the gruesomeness of death or hopelessness or suffering, but for the simple, plain, yet cosmically significant idea that  I really would have liked to make it to Passover. One more time, I would have liked to feel that. And I most likely won’t.

Just that. I am beyond missing future adventures, past beauty, beloved books and books to come, future love, past love, present people and the spectacular world around me. I’m far beyond mourning any of that. Those things all have lost the hold they once had on me. I don’t love the things that I used to love anymore.

But I would have liked to see the Seder table, one more time, the poetry and ritual of it, the full moon, the sense of blurring of boundaries between present and past, the individual and the symbol, the present reality and the hope for a better day. I would have liked…to just be there this Passover. And oddly enough, when nothing else could, that was enough to make me cry. I was sort of surprised I still could.