Day: 42-43

A heartfelt thanks to all that have followed and encouraged me these last six weeks. I've read every comment and been grateful beyond words. Wishing you all Happy Holidays!



day forty-two:

perfectly normal--equanimity in adversity


day forty-three:

am: a sense of calm, of equanimity again--feels good to feel good or simply to feel within a healthy range of emotion, to be undisturbed, within reason, of adversity or conflict or uncertainty

on good days, like today, there is work to be done too--memory is a fickle companion, so on good days, days of sun, the work is to bask, to store the memory as one would store grain, to know we will need the granary in time--the work is also of separation too--to stand outside the calm, however thankful and filled with gratitude, but to stand outside of it, to enjoy it like a passing river from the bank

Day: 41

am: morning perfectly normal, which only serves to highlight the last couple days--to know what is a disease of the brain and what of the mind becomes difficult and, to some extent, there seems to be some connection between the two as if one feeds the other--on good days, like today, I must remind myself that the real work is on the bad days and to remind myself that despair will work against any and all effort--that in these moments of darkness I must create that separation that allows me to stand outside of disease, to know there is a part of me the disease cannot touch--or so this is what I tell myself--on good days--to remember on bad days--because, on bad days, I won't believe it

Day: 36-40

day thirty-six:

single best day so far--creative writing feels fully returned--mood consistent, strong and good all day long


day thirty-seven:

upon the waking there is nothing other than a sense of complete normalcy--no sense of being drugged--mood steady, neither high nor low


day thirty-eight:

nothing of significance to report--meds feel transparent--orgasm remains possible although more effort is still required--levels of irritability expanding--emotional response still exhibits a degree of blunting--financial/employment pressures clearly felt and growing--like a low pressure system hovering--preoccupation dampens desire to read but not the need to piddle around accomplishing nothing--escapism sought in mindless games and sexual fantasy--appetite appears to have returned to normal premed status--still leave my iPod at home whereas before I never went anywhere without it, not even a trip of two miles


day thirty-nine:

after two days of slightly elevated mood, two days of slightly depressed mood (38-39)--nothing external to explain movement of mood, which again, seems to operate on its own--today is slightly more intense than yesterday--the only metaphor that is working is battle/war, which is to say, I must see the mood as other, as something I can achieve separation from, that there is an it and there is a me and if I think in terms of battle, that I am at war, then by definition, there are two--and if I can establish that there are two, the mood and me, then I can take up arms as me and as against the mood, I can create that separation that is absolutely necessary--if I am unable to create this separation and the mood is viewed as all encompassing, that I am the mood and the mood is me, that there is nothing other, then this is a very not good thing, a very slippery slope to despair, a place I would wish upon no one--to continue my battle metaphor, whereas a few days before there was the shield and the unseen archers, today, ground troops have stormed the castle and hand to hand combat engaged, sword to sword, shield to shield, a cacophony of metal and wood, of flesh and blood and bone, of cries and grunts, gasps and gritting, of sights forever stained on the map of memory


day forty:

levels of irritability have returned to premed levels (39-40)--sadness returning--rolls in like a fog--or perhaps one wakes to the fog, which has come of its own accord, some secret alchemy of the psyche, some dormant demon biding its time, finding a way around or under or through the wall of meds--how does one go from the elevated mood of 36 to the depressed mood of 40--mood remains a mystery beyond my powers of reason

depression comes in two varieties--one from the brain and one from the mind--sometimes the line becomes blurry when one is fighting a two front war--the meds help directly on one front and indirectly on the other

this sadness is of a different nature than before--there is a seriousness now, as if the sadness has matured, grown deeper roots, stands more patient, content to work like wind and water against cliff and rock--life seems as something that was, not something that is or will be--diaphanous dreams--like fiction

the sense is one of fading--I don't know how else to explain it--as if one were nothing but memory, a collection of stories that in time grow less clear, dim, forgotten in the whirl of clock, those unsilent sentinels watching with tick and tock, eyes in every room

mood continues to fluctuate--image of sheets on a laundry line, at the mercy of the breeze--to observe these changes is nothing short of bizarre--these are not major shifts--the range is much more narrow--there are no highs--there is normal and there is low--unipolar one could say and between normal and low stands not five minutes, either way

last month I was reading whole books--now, it seems all I manage is a page or part of a page and even to open a book I have to make the agreement that I will read at least a paragraph--my mind is moving again--I have my creativity back--but something else has also returned

the mind seeks a singular object of focus and then locks in on this object with absolute concentration, a blurb of an idea, like the moment a baseball makes contact with a bat, and this blurb is played over and over again--I suspect some vestigial instinctual survival mechanism is at play, but I'll be damn if I know, other than it happens and it has happened for a very long time--and in this space of singular focus and concentration, nothing can penetrate--and so in this way, in this mentally numbing way, the way a single strong signal can override every other signal, there is a sense of preservation or safety, however illogical, however false, the sense of protection is there--these moments occur in bed--morning and night--before sleep and before waking--during the day, my mind just runs and runs and runs

705: neither nor either

from Em's journal:

When we are together, time slows down while simultaneously speeding up. An afternoon seems both but a moment and forever, being neither nor either. It is as if, when we are together, we step into another dimension of time, a place where time is different or perhaps a place outside of time, a place of no time, for it seems as if time is not moving at all, as if when we are together, we step into a timeless room and only when exiting do we then know of time again, of how much has passed and even if the passing has been a whole day, for the life of me it seems mere minutes. Is this Love or Madness?

704. unspoken

To hold him in his state, a temporary fullness of fruitful ripeness, warm as evening sun, was to hold something like a dream. Not that the holding was not real or imaginary or fanciful as much as what was held conferred some edge of the tongue significance, the kind that is noticed across the table by a smile, or a look in the eye but is never discussed over bread, maybe wine, but never bread; and then, even then, no matter the head nodding and stories bartered, there remains an uneasiness, as if what one held in heart, mind and memory was air so rarified that to think another, another so close could know, seemed not possible. Or so one wanted to believe, or protect, the rarity, for if it was not rare, but instead common, so common that another would know, could know in just a few words, well, then as dew taken by a rising sun, so too this sumptuous thumping, of a chest expanding and perception changed such that no trifle could trifle. And so some things remained unspoken.

703. red ink

In the mornings, after coffee, they would clean the table, which sat before morning sun, beams slatting though the pane. The table was of wood, old with the scars of time, of others who have lived here, who had breathed this air, seen these woods and, perhaps too, sat across from each other in the mornings, content in silent company. Upon this table she would lay parchment and he would gather his pens, some of blue ink, some black, but his favorite was red and with red ink he would write. He preferred red he said because words were living things and ink, he felt, was as blood to this life, to their ability to stir the imagination, to inspire, to make, he once said, one fall in love with life, all of life and death too.

Upon the table, cleaned of breakfast, if breakfast had been eaten, and often, it was not--just coffee. But upon this table of wood, as if the beams held history or story within their beams and to sit before them, to rest arm and hand as upon a pier, there would be an opening, a gateway to a thought. And that thought, like a seed, would be all that was needed. Just that. Just a little push to get the blood flowing. She watched all this with the patience of a spider, watching the furrow on his brow, the movement of hand, the painterly way his fingers held quill, and quill she thought was appropriate for what she saw was as flight, of hand or imagination or both, there seemed to be what she could only describe as a concert in how he wrote and he seemed as absorbed as a conductor, aware of his audience only before and only after but so consumed in the writing as to be other, someplace she could only imagine, someplace where magic happened, someplace she knew, not from words, not even his pen.

She knew this magic, this place from mood and gait and smile and ease and hug and kiss and the gentle way he looked upon her as one looks upon the only object of desire, and he felt childlike, as she did, in this looking, as if the weight and gravity of age were suspended, as if they had entered a room off to the side, as if in this room they were stealing kisses to the sound of distant voices and the picking up of plates and the sound of silverware finishing dessert. In this place, she felt his soft lips part and the tenderness of that touch, that moment, of his warm and subtle wetness of life, as his tongue traced the outline of her lip and their breath felt warm in the confined space, but above all, she felt his touch not in flesh, but in the choice, the presence, not in the holding but of the holding and it felt alive, she felt alive as she did not when he was not there, not holding her, not looking upon her and this life felt as if a light was shining, the way one feels a warm light in winter, the amber glow of casement from a distant cottage as snow falls upon the sleigh and horses bray and neigh and the feeling of movement by horse feels of life, unlike movement by mechanicals. Watching him felt like that. Warm as wool. As wool dusted with snow. As hands held under blanket, in the back of a sleigh.

702. clothes

Her clothes were on the floor, on top of his. Thrown, not folded. Thrown in the way one remembers not the throwing, thrown in the way a tree throws autumn leaves to the wind, abandoned one could say, tossed with haste, without care, a testament, or perhaps evidence. His shirt fell first, empty sleeves now at the bottom of the scrum. Then pants still belted, heavy denim, male heft, the smell of him as wood and sweat, of a certain sweet musk neither dirty nor clean, neither child nor parent, not even of earth or sky. He smelled this way. Not so much intoxicating as otherworldly, but not so much as otherworldly as someplace secret, like a hidden cave or an undiscovered lake upon the mountain, of air not breathed before, of skin warm and supple, slightly sweaty, a mixture of salt to the tongue and of eyes drinking, thirsty as if sight itself in the dim light could quench a parch not known of lip or finger, neck or thigh, breast or nipple.

And then, as if children dancing as they saw their parents dance, her blouse sat upon his denim, not with force, or command but not demur either. More like a feather, or a bird, or a balloon come to rest, softly and the hint of lavender was as warm air, buffeting what was not masculine or rough or hewn but the opposite of those things, of what moved not as water but more like milk and not so much like milk as like cream, a certain languor, purposeful, mindful, but not with agenda, not with device or artifice or manipulation, not even subtle manipulation, or even subconscious machination for the falling was as light upon the floor. A warmth like that. Quiet like that. Natural as that light from the window. The light of a blue sky, of a day where flowers hue and breezes run like recess.

This was before and the night was still and silent. The sheets warm of body. His breathing steady in peaceful sleep. The clothes, too, looked peaceful in the moonlight, looked in their tangle as canvas discarded and she thought of painting, of the painting that happens before the canvas, implied with brush and stroke, but still she wondered, what is a painting, what would it look like without the canvas. Can it be seen, this canvasless painting. Can it be known, to stand before the medium of cloth and to know what is seen is but a mirage, a mirror, only a finger, pointing to something else, as if the painter were mute, the artist speaking with sweet oil a language not of sight or touch or any sense. It was like that, this sitting, in the quiet, looking upon their clothes.

Day: 35

reader alert: I opened the barn door to one metaphor and got stampeded


under circumstantial assault, unrelenting waves of negativity, doom and gloom, sky is falling, I am able to think clearly, rationally, not completely inured, but calloused, or numbed/calibrated to the emotional vicissitudes, not immune or unassailable, but bearable--like a cold winter day with a good coat--still cold but survivable--still, effect is cumulative--damage unseen--body blows to the psyche cannot be dismissed or underestimated

as weeds multiply faster than I can pluck them, as the task seems impossible, that the corner ahead appears as far away as it did an hour ago and the driving endless--these are the days where the meds can only do so much--and one must focus not upon the day or even the hour, but focus on the next step, just that step--still thoughts come like arrows beyond the horizon, origin unknown, turning blue sky dark--but I have a shield--I can lift it--protect myself--I can do this till gravity drains the sky blue again--and I can stand with my arrowed shield--and take breath--fill my lungs--let the sun warm my face--and know, if necessary, I can do it all again, and again and again--not forever, only again--to raise shield against raised bow until the archer tires--I have the endurance of a marathon runner--this is what I tell myself

the imagery here in neither affected nor insignificant--I think in images--I process in images--thought arises in my mind as images before emotional translation--premed, the image was of sword to shield (KKB series)--post-med, of arrow to shield--there is some measure of comfort in the progression--on several levels

I preside over the kingdom of my mind--thoughts present themselves as strangers bearing gifts--I can accept some, reject others--stewardship--ownership--this task cannot be delegated--cannot be taken lightly or haphazardly--nothing less than the kingdom is at stake

each victory, no matter how small, is consequential, each a brick in the fortification--we build on good days and not so good days--ever observant--ever vigilant--there is no other architect--no other paymaster--no other dreamer--this is it--this work--now--this moment, as every moment is this moment--so we lift another brick, apply mortar, watch the plumb line--one brick at a time--in this way we move forward--and rebuild our life

__________

today was the first day tears returned to my eyes--the emotion was genuine and I could have cried tears of joy for having the ability to cry returned to me--as my active/imaginative mind returns (good/bad) I have noticed that my reading has slowed down to pre-med levels and I am jumping around between books again, as I did premed--I believe this behavior is directly related to thought production--in the med induced state, where thought was blank, I read and read and read (I'm almost finished with 2666, which is 900 pages)--as my active mind returns, I find that again, as before, as soon as I start reading, my mind goes into hyperdrive and the ideas from the text branch into dozens of ideas, so rich in ideas I feel the need to stop, as if eating decadent chocolate and one bite is all that one can take--rich like that--I am also finding my mind is moving again as it did before, which is to say thought is flowing freely--and this is both a blessing and a curse--or I should say, this is where the work lies--in working with my brain as it is wired, using it as a tool rather than letting it use me--for the record, although thought is returning to premed levels of activity, there remains a certain emotional blunting, less than before, but still present--this blunting, as evidenced by the tears today, is and has been slowly receding--again, I am thankful and fearful

also with regard to reading, plot again is slipping to an unimportant device and again the fear of finishing a book, of ending it, is returning--premed, I felt as if books 'being' read were alive in a way that books having been read were not--and I preferred to have my books living--to have them waiting for me--still holding some treasure of pages unseen--in the med induced state, the desire was simply to read for story, for plot, to read fast and to finish--to know the book, to summarize it for value, then move on to the next book--likewise, I have again started taking an active interest in vocabulary, stopping to look up words, whereas in the med induced state I plowed past them, not caring if I learned them or not--like speed bumps to move over as quickly as possible

one thing I have only lightly touched upon, namely because it has not been a factor, is energy levels--they have remained remarkably consistent throughout the entire process and I have noticed no change between now and then--I do feel better, mentally, and this leads to more activity, a greater sense of drive, to do things, but the foundational level or levels of energy, as far as I can tell, have not been altered in any significant way outside of initial symptoms of drowsiness, which have sense faded away

poetry remains elusive and music, although making some progress, is still not to premed levels of enjoyment, which I suspect is tied directly to the emotional blunting--as in the last week or so, there is no sense of being drugged or on meds and in an odd, perhaps ironic way, considering my initial views on meds, I almost feel naked, or left to fend for myself, as I cannot overtly tell that the meds are active--I know they are from what I have documented, but without this documentation, I would begin to fear that their efficacy was fading, fading as surely as the side-effects have faded--funny how the mind works--or perhaps just how mine works--sometimes I wish I thought less, questioned less, looked less and just lived

Day: 34

my thoughts below are just that, my thoughts and observations, and as such, as all thoughts and observations, represent only a part of the whole and when dealing in parts, one can be mislead as to think the part is the whole or even that the part is the majority--I write what I write without filter, without edit, in order to document--some of what I document is insignificant, but it is impossible to tell in the moment without the benefit of time to judge what is important and what is simply a passing mood state, normal as sunshine--what is written below is my thinking out loud, of trying to capture, as it happens, various mental states that may or may not be related to the meds--but all the same, for the sake of completeness, to the best of my ability, to capture, to document, to amass all data without critical or editorial influence--having said that, as of this morning, I feel as I have the last few days, which is to say perfectly normal with an expanding emotional range, which is both pleasing (a return to my old self) and a concern (a return to my old self)


odd and interesting start--I don't know how to describe what is occurring--there are very discrete, and short-lived, moments, these moments appear as an image in my mind and a hollowness in my chest, which I can only describe as staring into the abyss, of being on the edge of darkness as on the edge of a cliff, at night, wind blowing, everything shades of blue and there is a very real sense of being one step away, one step from the ravine, and there is swirling and my hair is longer than before, like a flag in the wind, pulled forward and I am wearing a greatcoat and it too is flapping in the wind, toward the edge, toward the bottomless ravine--these moments, and they are just moments, perhaps less than a second maybe a little longer, are as clear as memory of yesterday--when these moments occur, when the images appear in my mind, there is nothing else and the feeling is the same as when caught timeless within a movie, completely suspended from time as we know it, absorbed completely, in every literal sense--these moments are more lucid than a dream state, even more alive than just a memory although I am not sure exactly what that means other than to say, these moments, these images, experiences, are beyond the clarity of normal thought, as if something more than just thought

the second odd occurrence, and I wonder if this is not somehow related to the above, there seems to be some overlap--and the feeling is as a car that is starting and stopping--running perfectly fine one moment and then coughing and hiccuping the next, or simply dying, the engine cutting off unexpectedly, just dead, and there is an eerie quiet in the stillness, as when coasting or gliding--what I am referring to here, again, are very discrete moments, but so unlike anything I've ever, at anytime, experienced, as to be notable and noticed, to have turned down a street I've never been down before--I'm beating around the bush, no pun intended--the fact of the matter is, for the first time ever, a sexual thought occurs without any corresponding physical reaction and the only way I can describe it is the way music over the first thirty days simply fell flat, no emotional response whatsoever, rendered, it seemed, as if I was completely tone deaf--and in this way, these very discrete, very short-lived moments exist and I note them only by contrast, by contrast of all my life--and to note this change, or this event, events, after coming off the last thirty days, is frightening--not panic inducing, but as if hearing a siren, a tornado siren, wailing and one becomes alert, sober, concerned and there is that interminable plaintive wailing and the uncertainty of what is to come, if anything is to come at all, and there is nothing but the waiting and watching and listening as the wind picks up and the skies darken and trees moan, scratching against the house

the third event of note: sensation on the crown of my head--last night, waking as I did with restless dogs, slipping back into sleep, the sensation was more acute than at anytime since the very first night and the sensation felt more elongated than circular, more like a knife edge than dull pressure, more like fire than ice, as if the top of my head were about to erupt, as if lava flowed under my scalp--the sensation remains today, more acute than before, less benign or so it seems--a constant companion

Day: 31-33

day thirty-one:

building upon the last two days, a sense of complete normalcy--imaginative creative thought feels as before--sexual function too, as before--only the slightest suppression of appetite--only the sensation on the crown of head remains the same--emotional range is slowly expanding--feels healthy, as if calibrated correctly--levels of irritability feel correct, which is to say neither blunted with drugs nor out of control as before


day thirty-two:

again, feeling perfectly normal--emotion appears to be operating within a healthy range, albeit somewhat limited than before but greater than recent weeks


day thirty-three:

as I regain more and more of my former sensibilities the real work begins, of working on my own mental processes, working on the awareness of emotion, of that charge of energy as it arises, learning again to see it as biological, as other, as a force/tool to be understood and if not understood, to be treated as one treats a wild animal, with respect, of appreciating the beauty without getting too close, arms length from danger--learning again to weed weeds, to see weeds as weeds, to have the courage and wisdom to pluck them from my daily life knowing that the plucking today is just the plucking today, that tomorrow, and the day after and the day after that there will be more plucking and that in fact, for the rest of my life, there will be plucking--but there will also be watering and planting and the beauty of flowers seen and felt and smelled and the peaceful quiet of sitting in a garden tilled, of remembering the feel of soil on the hands, under the nails, of that wonderful dark dampness of fresh turned mulch, of placing a seed into the ground, covering it, watering it--there will be days like that too--but not without effort--the pail must be taken to the river, filled, carried back to the garden, again and again--and one must know that this is life, that these moments, these steps, each step, each drop of sweat is life--that there are not two lives we have--that there is not another life waiting to be lived only when, only if--that this is it--that the ordinary is everything--that even in a sip of fresh coffee everything is contained, nothing is lacking