Day: 3

No headache this morning. Good sleep. Sensation on skull crown still present, more of a sense of cool pressure, skin drawn tight. A certain numbness or as if a weight were resting on my head. The feeling is not painful nor intense, but noticeable as something there now, there for three days, that was not there before.

Of emerging concern: For the third day in a row I have had no desire to write fiction or poetry. For the past four years, that desire has always been there, even on days I did not write, the desire to write was there, the openness to write always present. I noticed it yesterday and then again this morning. I don't know what to make of this other than this attitude is different. There is a contrast in my mornings, or at least the last three mornings, with the last three years. Mornings have always been my most creative time.

On the emotional front, the keel remains quite steady. The impulse toward reaction, and I can't quite find the right word, other than to say it is blunted. The same surge of emotion to certain stimuli is somehow muted. This makes me a more pleasant person to be around but the initial feeling is like a person who could walk now confined to a wheelchair.

As the meds/attitude/placebo or whatever is at work, basically a high pressure cell holding depression at bay, the oddest thought occurred to be last night. In discussing depression and medicine, my doctor had made the statement that a lot of depressives like to write about it after they had come through it, but not while in it. It is the only thing he said that made no sense to me because my own experience is different. If you have followed this blog that last year or more, you will see quite a bit of writing 'about it.' In fact, I believe one can only write about it authentically, while in it, which is why I always tried to capture the experience from within the experience. To try to capture it from memory, even your own memory is still a "re-creation." And no matter how intimate we are with something, the replay is never the same thing as the live performance and the retelling is something other than the act that is told. Well, anyway, as I was sitting in my car, feeling perfectly normal, I tried to recall or describe the darkness and I could sense that my ability to fully describe it was somewhat less than I knew I could when I was in it. And there was a part of me that felt some sadness as if a part of me was gone, was leaving, departing. It may have been necessary, it may have been lifesaving. Still, a certain sadness, like a selfing, a cleaving of personality before and personality after and the two seem as brothers rather than as a single entity. And in that way, I miss my brother.

The above comment regarding authenticity seems a bit harsh. So I'll revise it this way, the writing about depression while depressed and the writing about it after the fact, no matter how small the degree of separation, perhaps even so small as to be unnoticeable, is still a matter of two different things, each, perhaps worthy in their own right for what they are, but not to be mistaken as one and the same.

On perhaps an unrelated or coincidental note, my teeth have been painfully sensitive. This has happened before but of note here is my reaction. It just doesn't bother me as before.

++++++

Not an idea in my head
plate glass blank
only the reflection
of memory
of a drifting away
of eyes that no longer look
like my eyes

++++++

Early afternoon:

I cannot shake a very subtle drugged out feeling. Felt drowsy most of yesterday which I attributed to a poor night's sleep. Slept well last night yet still, now, feel like a nap. Not the kind of nap when tired as much as when taking meds.

Metaphorically speaking, the first cool breeze has come across the plain. The first in three days. As before, I cannot put my finger on it.