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