I've been thinking of suicide.

Psychotherapist says I'm in the right demographic--youngy(ish), male, mental health problems. He can be a comforting guy.

But it's not serious. It's like a phantasy. To get away from it all. Like hitting the reset button on life.

It's not going to happen. You have to live. You have no choice.

And things aren't really that bad. I'm not in terrible physical pain. My family loves me. I have tallents. People sometimes think I'm smart or caring or interesting, or helpful. Sometimes I'm even considered thoughtful.

Deep down, I'm greatful to be alive. I've seen and done and felt wonderful things. Seen great beauty, tremendous acts of kindness, humor in great abundance.

I've had wondeful moments in life. I've loved my life at different times and I've felt greatly valued--loved even. I know I'm loved right now. I know people would do anything to help me.

I need to articulate and to ask for what I need. But I don't want to talk about that just yet. I want to continue to get out of myself, to continue to express how thankful I am for this world.

To have been given a chance to experience it. To be a part of it. To help create some of the beauty and kindness and genorousity and love. These things are the greatest miracles of the world.

To be a part and to make a difference. To witness others doing the same. To feel the same love, always unique and always the same. To see and to be and to love and to be loved, all the same and part of the same that we share even with the animals.

To be able to give and to take. And more, to give and to take in sharing. To create something more than the sum of the parts. To live.

To live the same life as others and to be unique and to share the samness of being unique.

To overstep and be forgiven. To have the gift of forgiving others.

Feelin' Lonely

Hey,

Just reading Heidegger. It makes me lonely.

I have to admit, I don't get it all. Vast swaths of seeming
incomprehensibility. Yet I'd love to hash it out with someone.

But that's an ancillary point. The loneliness is deeper.

The therapist keeps saying (as do many others) I'm intellectualizing
things. Overly.

Which I'd be fine with, as a diagnosis, if it were that my feelings
were somehow being masked by this over-intellectualism (and I'm not
even that smart--unless what he means by intellectualism is
pretension, then I'm ok with that). But that's not what comes back.
What comes back is possibly useful but ultimately hackneyed. Somewhat
more than advice but less than wisdom.

I dunno. I guess I'm just bitching.

I shouldn't complain. I just got back from visiting my brother and in
many ways I felt less lonely over there. He gets me in a fundamental
way. A fundamental way--there are others, for instance, I couldn't
speak Heidegger with him. I could, but in trying to hash out what it
means he'd only disagree with him based on my attempts to communicate
what he was saying. Although the little Heidegger I brought up he
seemed to agree with. But he gets me. And I guess I miss that.

Still and all, it would be nice to know someone and talk all
intellectual-like with them. About stuff, you know.

Three Shoes

One. There's a theory that some children identify with a neglectful or abusive parent too much. And place their badness on themselves. Bad. Wrong. Evil.

Two. Experience of other relationships: specifically the experience of voicing frustrations with them. Shortcomings. Disapointments. And having some other experience than had growing up.

Three. Choice. Choosing to fully engage a new life and be a new person. Rewriting that identity with pain and wrongness into a new narrative of emotional life. Not letting it determine choices. Choosing otherwise.

Three shoes the therapist had today. And he let them drop. And they're a tight fit.

Shoe one. Growing up wasn't easy, although I must say I admire the rents more than almost anyone else. Maybe more than anyone else. And it isn't that I was abused or neglected. I was neither abused nor neglected. But maybe it was a poor fit and I took it hard.

Still, the experience of shoe one seems to fit.

Shoe two. A positive and a negative example.

I recently let my therapist know I was disapointed with the crisis-aversion modle of therapy we've been following. I hold back my pain from him and it needs addressing. He responded that he wanted to know that part of me, and that there was somethings we can do to keep on issue. maybe it was a combination of our own pathologies that led to this. No anger at me for it.

Shoe three: Choice. This one is the hardest. Giving up and changing my relationship to myself. To this pain and wrongness. Changing it into another way of being. Another way of relating.

It's scarey. It feels like tempting fate. Like something bad around the corner will happen if I do.

But what could be worse than what's already happening.

Confessions of a Drug Addict

On my way to the therapist, five days off Lamictal. Not by my choice, really. just drug problems. Ran out and thought I could just pick some more up with the new insurance. Not so simple.

It seems that the new insurance does drugs by mail order. So I'm waiting on the mail for my drugs.

It's absolute torture.

I feel jumpy almost all of the time. I can barely eat. It's like they're's a giant battery within me. And it gets worse if I drink. That charges the battery up.

So, I stay away from drink.

At times, it's tollerable. Sometimes I even forget. And it makes writing easier. I've caught up on some correspondence.

But it takes tremendous energy. Too much, really. Too much energy into control. Keeping sharp, judging when to try certain things and when things might send me into a tailspin.

I'm a drug addict. And I need these drugs to maintain some sort of sanity.

Jumpy. Bouncy. Nausious. Prone to fits of paranoia. Racing thoughts. Anhedonia. Impatience.

The Abilify helps with the racing thoughts. I decided to try going off that for a couple of days. A sort of drug-free holiday. Not a good idea. The racing thoughts got hard to control. Things are easier with it. I see what it does for me. Things are generally quieter.

But not quiet enough.

Things are saner than previous drug-free holidays. I feel like I've made some decisions and worked within certain perameters to help keep safe.

For instance, while drinking I called the suicide hotline. Not that I was feeling suicidal, but I know that drinking off medication can lead me to such things and I know if my judgement is off while drug-free, then "off" doesn't even begin to cover it when I'm drinking. Drinking makes it an entirely new game.

But I'm more impulsive off medication, which, with some caution, isn't the worst thing, I'm afraid to say. While on meds, the caution gets the upper hand. And it turns into inability. I become ponderous, full of doubt. But drug-free, it's no sooner thought than done. I don't have time to doubt a sentence beginning, I'm already at the end and going back would require more than going forward.

But I know I'm avoiding my problems. Avoiding things I should be doing like checking my ballance. Which I may do now, since I'm on my way to therapy.

Maybe things are ok. Maybe not. Still have to do it and it will be good to get support afterwards.

Still I don't want to do it.

Why must everything get so fucked?

The great moment of hesitation. When I take up the pen, as it were, to say something.

It's an interesting sensation. Kind of like when words seem to fail me. Like I'm afraid of getting too close to something. Letting too much go, letting too much of myself show and there is the danger.

Maybe it has something to do with the things I believe about reading. That reading carefully enough, you can see into the hidden meaning of things--meanings that the writer didn't even know.

This was taught to me in college and is a cornerstone of my former field, literary interpretation.

But there is, as always, something more personal to it. Somehow I feel as if I can pass through a phone or in-person conversation and "pass" as it were--can intuitively put up some kind of smoke-screen.

But that's not quite it.

It's not like I'm some kind of sociopath like that tv show Dexter. But that there's a secret part of me that just isn't that attractive. That might be revealed to me and to others.

In my head, I know this to be somewhat foolish. People like me, and they've seen me at unattractive moments. Seen me do bad things and let them down, yet still, we've managed to come through.

And to bring it back to writing--there's no reason this should be a privileged field, should somehow reveal the dark corners of the soul...

Still, sitting down to write isn't all that much fun.

Wake Up, Be Clark Blaise

I've thought about this far too wrong and long.

There's a chance to be anyone here. Anything at all.

Totally free to be. And far be it from me to put this anyway near the titular character, easy to choose to be wrong.

Here goes: I'm drunk, off medication and grumpy.

Stunning, I know.

I've treated this thing far too long as a journal I've decided to make public.

Maybe that's what I should have started out doing.

But that's what it is.

Getting things done (insert trademark here) is a secondary concern.

If i ever get back to it.

I have this wish that I could talk to someone (specifically, not just anyone) and they could help me make things go my way.

Give me permission.

If only I could buy three hits of Lamictal. End this pain.

But money; legal problems.

No medication. no solace for the wicked.

Pain and power through.

Patience and mania seem difficult.

The hardest thing in the world is to wait when the mind is racing.

Why wait? You don't.

An hour--what are you going to do with that. A million things will go through the mind before the hour is up.

Try spending an hour manic and not doing anything aside from waiting. Hell. pure and simple.

Therapy again

Just hanging in there.

The therapist said some interesting things about honesty and resistance. Resistance I'd not dishonesty. Without resistance we'd be too raw, too damaged. It's protective.

I feel like I let down my resistance pretty far today. I do feel raw, like a nerve.

But it's better to feel this way than to feel nothing at all. To live like a zombie like I sometimes do.

But I am also tired. It's exhausting to go through this. Maybe the heat, the lack of drugs and food is catching up with me. And a little too much sleep.

I took some chances, expressing my frustrations at therapy--that it seems too much like addressing the symptoms and not enough like addressing the core.

And even sharing with him the pain that I feel and my understandings of it.

But mostly, I feel the withdrawl from medication.

It sucks.

I'm still in pain

I always said I wanted to do this, try and get into the right head space before therapy, but I don't know if my head right now will comply.

I'm going through Lamictal withdrawl. I thought I could just go to the proper pharmacy and get my perscription filled, but it's not that easy. They want me to see a doctor there first.

And the earliest I could see one is this afternoon. So, two days off the sauce.

Still, I have this piece of writing I did after the last round of therapy and I would like to look at it so I can bring it to the therapist but... But nothing. No more or less embarassing than anything else.

I feel numb.

That's one of the perverse benefits of withdrawl, not feeling anything except the lack of drugs. Withdrawl serves its own purposes and escapes.

I spend too much time this way.

Still, the pain I felt the other day was extreem. Prolonged and sharp. And I don't know if I will ever be consoled. Healed.

That would require coming out of my shells--being more authentic more of the time. One of the suprising things that happened to me was this: when I interacted with Bridy or someone else, I was more authentically happy, though bracketed by pain.

I don't know much about this resentful wound at the heart of so much of my experience. I know it's resentful. It resents the idea of explication or glib expressions of consolation. I know it likes to hole up in miserable conditions and pass the time in escapism. I know it likes to express itself alone. Never with others though they sometimes see it.

I can feel some of it now.

It's not like I want to feel this way, but I don't want to sweep it under the rug.

I don't need cosmological comfort. I'm good being alone if only there wasn't so much pain.

I wonder about bringing this up. Where we can go. What that experience will be like.

And how do others deal with this feeling? How do they make it through the day. Through life?

Continued from the previous post

I suppose it is too dark even for blogger to allow me to edit it... I
encountered an error when I tried, so no editing, just going.

It is also pain. Excruciating pain. Teeth coming in.

It is also fear. I don't know if it's fear that I am pain, or fear of
revealing the pain, of embodying it, expressing it, being honest about
pain itself. That life is pain. Perhaps it is also the fear of living
pain as well. That my bearing witness to the pain inside, the hurt,
the wound at the center of my being... I'm deeply in pain. But that's
the wrong expression. I am deep pain.

That's what my apartment is saying. And I am afraid for anyone who
cares about me to see it. To take out the trash is to express that
pain, that suffering.

I want no one to feel sorry for me, because that plays into all the
means of expressing the lies that I am in no pain. And I express those
lies to protect them from the pain I feel. The last thing I want is
empathy. I don't even want them to bear witness to my pain. That would
be to trivialize it.

And I'm afraid if the apartment is clean, then I'll have no other way
of expressing it and I'll feel this pain all the time. It's stressful
to be in pain.

The heart of the inside

There's an experience I have when I'm home, outside of therapy. That there are two selves. One is the outside and one is the heart of the inside.

This core, this self is the reality and the outside is a carefully articulated performance.

But I know the inside speaks. I ultimately do what I want, eventually. Like leaving school. That was an authentic expression, fuck what anybody thinks.

But the inside must be protected. It can't speak directly. It can't take the place of the outside because it's too valuable, too precious, too much at the core of my existence to be put there and be in danger.

It's the raw nerve. It's the lump in my throat. It casts off shells ot itself in the illumination of being articulated. It is resistant, it uses resistence to protect itself. It is negativity. It says no. That's why I try to appear to say yes on the outside because on the inside I say no. Not enough. Not full enough an expression. I escape.

The heart of the inside is escape. Demanding, nothing appeases it.

And it is doubt. Doubt that any expression is adequite. Is enough. Gets it.

If every attempt at complete self-portraiture is doomed to failure, then I still exist. There is no need for fear of ceasing to exist because deep within me is an enigma that is me. That is perfect, in its way. And every attempt of the Other to fit me to shape, to picture me catches the outside and the shape of the inside defies the moulds others put me into.

One of it's favorite expressions is silence. When probing gets too close, words literally fail me. They cease so I can remain unseen. So I can remain.

It is fearful of getting caught because it is so furtive. As if it were wrong, inherantly. Evil is the wrong expression. Wrong is the corect one.

To bring it to light is to bring to light that I am Wrong. Wrong in the core, Wrong in the fundament of my being.

And I need to protect others from this realization. So they do not witness the perverse core of my being--resistence, perversity, a willful Wrong over Right.

A Wrong that chooses itself as much as it is Wrong by nature. It cannot be other than Wrong but it chooses to be so nonetheless, because to choose otherwise is to betray it's being.

I feel down, and down is the authentic expression of my being. It is sadness. Not pitty. For which it is sometimes confused.

Therapy

I go to therapy a lot. Right now, three days a week.

I don't even know how I'll pay for it once I switch insurance. Well, that's a few weeks away.

It's going well. We talked about power issues. I give a lot of power to others over how I think about myself. Specifically, how I value myself. I don't have a good idea of my self worth when I imagine others valuing me poorly.

For example: I was talking to a girl over the phone and the issue of what I am doing came up. And I imagined her to be super critical of me. I faltered in my explaining of my situation. Which isn't that unusual. Looking for a job just after leaving school.

A friend put it well--I can say I was working on the side and found the side work more interesting so I decided to leave.

I can really say anything I want. It's a chance to reinvent myself. Try new things. But I don't always think of things that way.

I don't really know where this is going, so maybe it's time to stop.

Therapy, again

A mixed bag today.

some good, some bad.

It was stressful in a lot of ways. I cataloged a whole mess of problems I have. Back taxes. Unresolved grades and graduation status. No job. Student loans. Too much time on my hands and not enough intrest. Aphasia in social relations. The lidt goes on and on.

Still it feels kind of good to articulate all these things. And to trust someone with them.

None of them are crushing. None of them too pressing. Except the midding grade. Gotta get that one done.

Still it was good to get some reaction from the therapist. Not crazy. No reaction at all. Just reminded me I've done tougher things. But I've also failed at easier ones.

I feel little confidence in myself lately. I wonder if I can do these things.

I know I can. But I also know I have failed.

Another thing we talked about was volunteering. It's something that's exciting. Full of possibility. I can do anything I want. For as long as I want.

It would be nice to work in mental health. I know a lot about it from personal experience. One of the benefits of a lifetime in therapy.

I've seen a lot of different types of therapy. And I am a natural listener. It was nice to have these things validated by the therapist. They're important to me. And who knows. Maybe I'll become a therapist one day.

But not today.

Psychiatry, Therapy and Fears

Saw both the psychiatrist and the psychologist today. Both went well, largely because the psychiatrist went well.

I told him ran out of money and abilify. Straight off the bat. I usually don't work that way. I'd hem and haw and try to make him feel good about me. And try to delay bringing it up at all.

But I just brought it up straight off the bat. Just blurted it out.

Before going in, I realized he deals with these things--he's delt with me going off medication before--even with me acting inappropriately because of it. And we got through it. And it's not like I am totally off drugs. I'm trying. I took seroquel while off the abilify. And it it's just a reality that I am out of drug coverage and money.

It's just a problem. And we can work on it together. And me gave me some coupons for a month's supply.

And it went well.

And it went well with the therapist also. Largely because I talked with brother this weekend. We talked about my expenses and he agreed to support me while I'm unemployed.

But with provisos. Brother wants me to plan a career path and he'll support me while I do what it takes to make it a reality--taking classes or whatnot while I go.

Which freaked me out over the phone. We had a halting conversation about it. I was freaked and do the kind of thing I do where I'm saying what I think he wants to hear. Actually I couldn't even do that. It's like I melt away at moments. Just disappear in this shape-shifting thing grasping at a cover story. Trying desperately to say something pleasing.

But that doesn't work. I can't say something pleasing to him because he wants me to articulate a vision for myself, what I want to do. But I don't feel worth it then. I don't feel worth the kind of being who has dreams and asperations. Desperations, sure.

But there's something more to it. Something I'm missing here. When I'm bouncing ideas off the psychiatrist, I can do it. Largely because he's shown me I can try out ideas and he won't penalize me if I change my mind. Being "genuine" in his words. Leaving school was being genuine because I didn't want to be an acadenic. That was genuine. But there's a fear of being genuine with my brother.

I can't quite articulate why. I know there's some fear of being squashed--being run-over... I don't know yet a more concrete was to put it. A fear that I will articulate something I want and it will be somehow denied. And I will feal invalid because of it.

Or maybe it's something else, like my dreams and asperations won't be validated. I can see my brother saying "Why do you want to do that?" and hearing something in his voice that would be different than in my psychiatrist's voice.

I feel like I can say anything to the psychiatrist. I can change my mind later and say something else.

But with my brother, it's like it will go down on my permanent record. Changing my mind means I haven't thought about it enough. So I have to practice before hand. Have a script.

I mean, it's probably good to think it through, the why question. But that's not all that's going on, psychically. What's going on is this script writing. Prepairing to perform.

Part of me wants what it was like with the with the psychiatrist, thinking outloud with him, for that to happen with my brother. To be that comfortable with him.

But I feel like he's judging me. Like my responses... somehow indicate something about me, how thoughtful I am.

I'm not like him. He thinks everything through before he makes a move. Then he moves. Then he tells everyone later.

I come up with an idea and immediately solicit feedback. Get people's ideas.

My way isn't always a good way. Maybe I don't have enough courage in my own evaluations. Maybe I look to others for validation because my own value isn't good enough.

Already I feel queasy about my career idea I had this morning. PR writing. Am I good enough? Can I handle a fast-paced writing environment?

And what I really fear is someone like my brother saying these things. Validating not my dreams but my doubts. My feeling that the real me is a dreamer, dreaming ideas about myself that just don't live up to the reality. That I'm a pile of faults that I can't see but everyone around me can.

And having and sharing a dream will open me up to the painful experience of being exposed to that--that experience of revealing I'm just not good enough. And it's all my fault.

That, ultimately, I've fucked up so much that I'm damaged goods. I've damaged myself to the point that I'm ethically to blame.

It's more than just the feeling that I've wasted my life. It's that I need to be punnished. I need that experience of having the extent of my unseen fucked-upness, the fucked-upness that I've wrought, revealed to me. And worse still, I've let everyone down because of it. I've disappointed them. I've wasted all their hard work on and for me.

Wow I feel bad right now. Depressing thoughts, no doubt. But I fear they're true. I fear it's the reality under this stack of cards I've built called my life--a carefully orchestrated performance of competance. And I am afraid for everyone that movement beyond what I have been able to do will cause the house of cards to collapse and they'll see me as I really am.

And it's not that I'm afraid so much to be seen as a failure. If that's the reality, I don't care so much about that. It's that it will break everyone's heart to see me. That my failure will infect their soul. That it will make them suffer. And they'll suffer treating me like the invalid that I am.

I'm really scared right now. I wish to God I didn't think these things, believe them.

I wish I were as happy as when I walked out of the psychiatrist's office.

I wish I had thought these things and talked with the therapist about them. I wish he'd make them go away, tell me I'm wrong, tell me I am competent, able. That I can try things and find tallents and strengths and overcome adversity and that misfits that don't work out are not my fault, but just that, misfits.

That taking a chance and having a dream isn't going to unfold the dreaded scenario I've just told you.

I feel on edge now. Vulnerable. But also real. Genuine, if you will. Perhaps I'm close to the fundamental fantasy. The one that structures, sutures me to reality. Touching the real.

It's amaizing how deep everything goes. Something as simple as picking a new career path opens up my whole identity. But perhaps not the way it does with most people.

Just fourty some hours until therapy again. Fourty hours or so of feeling fragile.

But no one said facing demons was empowering. Or fun.

Still, I feel some growth here. Like I've articulated something. And the depth of it. Seeing it in black and white makes it not so bad.

I still feel vulnerable, raw, scared. But at least I know what I'm afraid of.

And my conscious mind can see how unlikely the scenario is. I'm not damaged goods. And it's not my fault. I have problems, skills and tallents like everyone else. I can learn new tricks. I can work.

But to say that I can have dreams and can achieve them... That's harder to say. Maybe not impossible.

And looking into the heart of the fear it inspires makes it easier... I can see how unlikely that fear is. How unreal.

So far my employers and teachers have liked my writing. So has my family. If nothing else, I have faith in that, that I am a writer.

That even when I don't feel like I have anything to say, if I did I could say it well.

I just need to find a place for me where I can say it. And maybe a place where I have things assigned to me to say. And hard deadlines.

But I do freeze up sometimes.

Maybe that needs to be analyzed.

Feel like getting drunk

Well, I didn't last night. And it's the weekend. And I don't have any plans. So might as well.

On top of it, thinking of quiting smoking tomorrow. Want to smell clean when I visit the sister on Monday; might as well get a head-start on withdrawal.

And I'm not too upset about the whole job thing. I think it's the power of denial. I just don't want to think about it.

But boy would that have been nice.

It hasn't sunk in yet

I haven't heard back from that retail job I applied for.

So I guess I didn't get it. Which sucks.

But it hasn't sunk in yet that it's over--or maybe it never felt like I was going to get it anyway. One of the benefits of low self esteem is that you aren't surprised or disappointed when things just don't work out.

Still and all, it would have been a good get. Would have dramatically improved my situation.

No money makes me miserable.

Waiting...

This sucks, not knowing if I get a third interview with the upscale retail job I've applied for.

I really need it and I'm quite nervous. It would be a real let-down if it doesn't work out.

There's so much I don't know. How many people they've interviewed, how many positions are open... It makes me crazy.

Drugs

I'm running out of drugs.

I have about three days of Abilify left, and a handful of Lamictal.

I should get by on the Lamictal until the end of the month, when the new insurance kicks in and I have some left over Seroquel, that I'm going to try taking. It's a less than ideal solution, but it's the one that makes financial sense. I just don't have the six hundred bucks to buy some Abilify.

So the great drug experiment begins.

I just hope the brother can help cover rent and insurance next month, and I get that retail job.

I am worth it

The therapist had a good point. I have two things I have to keep in mind.

One is that I have to remind myself that I am worthwhile, inherently. That I am worth having friends and having a life that is satisfying. That I am worth having a clean apartment, for instance.

The other is I am up against a powerful sense of the opposite. Perhaps in early childhood I wasn't made to feel special, and large parts of me still feel that way.

For instance, consider the apartment at the moment. It's a wreck. When I try to talk myself into cleaning it, I focus on the idea it will only take so long and so much effort.

What if I'm trying the wrong self-talk. What if I focused on being worth it. I am worth this, having a better life.

But I'm afraid. Afraid of the message coming through that would say, no you're not. That someone would say such a thing. And that they would be right.

But I've been a passanger, a victim too long within my own life.

It reminds me of that famous Rilke poem, the one that ends "you must change your life."

That's how I feel: I must change my life.

Just Bought Health Insurance

Wow, that was expensive.

Well, we have to do these things. Can't afford to go without coverage--they can deny treatment if you ever go off coverage for more than two months, and I can't ever be denied coverage--I could never pay for it otherwise.

And to go without coverage for the rest of my life is totally frightening. Totally scary.

It was expensive--six hundred dollars for the first month, but it goes down to four hundred after that for three months then back up to five hundred, which, all things considered, is not that much money for what I get. I'm sure my benefits will exceed my costs at this stage of the game.

But drugs are still going to be a problem.

I'm going to not tell the therapist that I'm going without Abilify for a moment. Then I'll have about three months of coverage and then I'll have to make another plan. But that comes later.

This health insurance game sure is a racket, but I'll be saving money when you think about therapy and the like.

Seems ridiculous, but I don't know what to do with myself.

I have, what, at least five hours before I go to sleep and I don't feel like doing anything.

This is a common occurrence with me. And it's a problem.

I just don't feel that active and I don't want to do anything I have to do. I did empty out the mailbox yesterday, which is an improvement.

And I'm doing laundry today. And I bought health insurance, which I think I've already told you about.

So I'm making some progress.

And I had a retail job interview yesterday, which I think went well, but you never know. If it did, then there will be one more interview. A third, which seems a lot for a ten dollar an hour retail job. But I'm not the one hiring. And business doesn't seem to be so great these days, I suppose they can afford to be so selective.

Interesting therapy

Just got out of the office. Good times. Sort of.

One of my problems, and I hate even admitting it here, is that I just don't value myself enough. It comes out here because I don't feel I have anything of value to say. Which isn't true.

I believe anyone's experience is valuable to share--i just don't feel myself included, without making ironic self-effacing comments.

And it comes out in my appartment. It's a wreck and I continue to live in it that way. I'm scared of it.

I pay almost twelve hundred a month and I don't feel like i'm worth that much rent, so I trash it.

I hate my apartment, and I really shouldn't.

It's like I don't feel worthwhile to handle my own problems. That's a little complicated, so let's unpack it.

I am afraid of my problems--that they'll be so intractable I won't be able to handle them on my own. I also don't feel like i'll be able to solve them, and even if I do, i'l cause myself bigger ones later, so why bother now with them.

But imagine a life where I solve problems as they come. Not problem free, but problem solving as they arrive. I'm worth that. I need that.

I want to feel worthy of that kind of life again. I want that life. I don't feel it now, but I want it. Or, I want to want it.

Looking at this post, I come to realize how negative it is. That's the voice of depression speaking, speaking through me. It's powerful, all encompasing.

Yet it is familiar. Feeling this down. Feeling this out.

Just need to get out of myself into another place. I am worth it, as are we all.

So Borred

So, had a partially successful afternoon. Found major bookstores in NY, haven't planned the route to visit them all, but have found them. Printed several copies of my bookstore resume.

Now what?

Extended therapy

The psychologist had a great idea.

See when I leave the office I burry my head in my book and tune out. Maybe I do something to extend my post-therapy motivation by meditating and writing about what just happened.

And I realized I want a few things. I want to feel employable. I want a retail job, just to make ends come close to meeting.

And I don't want to be in such a zombie state. I want to be awake--not like I am now, with the haze from sleeping too much and starving myself.

And I don't want to have to check with social services and look into living like a disabled person. As a disabled person.

the thought of it makes me cringe. To have to do that. Register as disabled. Have someone check in on me. Live in a group home. I know I don't want to live that way.

Just have to wake up to reality.

But I feel so hazy. Yet happy. It's like nothing is sinking in. Like the reality of the situation is just not sinking in.

But I do feel less of a desire to live behind the screen, wasting my life on video games. That's no way to live.

That's not living but living death. Sucking time away.

Yet the lure of escape. I talked about it yesterday. Just the lure of living life without thinking of all my problems... Not taking care of myself--wallowing in my own crapulence.

But ultimately I don't want that. And the video games aren't going anywhere. I don't need to worry about that.

They'll still be there once I've made an effort to live.

But it makes me scared to live. To want to live. What if I can't do it.

I know I have been able to do it in the past. Have a life where I was able to take good care of myself and pay my bills and like my life and keep trying to improve it.

I have been that person. I want to be it again. I want to say I will it.

I will will it, if that makes any sense. I just need to start. And then let the feeling come again.

This makes me feel better, writing like this, even as it makes me sad and scared. At least it's active. At least it's engaged. Thinking and not escaping from my problems. It makes the idea of escape less seductive. It makes me feel motivated.

It struck me yesterday that I've had a lot of therapy. And in the right mind I can do a lot of work on myself all by myself.

I know some of my patterns and I know I don't want to repete them. I want out.

I want the next chapter. The next adventure. The little steps of improvement that lead to a life I enjoy living.

I want something new. I want to wake up and not feel the desire to escape my life. I want something to be proud of.

I want to take responsibility for my life.

feeling terrible

I don't even know why I'm writing this.

I know what i do, and I don't need to tell the therapist about it, I just need to stop doing it.

I get out of therapy, eager for change. I take the train home and read on it. I get home and fire up the computer and waste time either playing juvenile games or interweb pornography.

Hours go by then days go by and I haven't done anything. Left the house, eaten, showered, anything.

It makes me paranoid, it makes me crazy.

Sometimes, like yesterday, I even go off of the drugs.

Why defies me.

So I can take them again and feel like I'm doing something good for me?

I just cut my fingernails. It feels so good, to type without having nails in the way and they were so dirty--been rolling cigarettes from the snubbed out butts in the trashcan. Makes the hands dirty. But why do I deny myself the pleasure of having clean hands, which is a pleasure. Makes typing easier.

Why?

For those few moments when I'm playing my games or surfing the pornography, I'm not myself. I don't have my own problems and I don't feel the way I usually do. I'm not afraid. And the lure of escaping, even for a moment, even when I know that I'll only feel more depressed when I come back and see how much time I've wasted--even that escape is preferable to the pain, I suppose, I'm feeling right now.

I'm trying to be honest here without beating myself up, because that is another escape. Blaming myself into inaction.

Things are difficult right now.

And I'm not helping them.

Just sitting here, trying to do a sustained thing is hurting me. I'm out of practice.

This is going to ramble.

I know no one is going to read it, but it helps, somehow, to write it out in public. I've never been terribly good at journaling. I feel like I've got nothing to say. But I know I can say it well. Sometimes.

Maybe having something to say, or feeling that way, is better than saying something well, if you want to say anything at all.

Last summer, I was so low. I starved myself and lost a great deal of weight for someone who weighs as little as I do.

Now I weigh too much. Inactivity with poor eating habits. Poor habits all together. I smoke too much, spend too much time wasting time. I'm trying to gear myself up to shower and shave.

I have to go out today.

Showered, shaved, cut the fingernails and toenails. I feel slightly human again. If only I did this every morning. Yet when you do, you no longer notice the lift it gives you. But that lift's still there, like the lift I feel from taking my medication. It allows me to do this.

But I'm afraid to stop typing. Afraid that if I do, then all will stop again--that I'll just sink into a morass of inaction once again. Evolution, not revolution.

Still the urge, it comes again, to ... not procrastinate, escape. That's the word. Instead, let my fingers crawl like spiders across the keyboard. Let the meaningful and meaningless come through as they like, meaningless and meaningful as each likes. Let good and bad be good and bad, let each have its time and each have its way.

But not escape. Let's face it, escape is an addiction. I'm addicted to escaping. The cause of and solution to all life's problems.

The easy stuff done--drugs, food (peanut butter by the spoonful) and grooming; it only gets harder from here.

Logging, web longing. Weblonger.

Not quite sure I'm up for taking down the recycling, yet. Took out the trash and that's a good start. Maybe dishes.

In a way, I wish I weren't going out today. So I can work piecemeal on these little home projects. Feels good. Taking care of little things, clutter, dishes, grooming. I feel like a human again, but the problems don't go away. Still have to work, still have to look for work.

But at least I'm not waiting until I have to go to therapy to work. Doing it a good twenty hours or so before that.

Well, I've reached the limit on my prescription drug coverage. No more free drugs for me.

Random. That's what this post is. Random.

Calling Bristol-Myers Squibb for assistance paying for Abilify. It doesn't sound good. I have had very limited prescription drug coverage, but it seems any amount will disqualify me.

Oh well. It's worth a shot. Shooting for anything these days.

Trying to get up the nerve to RSVP to the Apple hiring event. Or fill out the Abilify form. Probably should take an Ativan, since I seem to be blocked on these fronts.

Well, registered with Apple and downloaded the form for Abilify. That's something, and it's almost time to go out. Just one more cigarette. And if it's not raining, I'm good to go.

And I don't know what to do with myself meantime.

Vulnerability

I remember when my car was broken into in Chicago. I felt ashamed, I felt embarrassed, I knew it was my fault, my carelessness. But then I realized it didn't matter, because I could fix it and no one had to know.

Now things are broken, it's my fault, my carelessness and I haven't the means to fix them, without telling other people. Things are so broken I don't know where to start and starting little things, like sorting the mail, means facing not only up to the extent to which I've fucked things up, but to the very real possibility of needing someone to fix them for me.

I'm almost thirty four years old.

Tough Situation

I'm in a bind and need help.

I don't know what to do. I'm already out of money, haven't paid rent this month yet. I owe about a thousand to the credit card company, which isn't much, but they want it now, I fear. My health insurance runs out in about two and a half months, and I'm not sure whether or not I need to front the eight hundred dollars (which I don't have) to get my drugs.

And there's no income on the horizon.

I think my brother can bail me out for the moment, and maybe I can scrape by with that help through the summer, trying to get a last minute teaching position.

But for the summer, brother to the rescue. So I hope.

Therapy the angry way

Been talking to the therapist about things that make me angry.

The list goes on and on. But he says it helps with the paranoia.

So here goes. I'm very angry with the fam. I didn't have one of those happy-go-lucky childhoods even though I appeared happy. It was a mask I felt I had to wear to please those around me upon whom my existence depended.

And my existence seemed precarious. That's what makes me angry. I was never given the illusion of safety. That I could be difficult, could want things, could fuck things up and it wouldn't be the end of the universe.

It always felt that way.

I'm also really angry about the way the sibs continue to treat me. They pick on me in mean spirited ways--make fun of my failures. And things that aren't even failures. Belittle my efforts and small victories.

I remember them making fun of my clothing while my father was dieing. I had given up my job to take care of him. Money was tight. I would have loved new clothes.

I'd want an apology for mean remark. Every injustice put upon me. Every time I was made to feel bad for being different.

Good luck with that one, fellow.

"Hello," He lied.

I'm hung over, withdrawling from nicotine and without medication.

But all will be rectified once I get home. In an hour and a half or so. On the subway. From the Bronx.

Head hurts about five different ways. And i'm having trouble focusing.

And I did it again. I made myself a passanger. I passangered.

What i'm trying to say is this: I gave up control of my life. Because I was angry.

Let me be more concrete. Last night I went out with a girl I told, after great effort, I wasn't romantically atracted to. But I went out with her anyway.

I just hate the idea of people hating me. Or, rather. My desire to please people is ingrained and pathological.

Which is why I kissed her. Because she wanted me to. And I can only resist so many things at once. To wit, one. And last night that one was smoking. So I gave in and kissed her because I could sense that she wanted me to.

And once I did that, well, hell, I might as well just give up and sleep with her. Which I did.

That's what I mean by passangered. I slept with her like I was on the mad hatter ride at Disneyland. Like it was out of my control. Like I am a victim and can't learn to control my desire to please people. Temporarily. Because the real product of this desire is pain.

Patterns. Mistakes. Repetition that end only in tears.

Maybe I'll write her a letter, not explaining these things, but stopping things before they get worse. Before there will be real pain.

Big Push

Trying to get things under control in the old apartment box so I can finally make my system again. Been living, if you can call it that, without the system for too long.

So, hopefully I'll do some posting this weekend to let you know how it goes.

Wish me luck!

Hi Stranger

I've been bad about posting. I know.

But I have something relevant to say now.

Anxiety.

I've been trying to get grades turned in so I can graduate for these bullshit reading classes that I must admit, I didn't make the best effort in.

But I read.

Anyway, it's with two of my frenemy professors, who kind of cock-blocked me, though I should have known better. But that's neither here nor there.

Back to the anxiety. This causes me some. For no good reason.

I tried without taking any ativan, and it was too late. Seems the ativan takes about twenty minutes to kick in, so the heart is still racing, but at least I did it. And the ativan will help with the post-stress anxiety, the residual anxiety.

Now all I need is a diet coke.

It's the Murder that Bothers Me

So, drinkin', watching The Spanish Prisoner, because my copy of Time Bandits I ordered from Netflix broke.

And it's the murder (sorry if you haven't seen it yet) that bothers me. So stop reading now if you want to see it but haven't.

So, back to the murder. In the end we find out that the FBI has been watching him the whole time. So they watched the murder happen. And they allowed it.

That bothers me almost as much as the pro-capitalist, trust the company point of view in the movie.

And another thing that bothers me, not just about this movie but all movies, everyone ends conversations over the phone by just hanging up. They don't say goodbye or anything.

Try that in the world and see how far it gets you.

I'm tired of looking at the same stuff on the interweb.

Sure, I can watch some movies or tv on netflix, but what if I only want to spend a cigarette on the web?

I'm bored because I set the alarm and woke up at six thirty this morning. Even though it's Saturday. Because I think that sleeping so much as I have the last few weeks actually makes me more lethargic. That wasn't the case yesterday when I was running on five hours of sleep.

I guess it turns out I'm not as good at wasting time as I used to be.

Anxiety

Just finished with the third and final bout (for the week) with the therapist. And had a mini anxiety thing as soon as I was out the door.

Anxious today.

Applied for who knows how many jobs. Had to fill out the salary requirement this am. Just thinking about that maked me anxious.

So anxious I just missed the stop for my transfer. But it's all good.

I get to spend more time with you.

I think I'm going to go out by myself tonight. Going to see some Schubert.

It's at eight at the hysterico-ontological theater.

Looking at my application

I just had to fill out an application for a job.

You know the kind where you have to put how much money you've made and how much you'd like to make?

Well, there are big differences between the two for me. And it looks totally crazy. Because I list my stipends from school--which are like half salaries.

But without explaining it includes tuition and the like, it looks like I made less than minimum wage.

Together with the references--I fucked up and put the same people I put for supervisors--I must look totally insane.

Ah, the indignities of looking for employment.

Couple this with my anxiety of asking for the money I think I need, which seems astronomical to me... I couldn't sleep last night thinking about it.

And crazy stress dreams.

It got so bad I went for a run this morning at five. And that was mortifying too. I haven't been running in a year and I smoke close to a pack a day. One and a half miles nearly killed me.

When I was manic, I could run seven miles six times a week and still smoke.

Ah, the joys of mania.

Unemployed Man's Blues

This job stuff sucks.

I just figured out that, with loans, I need to make about 40k per year, figuring on 35% tax, which might be low, considering I live in the city.

Who on earth is going to pay me that. Maybe I can move into some sort of shared-apartment. Pay less rent. Maybe $500 less? I pay almost $1200 for my studio. Find some living situation to share and pay something like $750--seems possible. I'd save lots of money.

Then there's the thing like requirements--adobe suite. I know nothing of this, yet I must pretend to.

What if I asked for $42,000-$45,ooo.

I don't even know why I'm thinking about these things. It's not even like they're going to give me an interview.

And if I ever do find a job that pays me enough to live, I'll probably fuck it up due to general incompetence.

Looking for a job

So let me know if you have one. I'll take it.

I've been sending out resumes over the interweb, and I've gotten so that I don't get nervous when I send them.

That part's down, mostly since I figure I'll never hear from these people again.

The automated applications are the worst--takes forever to fill out and you can be sure that a machine will almost certainly eliminate you before a human being sees your resume.

Anyway, I've gotten two responses today, which makes me nervous. Shaking. Talking on the telephone is not easy for me.

I guess it's a good thing.

Still, don't get hopes up.

Intimacy

Meet with the therapist for our wednesday session. I brought up something that surprised me.

I remember him being very direct about how I would be really disapointed if I left school without the doctorate.

I brought this up.

I'm not good at conflict. Even imagined conflict. Was very afraid I'd hurt him.

Not the case. Not at all. He was glad I brought it up. Seems like he wants to know these things. Wants to work on them with me.

Made me feel vulnerable. Was afraid he'd lash out at me in anger. I suppose my paranoia knows no bounds.

But it was good to get things out. Was a good experience.

Ativan helps

Even just that little bit.

I was frantic about this tiny post I had to make for the art-blog I said I'd write for, it was anxiety provoking.

But then I popped my magic little pill, 1/2 mg of peace and quiet. Was able to write.

Two things: one--why don't they give this out like candy. Two--what must it felt like to take 20 mg like my dad did during his death-bed panic attacks?

Unless I eat a whole prescription at once, I suppose I'll never know.

Neither plesant nor fun

What a day for the head. Double dose. Psychotherapy and psychiatry.

Who I both just saw on wednesday.

But I didn't tell the psychiatrist how down I really am.

Because I don't often know myself. I just feel numb and sleep a lot.

I feel guilty going back so soon. Under reporting how I'm doing.

But I did the right thing going back.

And it feels good to open up more to the psychiatrist. He's a good man. Understanding.

But I still feel bad and am disapointed he didn't do more. I suppose we can later. But for now just a bump on the abilify.

I suppose it was more an excercise in truth telling than anything else.

Better than expected

Met with the psychiatrist.

What a guy. I'm really lucky. So supportive.

He says that since i'm not going for the academic life, no reason to complete the ph.d.

I agree.

I guess dometimes kenedy is right. Fear fear itself

Started writing for an arts blog

Well, I sent my introduction post. Tried to be funny. Made me laugh.

I always feel anxious when I post like this. Don't know why. It's not like it really matters anyway. Not letting down all my adoring fans--not that I mind when people stumble across this and look.

But I feel so self-conscious. I was hoping that being anonymous would make it easier, and I suppose writing is possible because it's anonymous, yet it's not as easy as I hoped. I feel anxious.

Dredding going to the psychiatrist

I feel bad about almost everything.

Haven't been working, haven't been studying. Drinking too much. Not making enough of an effort in general.

School's the worst part. Just don't know if I have it in me anymore, which seems weak.

Oh well, face the music.

Adwords and Paranoia

Hi.

I think that I'm going to start blogging on this arts website. I know--I haven't been too consistent posting here, but they require a certain number of posts a week, and maybe having homework will get me into better habits here and there.

The thing that gets me is the guy who runs the blog wants me to set-up an Adwords account. Fine. But he wants my password, which makes me nervous.

Do you think that's sketchy?

Psychosis

Words follow words for minutes on end

A momentary stop and it all goes down

Just the empty semblance of thought

And the endless straying of sound

Life is waiting and things done in place of waiting

A train or death

Moments of revelation--a distraction

From the soft whispering of life

That goes one without us

prepping for therapy

Do you do this?

I feel like I need an hour of things to say, so I think about what the therapist and I are going to talk about.

Which is difficult when you haven't done anything.

I didn't even go to class yesterday.

I know I'm not making enough of an effort.

I just don't feel like it. Which is a horrible excuse.

I feel like I'm already ready to leave school.

Anxious

Money's going to be tight from now on. And no meds.

None.

My health insurance lapsed because I didn't register on time.

It will come back but right now I'm running on natural and it doesn't feel good.

Anxious. Edgy. Energetic.

I told myself last time I wouldn't do this again. And here I am again on my own.

Can't wait to see the therapist and have him guilt trip me.

i can't tell you how down i feel

it's not like a normal down.

it's like there's nothing there. no drive to do anything, no pleasure in life. aside from butter, which always provides pleasure--though momentary.

but everything else--reading, writing, seeing friends--all for naught.

so what. that's what i think, so what. and i can feel the gears grind to a hault. if i just stop for a minute, it turns into hours.

alcohol helps, helps break me free, for a moment. but i know there's a price to pay.

depression.

maybe the psychopharmacologists don't take the opposite of inhibition--habition, maybe--seriously. maybe it's a condition that drugs could help.

all about drugs these days, why the fuck not, i'm a drug addict. just my drugs are more expensive.

angry, yes.

still and all, there's very little pleasure in this life.

feel bad, thinking of drinking

Against the recommendation of the therapist, I'm thinking of drinking tonight.

Haven't done it in a while, and I'm off the abilify--ran out. Feels bad, man.

It's like quiting smoking but smoking doesn't feel better when I do it.

I know, I have lots of bad habits.

Maybe I'll drink for a bit and tell y0u how it's going. I fear it won't go well, but I miss it.

off ativan and other difficulties

I screwed up my insurance, because I didn't register until just yesterday.

An emergency loan I thought I'd paid came back to haunt me. But I only had to go three places before I found the right one, and they let me differ the loan until my student loan comes in. Soon, I hope.

I am bouncing back from difficulties earlier, trying to tackle things early. With limited success.

Facing demons--it's useful, I suppose just from a practical point of view, but it does make life easier, but it doesn't make me feel better, only worse.

I'm getting the picture of how fracked-up my life is. All the things I've ignored and screwed up for so long.

I'm beginning to see how it's been years I've struggled with myself. Years I've lost just trying to get back to where I was before I was diagnosed.

It really took a lot out of me and I should be honest about it.

Grad school and bipolar have been like a one-two hit--a combination that's really put me back.

Staggering now, I hope there's still time left in this fight to win. But I've lost too many rounds.

And I feel ambivalent about this post, though I am beginning to realize things about myself.

bored

I've decided to take today off from work. Seems to go better the earlier I start.

I don't know, just not into it. And when you're working for yourself, it's easy to give yourself a day off.

So bored. Don't know what to do with myself.

I wish I felt inspired to write something, but I don't.

No reading, no writing make Coward go crazy.

Absence

Doesn't always make the heart grow fonder.

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. What can I say--I could say I've been busy, but that'd be a lie.

I went away with the family around Christmas and it was surprisingly stress free--aside from the travel.

Schoolwork is going better. I've been reading in blocks. Twenty to thirty minutes on and then a break. Got it from The Now Habit--a pretty good book on procrastination.

My system is in shambles. Haven't gotten back on that horse in a while. Been concentrating on schoolwork and school admin stuff. What a pain.

Sorry this post sucks. Just trying to get back into the habit.

Working

This dividing hours into twenty minute blocks seems to be working. Tuesday, I got 2:20, Wednesday 2:40, and already today I've logged 2:20.

If I can push it out another couple of blocks, I can hit three hours, my goal for today.

Knot

I've been drinking, and I feel that's ok to say because it's one of my concerns here.

It is what it is. Now I'm closing my eyes. And just typing as it comes out. Feeels good man.

I feel tight, and not in the nineteen fifties way of tight as drunk. Tight as my chest is tight... Over what? Posting on a blog? Anonymously?

Tight. As in pain. As in a knot. sitting in the middle of my chest. When it tightens up, it keeps me from doing the kinds of things I know I can do. This damned knot. Gordion. Or gordian. Knot sure.

Dreams of cutting. Others of cutting the knot. But it seems like unwinding is best. But how to?

Mail anxiety

I don't know why it causes me so much anxiety, but after a few days away, I can't bear to check the mail.

Have whole piles of it.

Ugh.

Ativan, take me away.

New thing

So, i'm trying this old trick I learned in a procrastination book.

Twenty minutes on, uninterrupted. Mark them. Ten minutes off.

Did two and a half hours yesterday. Got twenty minutes today.

at least i'm moving.

Small steps.

Let's get moving, after this cigarette

I need to change up. Move faster.

I'm tired of this but afraid to go on.

Therapist says the demons will be there, procrastination or not.

Well, at least I'm not alone.

A little bit every day

I'm frustrated and scared, but I'll bet that beats being bored.

I'm trying to do some things every day in three areas: health, money and school.

Health: refilling my meds today

Money: paying rent

School: return library books

Then, maybe I'll pay a fine and register soon.

It sucks cleaning up your own messes, but better now than later.

If I can attack these three fronts, maybe things will get better.

entering the new year, no system, feeling lethargic

I don't feel like doing anything. Not a thing. Not even writing this.

Running or review would be nice. Wonder if they'll happen.

I suppose this doesn't make for good reading.

Last night, the liquor store guy wished me a happy new year and I was surprised how touching it was.

Maybe because he's the only one who did.

I need to make new friends.

Cut-ups

The question is: where to put one's foot?

At such moments

I heard in myself something

Like a tocsin, a strange admonition:

``In this world, progress is for our descendants alone.''

In myself, I began reproducing the person I wanted to see.

Gray is all Theory

Unless perhaps in dreams

In the rhythmics of slumber

Where words by turns spurr on conversation

And symptoms of technology are not accepted

Everything had changed by effect of a single conviction

And their contempt for us will have no end on the worlds to come

Who begins to write with me

The great dice game of existence?

Men could enter, but air could not

Men had replaced the prehistoric water

Where violence organizes itself into a scene

And shades of erotic meaning in a woman's hat are virtually incalculable

The spontaneous impulses of the individual sensiblility

Bores the ordinary man more than the cosmos

Which is the emphatic and aligned

Business knows how to make use of the threshold

With the aid of electric light

So good so far

Today has been at least as productive as yesterday.

It was all I could do to clean the bathroom and straighten up. But that made it easier to mop and clean the kitchen this morning. And I've read a tiny bit.

If this keeps up, I may even do a clean system sweep, and then I'll be able to log the painful details.

Maybe it will be inspiring.

One thing I'm thinking of doing is keeping discipline over my projects list. Only keeping the things that actually need doing on it, for this week. Then keeping the some-day list big and reviewing it weekly, so that I (hopefully) move things over when I've accomplished something.

Wish me luck!

Tips and Tricks

What do you do to get going?

For me, I find that I frequently can't leave the house if it's a wreck. Cleaning, ironically enough, helps me get out of the apartment. Maybe it's something about coming back to a less depressing place, like I experience every time it's out of shape.

Telling myself repeatedly that it doesn't have to be perfect. Just better. Helps when I'm working on a project that I've been getting obsessive about, like writing.

Have to do a distasteful task? Set a time. Give yourself 20 minutes and then take a 5 or 10 minute break. Go shorter on the timer, if you need to. A little bit at a time is better than nothing. Just accept the small steps.

Accept that you cycle. This one I'm not so good at. I want revolution, to move from nothing to tackling everything all at once. Sometimes small steps are all I can take. Just accept it. And learn to shorten the oscillations.

What do you do?

Lethargy

I feel really lazy. But relaxed.

Just got back from a vacation with the family and it was really fun. No talk of school. No Christmas fight.

My system is so out of whack.

Maybe if I clean the apartment.

Most of all, I feel lonely.

a kind of freezing dread

There's a certain feeling I get.

And I'm getting it right now.

I haven't taken my medication today, and that usually makes it go away.

It's a kind of paralysis. A kind of dread and embarrassment for my life.

I really don't know why I keep postponing taking my drugs.

Sometimes I'm afraid they'll work too well.

Sometimes I'm afraid they won't work at all.

Sometimes I like feeling depressed.

Time

Well, I wasted another day yesterday.

And am trying to make up for it today.

Who knows. Maybe I'll even go to the library, see the concrete lions.

God knows, I have enough to do.

This sucks

I feel so terrible.

In some ways, worse than when I lost the job.

But really, I should be happy.

I tried.

Both the job and getting it back. Really, I did nothing wrong. If someone else did what I did, I'd be happy for them.

But I feel so ashamed of myself. And so guilty.

I feel like someone hit me.

Not a good experience when I'm about to go and disclose my madness to my advisor.

Grievance denied

Well, a while back I filed a greivance for loosing my job without warning.

I lost.

Should have prepaired myself for opening that letter. Shouldn't have read as much as I did.

I never had much hope. But it still hurts.

Looks like I'll quit drinking another day.

Where to begin

I frequently feel this way.

I've updated the system and now I'm directionless.

What to do now.

It's all laid out for me, but anxiety about a beginning.

Well, I suppose I should just start.

Support

Hi all.

I went to a bipolar support group in Manhattan.

Wow.

My head was spinning after I left.

Good people. Both supportive and scary. If that's the future, I'm in trouble.

But it was nice to hear other people's problems. And nice to hear I wasn't alone with my own problems.

Some were very intense.

I feel a little awkward talking about specifics, because it's other people's lives here. Maybe I'll just leave it alone.

Hey

Know I haven't updated in a while.

Stay tuned.

Hey

Know I haven't updated in a while.

Stay tuned.

How much of this is on me

You know how alcoholism and obesity have genetic components.

But behavior--i mean, if you never drink, you're not an alcoholic, no matter your genes?

And if you make a real effort, your weight problem will not be as bad as if you have the same genes and eat at mcdonalds all your life.

Does bipolar work the same way?

If I had tried earlier to have better mental health. Had not taken acid. Worked harder in therapy.

I don't know... Not acted as crazy, would I be where I am today?

Freegan smoking--the problem of papers

It can be a problem.

If you're like me, you hold onto each left-over pack of papers from your favorite handroll.

but say you don't. Or say you ran out (like I did today). Or say you want a totally free smoke.

Bible pages.

I'm totally serious. One, the pages are really thin. And the ink is likely non-toxic. And you look like a bad ass with paul's epistol to the romans hanging out the corner of your mouth.

And bibles are free. Just call the gideons.

Any other thin paper is good too. Right now, i'm smoking the collected works of plato. But shakespear works as well.

Cut the pages into 1" * 2.5". 3hen roll with quite a bit of saliva. Like you're rolling a blunt.

And you'll feel like a cowboy.

Fear of menus

This is an odd one that I forgot about the depression: paranoia.

Sometimes, when the depression's at it's worst... Well, all to frequently, paranoia rears its ugly head.

I grow fearful of everything but one world government and black helecopters.

I guess I don't wear tinfoil hats, but I do begin to think about strong crypto, which is similar.

What can I say. It's my own agression I see as persecution.

And it sucks.

depression

I'm sure we all have our own ways of being depressed. Here are a few of mine:

lethargy

numbness

doubt

isolation

insulation

procrastination

playing stupid video games

melancholia

And here are my ways of getting out of it:

medication

movement

seeing friends

cleaning

getting angry at things

The therapist is always saying that depression is anger turned inward. And I believe it. That's one of the things I have to do, stop doing that.

But anger sure can be scary--my own and other peoples.

Blogs blogs blogs

I now see this has turned into a diary, sort of.

It wasn't really my intention to do so.

I'm not sure everyone wants to read every detail of my rather boring life.

There were a few things I wanted to share--my experiences with gtd (which i hope to get back on, today or tomorrow--expect a post about that, or maybe not), drinking and other drugs, and bipolar.

I suppose, in some ways, the journal tracks the ups and (mostly) the downs, but maybe it's better to be specific about them than to trace events.

Anyway, at the doctor's recommendation, I've been looking at some blogs and sites that talk about abilify.

It's a little scary-- akasthenia (i.e. shaking, tightness of muscles, affects about 25% of people), possible death, hallucinations. Good stuff.

I sometimes wonder if reading about side effects makes you feel them

Some good, some bad

Been spending money like I have it. But I honestly don't.

if you don't count that sack of tobacco I bought on keith's dime, it's been all family obligations.

And been getting shit for it.

Shit for borrowing money I don't want to do things for others.

On a positive note, getting some poems published.

first ones I ever sent out.

Well, I know the editor.

Sometimes therapy sucks

So. I was frustrated. Brought in all this stuff I wanted help with.

And he's always offering to help me with little stupid things.

and I thought if I brought them he'd help me.

And we could't even get through the list. He wanted to talk about what they mean.

And he hammered at me.

Everyone wants to remind me what my role in creating these things is.

Which, if unsympathetic is probably more important than what I want--hand holding.

well. Everything else is going my way today. Even the trains.

Total luck

found 7 smokes in box on street. And with plenty of time to get to therapy.

On top of that, was able to get up at a reasonable hour after good sleep with odd dreams. Must be stressed ones.

Wonder what freud would make of them.

On top of all this, found my train ticket (7 rides left), a penny, and my MTA card still works.

Small things, to be sure, but i'm greatful. Maybe things are beginning to break both ways.

Maybe i'm making better decisions.

May my good luck continue and rub off on you.

not much doing

went out with cousins for my cousin's batchlor party. very tame, which was fine with me.

actually, a lot of fun. spoke with this little kid, son of my cousin--i know this means something like second cousin, or removed cousin or something, but i've never been good at this sort of thing.

and had lots of brazillian meat.

and today, kind of wasted it. for some reason, stayed up till five last night/morning. i could do it tonight, but that's always easier with five liters of beer. had some last night. first in a week.

hope things get better, but not holding my breath. ten cents short of a pound of flower. maybe one package of pasta. not much else.

see therapist tomorrow.

mom emailed me. apparently, it's over--in a good way. news to me.

wants me to go on vacation. feel pressure. hate taking things, but who am i.

already borrowed money from him. which is odd, but whatever.

took my seroquel and drinking coffee, so should be asleep soon.

Further hints on freegan smoking

So, I've layed out the basics and thought about the variety of butts I've found in my neighborhood.

But here are some other hints:

If you don't want to directly bum a cigarette, pick-up your butts in a conspicuous space. Smokers will feel sorry for you and bum one, almost always.

Have a couple of routs. I've got two or three.

Manhattan, much to my supprise, hasn't panned out for me. Maybe it's the neighborhoods I've been in: mostly midtown. Perhaps the villages are better. But they're mostly conspicuous, and I get embarrased when too many people see what I'm doing. Perhaps the side streets would be better.

Find places where you're likely to find butts. The obvious ones are bars and outside apartment buildings. But there are less obvious ones. For me, the laundromat was a real find. I suppose that someone there smokes alot, but gets called in before he (I assume it's a he) can finish. Perhaps bodegas or Korean groceries work the same way.

Another important thing to consider is timing. It's probably best if scrownging in front of establishments to wait until they close. The exception may be bars, since here in nyc, some bars don't close until 4 am. And with any establishment, they may clean up. Say you hit a bar, perhaps they've emptied the ashtray--you're sol.

I like to hit bars before happy hour (unless you live in `billyburg, when happy hour can go from 11 to 7. It beats the rush, and the alcoholics who've been drinking all afternoon have left plenty of buts.

Another problem is rain. Rain-soaked butts will not yield smokable tobacco. Atleast not at first. I find that microwaving loose tobacdco for 30 seconds seems to dry them out. Another advantage to this is that the tobacco becomes puffier (for lack of a better word), meaning you can roll bigger smokes with less tobacco.

Anyway, I'll share more hints as I find them.

Good luck with your tobacco hunting, and may you find the tobacco of your dreams

food

of all things i think of out in the world that it would be nice to buy. anything, everything.

even at home, food never leaves me:

beer

whiskey

cheese

eggs

steak

chicken

pork

something new

something old

linguine with clam sauce

dark chocolate

i guess i just get sick of the same things: salad and a loaf of bread a day.

this is no way to live.

tired and low

i'm real low right now.

nothing, i mean nothing, seems sweet. either tired of it, or just don't want to do it because it seems worthless. no joy, barely even tolerable.

melancholy.

i don't want to go to therapy. i don't want to read. i don't want to computer. i certainly don't want to go out and pickup cigarette butts, but i do want to smoke.

nothing's working. there seems to be no point in doing anything; i'm fooling myself. about everything.

i do want to run, and not just for the exercise.

i want to run away.

start again.

because nothing seems to be working out for me.

suppose i'm lucky to be alive--i was a mistake. mom told me if i hadn't been born, she'd still be married to my father. well, i guess no longer. he's dead.

try living with that. but i'm sure you've got your own cross to bear and far be it for me to go and compare scars with anyone. we all have them.

and if you're like me or if you suffer depression, than you know what i mean.

looking for good news

but aren't we all.

cut my finger, hell on typing.

no cash, no bank, no loan.

bills from everywhere.

shit, i could be going to court for back rent.

loan check's almost spent before it's come in.

and i said to myself the last time was last time.

am i really that much of an asshole?

what is it with girls breaking up with me--through technology.

first the cousin with the text message (that was worse) but the recent one over the telephone.

at least when i did it to the psycho-girl-i-was-dating, i did it in person. not to brag or anything. i didn't act my best, though the best i felt i could in that situation. looking back on it, i wouldn't have brought the chicken wings.

anyway, this one hurts (don't they all).

and, of course, i have no money to drink.

endless summer

time.

so much of it.

too much. lost my way, i have.

going to meditation would be good, but i'm sure i'll find a reason not to. for instance, i could kid myself into thinking about doing homework.

there's a laugh.

well, atleast i've been cooking and cleaning. and doing a little writing for myself.

now i'm going to nap. hey, gotta be some benefit to being broke and unemployed

A Few

Gazing Upon the Mountain, Contemplating God's Work

Ridge at the mountain's edge:

a filet of rock. I

gaze like Argus from ledge

to ledge and thank, sigh,

and worry clasped to Hetty.

Huck and I

Huck and I used to

cheat corpses--their animal dread

in the gloom right through

the vacant plot, as threads

a needle in the psyche.

The Idle Student

Daises turning in the wind

across Malta. There gazes the

world-worn pupil in sin,

idleness, specifically. And sun be

the world, shining in situ.

Wolf Cub

Calm, they say, before the

blessed break. G-d above sent

a worf cub striking a

raw tendon, a freak accident

and the wound will scar.

Chloroform

But world half broke open,

after fifty-six huffs of chloroform.

And the scion of Hoboken,

stoned on the metro platform,

waiting, the train comes? No.

it's just nice not to have to pick up cigarette butts off the street.

not that i'll stop, just it's nice not to have to.

depression

didn't even know that's what's been happening.

just feel listless. melancholy, they used to call it.

there just ain't no pleasure in this life, and i'm too lazy to go to the other one.

and i'm not really that into pain. not that it has to be painful, but it's got to be at least a little uncomfortable.

feel like watching tv and drinking. but no tv and no beer here.

no tv and no beer make coward go crazy.

speaking of strong crypto

hate long and intricate passwords? after all, the best passwords aren't passwords at all, but random key combinations.

i hate 'em. one way around it, if the length of your password is arbitrarily long, is to use passphrases. you can achieve as many bits of protection as you may want. and a good solution to generating these phrases is diceware (for non-u.s., try this list--it's been internationalized).

i've used it myself, and while i don't know how successful an attacker would be (suppose i keep a low profile, but now that i've mentioned it, murphy's out to get me), but it makes me feel secure.

so, i'm paranoid

clinically so. confirmed by therapist. he's seen me go through it. talked me down some.

i check for the emergency exits. i don't like to sit with my back to the door. i believe in strong crypto, and for the most part, i know how to use it.

i believe in security through obscurity.

i've used tor, though i don't have it configured at the moment.

and lately, i've been working on a project: what would i want with me if i had to go, immediately.

the go bag, i call it.

it comes in two parts: the small and the large.

the small is between a toiletry bag and a tote bag. it contains the essentials that are hard/impossible to replace on the fly.

the large? all i need for urban camping.

here's an incomplete list of things i want. unfortunately, it's not yet separated into small and large.

gobag:

drugs

pens

alcohol

tobacco

coffee

water

cup

food

calling card

$100 cash

$100 visa card

mta card

passport

phone

voice recorder

keys--my own and other peoples

maps

compass

umbrella

clothes

toiletries

sowing kit

small tent

small sleeping bag

train schedules

notebooks

books to read

small, legal knife

medical supplies

shoes and boots

USB drive

GTD stuff

small toolkit

tape

work gloves

mace

winter stuff (hat, gloves, socks, etc)

dice

cards

cards keyed to a secret deck

usb w/ os for strong crypto

mres

gold

water

toughbook

so, what do you think? i know i'm missing things, would like to hear what else you think i may need.

What I got for 18 bucks

Letus, romain.
Tobacco, amsterdam shag, peter stokkebye.
A green pepper.
Yeast, 3 pack.
5 pork chops.
beans 1 lb.
Coffee 10 oz.

City's a harsh mistress.

how much protein can 59 cents buy you

not much. at least, not in this city.

thought i could get some beans or something. got to have something like ninety cents.

guess it's just a rich man's world.

at least i have enough to make some bread tomorrow.

Broken

It's tough, having no cash. You can't replace things.

Out without your tissues, your drugs, clean clothes, food, tobacco, your book... Well, that's too damn bad.

not really sure why i haven't been posting

i guess i feel like i don't have much to say.

which isn't exactly so. i'm the kind of asshole that could talk for years on a deserted island. even if there were no smoke monster.

and something humiliating but interesting did happen on monday. therapist lent me some cash, because i'm out.

and it sucks.

again.

and i thought we both wanted me to start the new meds--abilify. needed thirty bucks to get it. and we talked for a long time about it. made me feel better then, but not so good now.

then there's the procrastination. fear compounded, at this point. maybe finish up with the novel i'm reading for the nth time. then work? cleaning? baking?

we'll see.

Abilify

So, I finally started on abilify.

But the dose is low: 5 mg. I was hoping I'd feel different right away, but it's hard to tell. Maybe once I have my blood levels up. Maybe when we up the dose.

Still, the promise of no more seroquel by some point in November is exciting. I'm done with seroquel. The stuff knocks you out. And it's not quite the right drug for my condition, though not so unusual.

But, to be off it, that's the dream.

Confluence of money and love

Yes, can't buy love. Legally. Or, as a direct finantial transaction.

But there's always money involved. Needs must be.

and that's one of the most frustrating things about recurrant cycles of poverty.

Difficult to maintain romantic relationships.

sorry i dropped the ball a little bit

haven't been posting lately.

been busy. had that interview for my grievance. remember when i lost my job? well, it went pretty well, but don't have much hope.

well, gotta run. gotta see this girl i'm dating. it's going pretty well. and good god damn she's sexy.

see you on the flipside.