This morning found me with a surplus of energy, which fueled my desire and ability to get my ass out of bed around 7 this morning. Unless you're going to church, temple, Denny's, what have you, that's pretty early for a Sunday morning. It's now almost 10am and my beloved is still sleeping. Our only plan for today is to go see Indiana Jones and the Maltese Falcon, or whatever, sometime this afternoon at the Somerville Theatre in Davis Square. I'm told they sell beer and wine, which I'll need given my lack of marijuana.
It's a waste going to the movies high, anyway. Schindler's List isn't supposed to be funny.
As usual, I've already taken so many drugs this morning. Three tramadol, one levoxythyroxine and one lithium carbonate. I've taken to using tramadol as a "mood enhancer" because, well, it enhances my mood. Perhaps it makes me a little manic, but I'll take that over depressed.
I'm wearing a Socialist Party USA pin from 2000, although I'm not sure why. My dues are paid up until September, which is good, given my poverty, but the Socialist Party is huddled around a small group of people led by Eric Chester (obscure book author, intellectual, and man with enormous white beard). A new party has split from the old, and I'm told that it will be called Social Democrats of America, although that may not be final. I'm tempted to join the 25 or so people who left and work in some capacity for them. I could be chair of the Massachusetts local if I want it. I just want the chair, not the chairpersonship. Ha! I'm terrible at recruiting members, though. I can't even recruit wizards and shit into the guild in World of WarCraft.
But I just know that sometime soon I'm going to really step in it and volunteer to do something for the newly formed party. They need help and I indirectly helped the split to happen by signing the Fist and Rose Manifesto. Enough of that for now, though. I know it's boring.
Thanks to BipolarChica (Conversations In My Head) for giving me a Flower Sniffer Award! I'm so honored. By all means, go to her 'blog and check it out. We both have something in common. We're bat-shit crazy. Along those lines, this week I have an appointment with my psychiatrist and I'm supposed to talk about my addiction to various and sundry drugs. Particularly the ones not prescribed to me. Apparently, they don't like it when you take drugs that weren't prescribed to you. Who knew?
Beyond drug addiction, and a penis that hasn't been working as perfectly well as it once did (damn erections), my paramount concern and source of extreme unease has been anxiety bordering on paranoia. I'm so tired of chest pain, shallow breathing and irritability, all of which are connected to social phobia and anxiety over what amounts to nothing. Deep down, I know that Clare and Donna don't secretly hate me. But I feel that they do. Perhaps they resent me for not working, or maybe I did something nasty of which I'm not aware. I'm also reasonably confident that Linda isn't going to leave me, despite the overwhelming feeling that she is going to do just that.
One needs to be careful here, because I could create a problem where none previously existed. You crazy people know of what I write. It's ironic, but that is of little comfort. I need to be intellectually and emotionally pugnacious against my own self-destructive desires. The danger here is that I'll constantly seek re-enforcement that everything is ne plus ultra between my friends and I, and my beloved most of all. I know from hard experience that the need to be comforted again and again will eventually lead to a tenuous situation. It's both annoying and deeply disconcerting to be asked several times a day if "everything is OK between us" and the self-deprecation on my part just makes it so much worse. Nobody wants to be with someone who needs constant comforting.
Instead, I need to look at the evidence, which strongly indicates that all is well with Linda and all my friends, and my family, as well. I must keep the paranoid and panicked thoughts in my brain and not give them life through speech and action. That way lies pain and heartache. If I can't control my thoughts I can at least control my actions.
That's what I've learned about how to deal with self-loathing, anxiety and social panic. You'd think I'd have learned more, but I'm not terribly bright.
In addition to all this, suicidal thoughts are well in my mind, and busy. I'm not fearful that I will do anything. No more than usual, anyway. It is difficult, however, to focus on running errands or reading "The Economist" (for some reason, I dig that magazine...it all comes down to who has the money) when a voice in the back of your head is urging you to stick your face in the fan, or "trip" in front of a bus and get creamed. Cream of Darren. Just put me in a Campbell's can and bury me behind "FoodMaster."
I'm going to try like Hell to make sure Linda has a fun day with me today. I will keep my nihilistic self-loathing and social anxiety and paranoia to myself. Stifle. Serenity now!