I'm traveling through some unfamiliar, scary territory, mix-aphorically speaking. At this moment I feel totally alone, partially due to my misinterpretation of my girlfriend's behavior. She has had a difficult day and is what you might call, "down." This simple, common thing will flourish into an emotionally complex intrigue. In my mind.
Thankfully, I'm not given to bouts of jealousy. An accidental mercy. No, what I'm going to do is try and come up with as many reasons as possible that her sadness is due to me, and that she must leave me, for I am cursed. As far as I can tell this is not the fault of a living soul. My mind, despite my very best efforts, bends me a certain way. These are the faces of paranoia and anxiety, which have me off doing stupid things sometimes.
But loneliness is only part of it. I'm fond of the suicide solution. Certainly no plans are in the formation, but I can't get the idea out of my head. The idea is easy to grasp. That life may just not be worth it. I would say it is not. And methinks no amount of drugs and therapy will get me to change my stubborn and thoroughly unhelpful belief that life is not worth it.
Most people passively suspect that this may be true, but they are equally compelled by spirituality. The idea that life has a vast meaning, beyond our ability to truly understand. I've considered that, but I'm either not convinced, or because of my nature I'm impossible to convince. Either way, I'm sleeping in on Sunday.
This matter has been under the fixed glare of my thought beams for a long, long time. Time and thought beams worked their magic over many years. So now, the stink of existential angst has evolved into a crippling social disorder and mental illness. It has rendered me a coward, painfully meek, a failure, mook, boob, nut, milquetoast little puke and/or putz. Or something like that. Possibly a spineless nincompoop.
That's one theory.
As I mentioned before, I was in the psychiatric ward at Cambridge City Hospital last week. I'm moving through their program for nuts, and I shall be pooped out and into long term care. My next triumph, I'm told, is going to be my getting into and staying in a program of opiate addicted crazy people.
I had an actual team working on me. The "Blue Team." It's just a staggering thing to consider. I had a team. And out of the nine people, five smiled at me and found my attempts at humor either endearing or genuinely amusing. Four of them did not. No, ma'am, they didn't. When they introduced me to a doctor as a "drug addiction expert" I said, "What is he, an addict, too?"
As I said. 5-4.
They keep telling me how fragile I am. How easily I will start using again if given half a chance. Yeah, no shit. But I have not $5 to my name (woe is me), and I always got my pills from older friends who just happen to like me enough to indulge me every so often. But still, I get the point. Thus, I'm eager to see how the narcotics program works out.
Upon completion of these hurdles, I will stand astride your world like a Colossus.
I found out something the other day. Not today, or yesterday. One of "the others." What did I find out? Well, I'll tell you what I found out. Here's what I found out:
The quickest way to clear a room, far beyond the efficiency of a grenade or rocket, is to offer to read one of your poems, one you wrote while in a psych ward.
There's an important lesson here. And it has nothing to do with Pringle's, which is what Linda just interrupted me to discuss. She mentioned that some truck flipped over on the highway, releasing some chemical. The chemical didn't sound familiar to me, so I suggested that it may be in, say, Pringle's. But I did not find the chemical in the roadside accident. But there is something, disodium guanylate, in Pringle's. If a truck full of disodium guanylate flipped over outside my window, would we have to evacuate for our lives? Grab the cats, tragically leave one behind, the dog, the snake, and run like hell.
Coke. There's another prize. It costs -1.5 cents to produce, and they sell it for a markup that is staggering, especially since the sneaky little buggers started putting in corn syrup. It rots your teeth and makes you fat and insulin dependent. I suck 'em down like a big thing who wants something that is packaged in many small containers might.
But who needs health? I'll take escape over health. I'd suck on a rabid wombat if I thought I could get high off of it. Oh, I've sworn off opiates, but I'm not above sucking on a wombat.
Hi Mel! So fucking awesome that you left a comment. You made my night. Hug C!