My brain has been out. Out of town, out of bounds, out of mind. Out. Driven only by a desire to be more out, namely out of consciousness, but the napping, while my favorite thing in the world, just isn't a good idea nearly as often as I want to do it.
Two days ago I laid down and closed my eyes but behind my eyelids there were colours and lights, not the darkness that was meant to be there. Can't sleep in the dancing colours and the light. The activation makes me more afraid than anything else. Afraid of what's making the rave behind my eyes maybe. Or just finding the colours and lights oppresive with unexplained fear. Everything is unexplained.
The brain is up and down. Down and up. Round and round. Back and forth. Here and there. It's like an eletron in an atom, it theoretically exists in a given orbit but you can't necessarily find it, or prove it absolutely. Some of it is depresison, some of it is mania, and some of it is the steel blades of the blender mixing it all.
I'm trying to focus on getting a job because, well, I need a job. My career counsellor seems hopeful that I can get a job here, although he pretty much has to be. He's paid to feel hopeful, posative and motivational. He wouldn't be doing his job if he wasn't.
I have a shiny new resume that they tell me is basically perfect, so maybe that will help; I don't know, I've never been all that good at getting past HR screeners. Although now the Borg is on my resume, and that should probably help.
And they recommended that I get my PMP cert while I'm waiting. Project Management Professional. Actually being a professional project manager isn't the same thing, apparently. No, the PMI has to certify you to prove who you are. Hoops. Hoops.
The thing about the PMP is that employers actually look for it. It's actually a worthwhile cert. I would say that there are many pointless certs, but PMP isn't. Probably because PMP is hard to get. There are zillions of hours of courses followed by (I hear) an expensive and difficult test. Yipee for me.
And normally I wouldn't bother. It's long and boring, and I don't care for long and boring. But in this industry, if you're not sharpening your skills you might as well stay home. And in my case the courseware is free through the outplacement agency and I'll only have to pay for the test. Like school. Like being at school. I hadn't planned on having that experience again.
All this is actually easier than finishing the book. I'm achingly close but still have no cigar. I know, it requires the writers discipline which I'm not feeling at the moment. I'm not feeling much at the moment which is part of the problem. Good writing only comes from your heart or soul or something that experiences. And I'm hiding. All of me.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Manic Wake-up Call
Woke up this morning and still in bed I had analyzed my year-long dream three to six ways. Lots to think about the swimming scavenger hunt resulting in dead bodies. Odd and new. Then the thoughts were 17 deep before I realized I was still in bed. I was planning the day, and tomorrow's day, and the day after that. And thinking about all the things I had to do before leaving the States, and what to do before my medical coverage runs out and what happened with my physical yesterday and whether I should call the rTMS place in Vancouver and what to wear when I met my career counselor today and where I would go to kill time after the chiropractor today and what to have to breakfast. But wait, I'm still in bed. Have to get up.
Monday, May 25, 2009
AstraZeneca Accused of Hiding Seroquel Dangers
AstraZeneca plays hot potato with Seroquel side effects. Here are the highlights from the article (bold and italic text added by me):
AstraZeneca E-mails Show Debate on Seroquel RisksYou have to register (it's free) to see the whole article. I can't say enough bad things about antipsychotics, myself, but definitely worse than the drug are the marketers and executives that try to hide the dangers to thrust the horrible side-effects onto an unsuspecting public. Nail their asses to the wall say I.
Associated Press - May. 20, 2009
TRENTON, New Jersey--Marketing executives at British drug maker AstraZeneca PLC for years blocked efforts by company scientists to raise concerns the antipsychotic drug Seroquel caused weight gain and other problems, saying that would harm sales, plaintiff lawyers say.
...
Ed Blizzard, a Houston attorney whose firm is helping to represent about 6,000 Seroquel plaintiffs, said data showing Seroquel was "not very effective" and had serious side effects "was either spun or skewed or outright concealed."
...
Seroquel was AstraZeneca's No. 2 drug in sales last year, with revenue of $4.5 billion.
...
In a chain of e-mails in one document, a scientists' safety evaluation committee in June 2000 recommended removing "limited" before the words "weight gain" in the list of Seroquel side effects, because many patients gained significant weight.
Marketing staff suggested trying other explanations, such as whether patients took other drugs that could be blamed. One marketing executive, Medical Affairs Manager Richard Owen, then wrote that such a change "is potentially damaging to Seroquel."
The change in the drug's label was finally made in 2002. That was after Barry Arnold, the vice president for clinical drug safety, complained repeatedly to the physician in charge of Seroquel drug safety about "Commercial (executives) having such an influence."
Yet soon after the label change, AstraZeneca trademarked the term "weight-neutral" as an advertising slogan for Seroquel, Blizzard noted. He said data showed about one-quarter of patients taking Seroquel increased their weight by more than 7 percent. (Note that this is only the 7% weight gain noted during the study which is a much shorter duration that typical treatment.)
Later in 2002, Simon Hagger, global brand manager for Seroquel, e-mailed nearly 20 marketing staffers to say "we are under clear instruction from the highest level within AstraZeneca at this time not to discuss details surrounding trial 41," outside the company. That patient study, concluded that year, found elevated levels of blood sugar.
...
In April, a panel of FDA scientific advisers said Seroquel's side effects, including weight gain, high blood sugar and potential heart problems, were too troubling to make it a first choice against depression or anxiety. On a split vote, the panel said Seroquel could be used as an added therapy for patients taking other medicines but not getting relief from depression. The FDA has yet to issue a final ruling.
...
AstraZeneca faces roughly 15,000 lawsuits over Seroquel, about 60 percent of them in state courts. The first state trial is set to begin in Delaware on June 29. No federal trials have been held yet.
Friday, May 22, 2009
tired title
Today the city of Seattle smiles. Everyone is happy that summer has arrived overnight and is just in time for the May long weekend. People are walking their dogs, camping with their families, visiting the beach and otherwise enjoying the extraordinary weather.
I hate that.
Being depressed is even more depressing when everyone around you is just so damn happy. Friends, families, lovers, acquaintances all running around with permagrins. And me with the must die, must die, must die. I’m not enjoying it.
Thinking about anything at all is making me more upset. Across the road there is a sign that says “Pho 900”. The words are in fire engine red against sunshine yellow. It’s awful. It’s alien. It’s of the humans. It’s wrong.
And in front of that there is a tree of gentle limbs and small leaves. It rustles like butterfly wings in the wind. I can tell it’s beautiful. Lovely. Special. Magical. This makes me feel worse. I can’t feel the things that I know are real, that I know are there. There is a movie running around me. Loud café. In front there is a boyfriend and girlfriend. Her, Asian and tidy, him, clean-cut and sporty. There is too much space between them. To the left are three middle-aged med drinking mimosas. The café is a known gay hangout.
I can see it. I can describe it. It’s in the brain somewhere, but I’m not of it. Maybe they can’t see me.
Dissociation and self-harming desires. It’s typical mental illness. Achingly typical. Nauseatingly typical.
I’m not doing a very good job of taking care of myself. It’s a sure sign. The apartment looks like a tornado hit it and I refuse to shower. And healthy food. When did I last eat something healthy? Whatever. I don’t care. Which is the problem. Someone else needs to care. But there is no one. No one to care. This is why people couple. Another person to balance your yin and yangs. But I’m too broken to couple. Which is ironic, because no one needs care more.
I have told people that the best French toast in the world solves everything. I meant it. It doesn’t isn’t true. I innately understand what is supposed to make a person feel better, and what would make another person feel better, but I also understand that it doesn’t apply to me. Rules never apply to me. It’s like a planet was made where gravity keeps everyone grounded but me. I’m…something else. Something that doesn’t have a word. Humans invent words, and humans don’t feel like this.
And I’m sick of myself for feeling this way. No rationale, no uniqueness, mundane, humdrum depression. No meaningful punctuation, just ellipses. And ellipses. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for my ability to make something happen return. I keep behaving like a human in the hopes I’ll turn into one. Feel like one. Get to be like one. Which I would hate. And I want.
I hate that.
Being depressed is even more depressing when everyone around you is just so damn happy. Friends, families, lovers, acquaintances all running around with permagrins. And me with the must die, must die, must die. I’m not enjoying it.
Thinking about anything at all is making me more upset. Across the road there is a sign that says “Pho 900”. The words are in fire engine red against sunshine yellow. It’s awful. It’s alien. It’s of the humans. It’s wrong.
And in front of that there is a tree of gentle limbs and small leaves. It rustles like butterfly wings in the wind. I can tell it’s beautiful. Lovely. Special. Magical. This makes me feel worse. I can’t feel the things that I know are real, that I know are there. There is a movie running around me. Loud café. In front there is a boyfriend and girlfriend. Her, Asian and tidy, him, clean-cut and sporty. There is too much space between them. To the left are three middle-aged med drinking mimosas. The café is a known gay hangout.
I can see it. I can describe it. It’s in the brain somewhere, but I’m not of it. Maybe they can’t see me.
Dissociation and self-harming desires. It’s typical mental illness. Achingly typical. Nauseatingly typical.
I’m not doing a very good job of taking care of myself. It’s a sure sign. The apartment looks like a tornado hit it and I refuse to shower. And healthy food. When did I last eat something healthy? Whatever. I don’t care. Which is the problem. Someone else needs to care. But there is no one. No one to care. This is why people couple. Another person to balance your yin and yangs. But I’m too broken to couple. Which is ironic, because no one needs care more.
I have told people that the best French toast in the world solves everything. I meant it. It doesn’t isn’t true. I innately understand what is supposed to make a person feel better, and what would make another person feel better, but I also understand that it doesn’t apply to me. Rules never apply to me. It’s like a planet was made where gravity keeps everyone grounded but me. I’m…something else. Something that doesn’t have a word. Humans invent words, and humans don’t feel like this.
And I’m sick of myself for feeling this way. No rationale, no uniqueness, mundane, humdrum depression. No meaningful punctuation, just ellipses. And ellipses. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for my ability to make something happen return. I keep behaving like a human in the hopes I’ll turn into one. Feel like one. Get to be like one. Which I would hate. And I want.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Find Me on Facebook
Curious as to who I am? Well, you can find out on Facebook. Pictures and everything.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Suicide Risk with Anticonvulsants
I was wrong about this previously. This isn't any worse than the warning on antidepressants, but still worth noting. Note that epilepsy drugs are also known as anticonvulsants or mood stabilizers and are sometimes used on and off label for bipolar and depression.
FDA Warns That Epilepsy Drugs May Double Risk of Suicidal Behavior, Thoughts (here)
By Daniel J. DeNoon
WebMD Health NewsJan 31, 2008 -- The FDA warns that 11 epilepsy drugs double a person's risk of suicidal behavior or thoughts, although the overall risk remains small.
The warning comes from an FDA analysis of suicidality -- suicidal behavior or thoughts -- in placebo-controlled studies of 11 drugs known collectively as "antiepileptics." The drugs are used to control seizures and to help control the symptoms of some psychiatric disorders.
"All patients who are currently taking or starting on any antiepileptic drug should be closely monitored for notable changes in behavior that could indicate the emergence or worsening of suicidal thoughts or behavior or depression," the FDA warned in a letter to health professionals.
In the clinical trials, patients receiving inactive placebo pills had a 0.22% incidence of suicidality. Those receiving the epilepsy drugs had a 0.43% incidence of suicidality -- twice that of placebo recipients, but still a very small risk.
The drugs were relatively more likely to be linked to suicidality when used to treat epilepsy than when used to treat psychiatric disorders or other conditions.
The 11 drugs cited by the FDA are:
- carbamazepine (marketed as Carbatrol, Equetro, Tegretol, Tegretol XR)
- felbamate (marketed as Felbatol)
- gabapentin (marketed as Neurontin)
- lamotrigine (marketed as Lamictal)
- levetiracetam (marketed as Keppra)
- oxcarbazepine (marketed as Trileptal)
- pregabalin (marketed as Lyrica)
- tiagabine (marketed as Gabitril)
- topiramate (marketed as Topamax)
- valproate (marketed as Depakote, Depakote ER, Depakene, Depacon)
- zonisamide (marketed as Zonegran)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Stimuli
I have an internalized hatred that won't go away and it manifests itself on every surface of the day. The only thing I can think about is all the mistakes. All the mistakes I make. I forgot my cell phone. Wrong. I ate too much ice cream. Bad. I forgot to use a coupon before its expiration. Bad. I can't believe how awful I look in these pilates pants. Bad. And so on. My brain's in this self replicating loop. It's easy to focus on all the unfortunate trifles. Far too easy.
When I was a child, the circus came to town and my family went. I don't even remember the circus, but I do remember the ride home. My parents had bought each of us balloons to make balloon creatures with and my father blew one of mine up on the way home and it popped. I had a fit. An irrational screaming, crying, child fit. I was unable to accept the popping of one of MY balloons. It was tragic, unfair, and unacceptable. (But then, I was a repressed five-year-old. I also clearly remember the spanking afterwords. They "gave me something to cry about".)
But adults learn to let things go. Don't cry over spilled milk. It's not the end of the world. Nothing is the end of the world.
But the depressed brain thinks everything is the End of the World; or at the very least, it feels like it. Everything is turned into an inescapable fault that negates your reason for being. Nothing about me seems reasonable, or OK. Everything hurts. Every inch of flesh shouldn't be there. Everything is misaligned. Everything is wrong. People wouldn't ask you to live, if they knew how wrong it was. People would encourage your death then. People would probably help you ensure it. If they just understood. If they just understood the wrong.
I know it's the disease. I know it's the thing. I know it's the creepy-crawlies in my brain, getting to me. I know. I know. I know. Knowing doesn't seem to help. Knowledge isn't mightier than depression. I keep fighting like I think it is, but it isn't. If knowledge could beat it back, I would have won by now. I know everything. I know everything. More than you. More than anyone. And nothing helps. Knowledge doesn't change the neurotransmitters. Knowledge doesn't fix a brain.
It's bad form, I think, to hurt yourself when the effects of your last torture haven't yet healed. The bruises are still green on my skin. The bruises over top of my scars. The bruises that I wish weren't there. The bruises that I wish were worse. The bruises that I wish would kill me.
And I'm trapped there in this place, where nothing seems to help, and everything drags me further. I keep ending up here. I keep breathing here. I keep living here. I don't know how to get out. The pain and the suffering is winning, and the scars prove it. I went for such a long time without creating a new scar, and now...and now it seems like the only thing I'm able to do. Broken except for pain. Broken except for suffering. I keep trying to ignore it. I keep trying to pretend it's not there. I keep trying to move, bob, weave, and distract as if nothing is wrong. But everything is wrong. Wrong. It's so wrong that the tears won't even come. It's so wrong that my face has gone beyond sadness to pain. It's so wrong that I've vacated the premises.
When online there is an overabundance of stimuli which I'm convinced is what leads to serious mental illness. When it feels like there is only pain and no feeling it's because there is too much feeling so it only manifests as pain. Everything is so deep. People miss everything. People walk not feeling the air, or their shoes, or their hat, or their eyelashes, but I can feel all of that. All of that at once. All of everything at once. I can tell you that sitting with my feet on a steel chair that there is a slight tingling in the left one and that the bottoms feel dry against the air. I can tell you that the arches feel more than the other parts. I can tell you that they are slightly cooler than the rest of my body.
But nobody feels this. Everyone just feels "normal". All systems are go, OK for life. But I can't get over the stimulation in every thing around me. And it hurts. All systems are go for pain, system checks to continue.
I just can't explain the crazy in my brain. It's messed up. I know that. But I can't explain a land of fire to people who live where there is only ice. It's just too fucking hard.
When I was a child, the circus came to town and my family went. I don't even remember the circus, but I do remember the ride home. My parents had bought each of us balloons to make balloon creatures with and my father blew one of mine up on the way home and it popped. I had a fit. An irrational screaming, crying, child fit. I was unable to accept the popping of one of MY balloons. It was tragic, unfair, and unacceptable. (But then, I was a repressed five-year-old. I also clearly remember the spanking afterwords. They "gave me something to cry about".)
But adults learn to let things go. Don't cry over spilled milk. It's not the end of the world. Nothing is the end of the world.
But the depressed brain thinks everything is the End of the World; or at the very least, it feels like it. Everything is turned into an inescapable fault that negates your reason for being. Nothing about me seems reasonable, or OK. Everything hurts. Every inch of flesh shouldn't be there. Everything is misaligned. Everything is wrong. People wouldn't ask you to live, if they knew how wrong it was. People would encourage your death then. People would probably help you ensure it. If they just understood. If they just understood the wrong.
I know it's the disease. I know it's the thing. I know it's the creepy-crawlies in my brain, getting to me. I know. I know. I know. Knowing doesn't seem to help. Knowledge isn't mightier than depression. I keep fighting like I think it is, but it isn't. If knowledge could beat it back, I would have won by now. I know everything. I know everything. More than you. More than anyone. And nothing helps. Knowledge doesn't change the neurotransmitters. Knowledge doesn't fix a brain.
It's bad form, I think, to hurt yourself when the effects of your last torture haven't yet healed. The bruises are still green on my skin. The bruises over top of my scars. The bruises that I wish weren't there. The bruises that I wish were worse. The bruises that I wish would kill me.
And I'm trapped there in this place, where nothing seems to help, and everything drags me further. I keep ending up here. I keep breathing here. I keep living here. I don't know how to get out. The pain and the suffering is winning, and the scars prove it. I went for such a long time without creating a new scar, and now...and now it seems like the only thing I'm able to do. Broken except for pain. Broken except for suffering. I keep trying to ignore it. I keep trying to pretend it's not there. I keep trying to move, bob, weave, and distract as if nothing is wrong. But everything is wrong. Wrong. It's so wrong that the tears won't even come. It's so wrong that my face has gone beyond sadness to pain. It's so wrong that I've vacated the premises.
When online there is an overabundance of stimuli which I'm convinced is what leads to serious mental illness. When it feels like there is only pain and no feeling it's because there is too much feeling so it only manifests as pain. Everything is so deep. People miss everything. People walk not feeling the air, or their shoes, or their hat, or their eyelashes, but I can feel all of that. All of that at once. All of everything at once. I can tell you that sitting with my feet on a steel chair that there is a slight tingling in the left one and that the bottoms feel dry against the air. I can tell you that the arches feel more than the other parts. I can tell you that they are slightly cooler than the rest of my body.
But nobody feels this. Everyone just feels "normal". All systems are go, OK for life. But I can't get over the stimulation in every thing around me. And it hurts. All systems are go for pain, system checks to continue.
I just can't explain the crazy in my brain. It's messed up. I know that. But I can't explain a land of fire to people who live where there is only ice. It's just too fucking hard.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Useless Hatred
I'm trying to write. I haven't been writing. Being laid off has knocked the stuffing out of me. It's turned my brain into a rock. It's getting better. The rocks are splitting off into smaller rocks, which I appreciate, but rocks still.
And emotional rocks at that. In trying to write I just feel depressed. The book is depressing. My life, is depressing. It's not supposed to be. The point of the book is survival and yet when I look at it, survival isn't what pops into mind. Why aren't I dead already? Seriously, why?
I need to get the thing done. I need to buckle down and do it. (Ooo dirty.) It's taking too long. I have the time. I just don't seem to have the brain. I don't seem to have the desire. I've lost it. Which I knew would happen, I just didn't know when. My brain doesn't like things to be drawn out. I can't keep my energy and enthusiasm up long enough. I'm lucky to get energy or enthusiasm up ever. I don't usually care about anything.
Not caring. It manifests all over the place. Wear the same clothes three days in a row. Don't care. Showers? A pain. Sunny day, big deal. Nothing ranks on my personal care-o-meter. It needs to. I need to care about things to fight back depression. But fighting back depression seems low on my care-o-meter too. Problem.
Ah, my logical mind. My logical mind is so reliable. It knows what has to be done, can make lists and plans to get it done, and even be there while the getting gets done. But my brain. My brain doesn't agree. My brain just wants to sleep. It just wants to be in bed. All the time. Morning naps. Afternoon naps. Long nights. Anything to just silence the crazy for a while. Knowing that I don't care hurts. Knowing that I can't accomplish things because I don't care, hurts. There is just a present ambient pain that doesn't want to leave. It clings tight. Airtight. Nothing getting in, nothing getting out.
Writing is hard because in order to write anything decent, you have to feel it. You have to mean it. Words on a page are nothing. What you're saying has to actually live in your head before you can ever hope for it to live on a page.
My frustration is clear. That much I know. But that certainly isn't enough to get anything useful done. Frustration doesn't build things it just tears them down.
I was hoping this cafe would snap my brain into something more useful. Change of place, change of mind, that sort of thing (plus it's nice not having the cats fight for my lap, they have been insensate since my return). But no, all I really am doing is thinking about how irritatingly loud this annoying music is. Again with the not productive.
And on top of all this, I'm beating myself up about it. Trying and failing and beating. It takes a lot for me to just let something lay. Not punish myself for my own inadequacies. One might say almost a miracle.
And everyone's asking about the book, and the job hunt. And I have nothing to say.
I hate my brain. I hate how hard everything hits me. I hate my limits. I just generally hate me.
And emotional rocks at that. In trying to write I just feel depressed. The book is depressing. My life, is depressing. It's not supposed to be. The point of the book is survival and yet when I look at it, survival isn't what pops into mind. Why aren't I dead already? Seriously, why?
I need to get the thing done. I need to buckle down and do it. (Ooo dirty.) It's taking too long. I have the time. I just don't seem to have the brain. I don't seem to have the desire. I've lost it. Which I knew would happen, I just didn't know when. My brain doesn't like things to be drawn out. I can't keep my energy and enthusiasm up long enough. I'm lucky to get energy or enthusiasm up ever. I don't usually care about anything.
Not caring. It manifests all over the place. Wear the same clothes three days in a row. Don't care. Showers? A pain. Sunny day, big deal. Nothing ranks on my personal care-o-meter. It needs to. I need to care about things to fight back depression. But fighting back depression seems low on my care-o-meter too. Problem.
Ah, my logical mind. My logical mind is so reliable. It knows what has to be done, can make lists and plans to get it done, and even be there while the getting gets done. But my brain. My brain doesn't agree. My brain just wants to sleep. It just wants to be in bed. All the time. Morning naps. Afternoon naps. Long nights. Anything to just silence the crazy for a while. Knowing that I don't care hurts. Knowing that I can't accomplish things because I don't care, hurts. There is just a present ambient pain that doesn't want to leave. It clings tight. Airtight. Nothing getting in, nothing getting out.
Writing is hard because in order to write anything decent, you have to feel it. You have to mean it. Words on a page are nothing. What you're saying has to actually live in your head before you can ever hope for it to live on a page.
My frustration is clear. That much I know. But that certainly isn't enough to get anything useful done. Frustration doesn't build things it just tears them down.
I was hoping this cafe would snap my brain into something more useful. Change of place, change of mind, that sort of thing (plus it's nice not having the cats fight for my lap, they have been insensate since my return). But no, all I really am doing is thinking about how irritatingly loud this annoying music is. Again with the not productive.
And on top of all this, I'm beating myself up about it. Trying and failing and beating. It takes a lot for me to just let something lay. Not punish myself for my own inadequacies. One might say almost a miracle.
And everyone's asking about the book, and the job hunt. And I have nothing to say.
I hate my brain. I hate how hard everything hits me. I hate my limits. I just generally hate me.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Saturday, May 09, 2009
I only know how to punish and not how to forgive
I close my eyes and they burn because tears are resting there, waiting to escape. But how does one never close their eyes?
I walk in the sun and wander my brain. It scrapes and it pokes and it stabs. But I don't know how to must any more vigilance to stay on message.
And even in thinking the thoughts turn to suffering. Everything gets twisted and warped away from reality. The flowers are dangerous; the sunlight a sin. I don't know why.
I walk in the sun and wander my brain. It scrapes and it pokes and it stabs. But I don't know how to must any more vigilance to stay on message.
And even in thinking the thoughts turn to suffering. Everything gets twisted and warped away from reality. The flowers are dangerous; the sunlight a sin. I don't know why.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
After the Layoff
How long has it been since I was laid off? One year, two?
Days. It has been two days. But they aren't days. Days can't mean so much. Days can't do so much. Day isn't a long enough word. Day doesn't have enough depth, or enough colour to hold the experience. Two days isn't right in any universe.
I can't remember what they said in the little room now; I only remember that they said a lot of it. In a vacuum. While I tried not to cry. And marveled at the fact that HR only carries a tiny travel case of tissues. When laying people off. These people are idiots.
And since then I've been crying and trying not to cry, over and over until at times it looked like my eyes might swell shut. Tiny eyes caught in the flood.
And I know I'm in shock. I can tell I'm in shock. I'm not thinking all that clearly and loosing track of details and conversations. My brave face inhibiting my brain.
And he dropped by tonight unexpectedly, his favorite thing, and the kindest thing he could do. To see how I was holding up. I'm up and down; which he probably knew before he asked.
And I tasted his tongue. It must have been the only thing I have tasted in the two years since I was severed. It tasted real. He always tastes real. He always break through the clutter. The brick. The stone.
When he left I sat quietly on the bed and felt the places where his face touched my face. Where his gentle abrasion scraped my flesh. I feel it still. I feel the sting around my lips and on their surface. And his smell. The smell that I can never describe but always know. The smell hovers even though the window is open. Lingering.
That moment was real. I know it was real because I felt the smack. I know it was real because I cried.
But that must have been a month ago now. In an hour. That seems about right.
Days. It has been two days. But they aren't days. Days can't mean so much. Days can't do so much. Day isn't a long enough word. Day doesn't have enough depth, or enough colour to hold the experience. Two days isn't right in any universe.
I can't remember what they said in the little room now; I only remember that they said a lot of it. In a vacuum. While I tried not to cry. And marveled at the fact that HR only carries a tiny travel case of tissues. When laying people off. These people are idiots.
And since then I've been crying and trying not to cry, over and over until at times it looked like my eyes might swell shut. Tiny eyes caught in the flood.
And I know I'm in shock. I can tell I'm in shock. I'm not thinking all that clearly and loosing track of details and conversations. My brave face inhibiting my brain.
And he dropped by tonight unexpectedly, his favorite thing, and the kindest thing he could do. To see how I was holding up. I'm up and down; which he probably knew before he asked.
And I tasted his tongue. It must have been the only thing I have tasted in the two years since I was severed. It tasted real. He always tastes real. He always break through the clutter. The brick. The stone.
When he left I sat quietly on the bed and felt the places where his face touched my face. Where his gentle abrasion scraped my flesh. I feel it still. I feel the sting around my lips and on their surface. And his smell. The smell that I can never describe but always know. The smell hovers even though the window is open. Lingering.
That moment was real. I know it was real because I felt the smack. I know it was real because I cried.
But that must have been a month ago now. In an hour. That seems about right.
Monday, May 04, 2009
We Crazies Are the Majority
Politics in Panama must be seriously different than in North America
I'm thinking we crazies are the majority wouldn't ring quite the same with Americans as Yes we can....With a little more than 43 percent of the votes counted, Panama's Elections Tribunal surprised few by pronouncing Ricardo Martinelli, of the Democratic Change party, the victor.
Martinelli had been leading for a year in the polls over his opponent, Balbina Herrera of the ruling Revolutionary Democratic Party (PRD), by double digits since December.
Known as �El Loco,� Martinelli is the owner of Panama's Super99 supermarket chain and the former president of the Panama Canal Port Authority. Often considered uncharismatic, Martinelli earned his nickname after an e-mail was passed around alleging he suffers from bipolar disorder. After denying the allegations, his campaign launched a new slogan � �we crazies are the majority� � that quickly took hold among his supporters countrywide...
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Distract
I had an orgasm. Just a few moments ago. An orgasm brought on by pornography and fantasy. Writhing and moaning and screaming resulting in a large puddle on the right-hand side of my bed. I sleep on the left. I can plan that far in advance.
I was laying on my front with my legs splayed when it happened and so you can see where the fluid travelled along my hand and wrist and down the indentations where my thighs were. And then as it sinks in, the moisture all blurs together until there’s a wet spot so big that it would indicate that I’m no dehydrated; a cup of water later.
I laid beside the spot and regained my breath. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Just the darkness behind my eyelids. I just wanted to lay there quietly.
But the disquiet of the brain is perverse. In insists on eating the space in my mind I have created. It tells me that my forearms hurt; that my wrists ache. That I only have one desire. That cutting them is the only thing for me.
I lay there in feeling and know there is nothing to be done about it. I lay there knowing that my arms were going to hurt all day. Any time there was space. Any time there was time.
So I put on my pajamas, went downstairs in bare feet, and laid down in the courtyard in the rain.
I get wet from the rain which is odd because humans don’t get wet from the rain, they have umbrellas and rain gear and underground parking and carports so they don’t get wet from the rain. Humans get wet from showers. And facets. Not from the millions of drops of water falling from the sky at any given moment. Those drops they never touch.
It’s cold outside in pajamas, without shoes. I’m facing the sky with my eyes closed. The water droplets invoke a startle response as they hit my face. I’m startled by the ordinary and the everyday. I’m startled by a droplet of water. The droplets are bigger, and smaller, and my nervous system doesn’t want them plummeting onto my face. Even though they mean no harm. Even though their existence is required for mine on earth. I’m startled by them anyway.
I listen to hear each drop as it lands on the metal furniture in the courtyard, on the stone tiles on the ground, on the foliage around me. I can hear a man shout at some sports team with his window open. I wonder if anyone is seeing me, laying in the courtyard, in front of all of their apartments.
And for a moment my arms don’t hurt. I’m thinking of the rain and the wet and the cold. I’m thinking of human absurdity, the earth’s ecosystem, and how everyone should lay in the rain for a moment. I’m thinking of how changing your perspective changes your mind. I’m thinking that all people have to do is walk down a flight of stairs and walk barefoot into the courtyard and lay down to gain a different thought or two. I’m thinking how no one will do that. It’s saddening that crazy people are the only ones who act crazy.
And when I get back up to my apartment I have a few moments of peace. A few moments where I just write, and feel cold and wet and thirsty, and clean my glasses and consider the possibility of socks. Before my arms start hurting again.
Before my arms start hurting again.
I was laying on my front with my legs splayed when it happened and so you can see where the fluid travelled along my hand and wrist and down the indentations where my thighs were. And then as it sinks in, the moisture all blurs together until there’s a wet spot so big that it would indicate that I’m no dehydrated; a cup of water later.
I laid beside the spot and regained my breath. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Just the darkness behind my eyelids. I just wanted to lay there quietly.
But the disquiet of the brain is perverse. In insists on eating the space in my mind I have created. It tells me that my forearms hurt; that my wrists ache. That I only have one desire. That cutting them is the only thing for me.
I lay there in feeling and know there is nothing to be done about it. I lay there knowing that my arms were going to hurt all day. Any time there was space. Any time there was time.
So I put on my pajamas, went downstairs in bare feet, and laid down in the courtyard in the rain.
I get wet from the rain which is odd because humans don’t get wet from the rain, they have umbrellas and rain gear and underground parking and carports so they don’t get wet from the rain. Humans get wet from showers. And facets. Not from the millions of drops of water falling from the sky at any given moment. Those drops they never touch.
It’s cold outside in pajamas, without shoes. I’m facing the sky with my eyes closed. The water droplets invoke a startle response as they hit my face. I’m startled by the ordinary and the everyday. I’m startled by a droplet of water. The droplets are bigger, and smaller, and my nervous system doesn’t want them plummeting onto my face. Even though they mean no harm. Even though their existence is required for mine on earth. I’m startled by them anyway.
I listen to hear each drop as it lands on the metal furniture in the courtyard, on the stone tiles on the ground, on the foliage around me. I can hear a man shout at some sports team with his window open. I wonder if anyone is seeing me, laying in the courtyard, in front of all of their apartments.
And for a moment my arms don’t hurt. I’m thinking of the rain and the wet and the cold. I’m thinking of human absurdity, the earth’s ecosystem, and how everyone should lay in the rain for a moment. I’m thinking of how changing your perspective changes your mind. I’m thinking that all people have to do is walk down a flight of stairs and walk barefoot into the courtyard and lay down to gain a different thought or two. I’m thinking how no one will do that. It’s saddening that crazy people are the only ones who act crazy.
And when I get back up to my apartment I have a few moments of peace. A few moments where I just write, and feel cold and wet and thirsty, and clean my glasses and consider the possibility of socks. Before my arms start hurting again.
Before my arms start hurting again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)