I'm always right about the most wrong things.

Wait for it: http://throughect.blogspot.com/2009/09/wait-for-it.html

Shock #6

ECT zap #6: http://throughect.blogspot.com/2009/09/ow.html

ECT Treatment #4

ECT treatment #4: http://throughect.blogspot.com/2009/09/ignorance.html

End of the Rope

When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.

Words often found under some nauseatingly cute picture of a kitten on a rope. Totally gross. And totally something we all want to believe in.

We all want to believe that when things get really bad and when everything falls apart if we can just hang on and make the tough choices, we'll survive. We'll make it. We'll come out the other side stronger and wiser. Oh yes, it's the pain in life that makes us who we are.

I have not found this to be all that true. I have to make the hard choices all the time. The impossible choices. The choices about electrocuting my brain. The choices about poisoning my body. The decisions about life and death. It sounds like it would be an honor to make these decisions. It seems like only those of elevated positions would be asked to do it. But of course, that's not true. It's just me. Sick, little, cried-out, worn-out, exhausted, over-sleeping, aphasic, depressed me.

And the choices, just because they're hard to make, aren't necessarily the right ones, and don't necessarily work out. I have thought over and over that I have reached the "last thing I would ever do". I have, over and over done what I did not want to do, what I hated, in over to survive, and just keep hanging on.

But it doesn't work. On TV, when someone makes a courageous choice, it always turns out for them. They make the impossibly hard choice and things just "get better".

And I'm doing it again. I'm making the impossible choice. I'm getting my brain electrocuted over and over. And there are no signs that it is doing anything even slightly useful. The only thing being electrocuted is doing is making me feel like shit and further washing away any speck of hope still left in my soul.

I would find the pain and the suffering and the impossible choices survivable if only there were something good on the other side. Something useful. Something other than just more pain.

ECT Treatment #2 Post

ECT Treatment #2: http://throughect.blogspot.com/2009/09/shock-2.html

The first ECT treatment

The first ECT treatment: http://throughect.blogspot.com/2009/09/shock-1.html

ECT Earns It's Own Blog

Hi all.

Tomorrow I go in for ECT. I've been bucking against the idea for years, but I'm going. I made the decision.

So I've decided to chronicle it seperately. This blog is so big you can't anything so ECT can get its own space. I'll be back here, I promise, but just for now, I'm over here.

This Weekend

This weekend I'm planning on doing the 3-day novel so I won't be posting here probably at all. If you're looking for me, try my Twitter.

Onward to what I'm just sure will be a successul 3-day

I'm thinking of doing the 3-day novel again. This is actually my third attempt. My first met with moderate success, my second with little, and now here we are, and attempt number three.

Last time I tried to write a novel about something not-so-depressing. Not happy, per se, but not depressing either. Perhaps why it was not successful, I don't know. Nothing in my head seems to be as fleshed out as the illness. In writing what you know, it seems to be the only thing that fits. which is depressing, in and of itself.

So this time around I'm not fighting it, or at least not as much. We're going to have crazy girls. Girls like me. OK, girls who are more likable than me, because, well, you need someone to actually root for in the story.

I don't know if I can do it. In fact, I think I can't. I know you're not supposed to think that, lest the thought be crowned self-fulfilling, but it doesn't change my assessment: I just don't think I can do it. My brain is too fucked. My writing is too tired. I'm too barren.

And it's too difficult for me to like anything. To difficult for me to like what I write. And it's hard to write and write and write and feel like it's all crap. And worst of all, maybe it is all crap and all these words are just for nothing. Not worth writing as they aren't worth reading.

But then I'm acutely aware that I'm a bad judge of such things in my present state. A bad judge of what is bad. Bad writer. Bad judge. Troubling.

But I want to try anyway. Try futility. Try running into brick. I'm trying to move my mind into a new state. I'm trying to alter my brain to produce new chemicals. I'm just trying to get myself out of the state where I am today. Where I have been for what feels like a year.

And so we open with sex. Lots of gratuitous, screaming, lesbian sex. Or so I think, at this particular moment. It's not actually gratuitous, per se, as it speaks to the characters, but it is, I suppose somewhat excessive, which is the point, actually. Obsessive, excessive; just like me.

But then we move from tangles of raven and blond hair to eventual illness and doctors. Why? Because. Because I think that's the only place that I think life goes. I mean, not for others. Others have things to look forward to, like marriage and friends and kids and whatnot. But not me. I can't see this future for me. I'm not even sure what it sounds like, what it looks like, any more. I can see it, but I can't feel it. I don't really know it. I can't really describe it. Just from looking.

And that's where it falls off the rails for me. That's where I think there's no point in writing. That's where I think it's all so repetitive and boring that no one will want to hear another word from me. All the same words, all of the time.

But think of another story line? Not likely. Not with my brain. Not right now. It seems the repetitive is all I have. How awful. How pointless. Now disappointing. But go forward with the same or go forward with nothing. I guess I will take whatever my meager, sick brain will produce. Something, however underwhelming, being better than nothing, I think.