Title from Buzzov*en, “Shove” from the album …To a Frown
I learned something interesting at my head shrinking session a couple days ago. Apparently, the current medical knowledge of the last decade or so indicates that anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication has little or no effect on bipolar symptoms, and in many cases can actually exacerbate manic symptoms and trigger manic episodes. This according to a psychiatric professional, so I would assume the information is legit.
So, basically this means the last fifteen years or so of having the entire spectrum of SSRIs and whatnot flunge at me was, as I had come to suspect, doing fuck all for me, and in fact is partly to blame for the constant headcase fuckery cycle of recurring bullshit. All clinical terms, I assure you.
This is one reason I have such a distrust of doctors. Plus they keep trying to harvest my organs for their secret black magic rituals. Just kidding. Probably… 😉
Title from Fistula, “Smoke Cat Hair and Toenails”, from the album Vermin Prolificus
Manic as fuck. This has been building. It’s a frantic race to nowhere. A deranged rat on a hamster wheel. The sedatives aren’t working (“I think I can handle my sedatives, bro…” -Charlie). Cyclical thought experiments. Running through my past transgressions. Recall, revisit, rewrite, restore. This is why the lines get blurred.
Suddenly, focus. Something intense, white hot, piercing, and its all that there is. It envelopes from the inside out, wraps tentacles, consuming. It is all that there is.
It is gone. And there is nothing. Less than nothing.
Fractured psyche, rearranged. The protective cover of scar tissue. Healing. Growth. Change…
It’s been just under six months that I’ve been completely off any sort of psychiatric medication. The last set of meds I was on triggered strange and terrible bouts of manic insanity, and I wanted to get back to an unmedicated baseline to see what that felt like. At no time in the last six months have I felt any better or more stable than before, though I have had a fair share of days that were much worse: my experience with mental illness, much like my experiences as an active drug addict, is that just when you think you’ve reached your lowest point, life is about to show you just how much more fucked it can be.
For the most part, however, being completely off psychiatric medication for me does not feel all that much different from how I remember feeling while I was on psychiatric medication. Which, in my mind, confirms my suspicions that the meds I’ve been on in the past have done fuck all to address my symptoms. They seem to work for a short while, but then…
I have an appointment this week with a witch doctor or shaman of some sort to discuss the possibility of getting back on some type of psychiatric drug regimen. I will obviously be taking the doctor’s opinion and advice into consideration, but as it stands I am honestly torn about whether or not I want to start back on that shit again. The idea of finding some type of relief from some of these symptoms of insanity sounds rather fanfuckingtastic. However, with each past experience with psych drugs I grow increasingly doubtful of the effectiveness of medication at all.
Besides, I’ve grown rather fond of some of my imaginary friends. Some of them. The rest of you can fuck right off! 😉
Perhaps one of the times my head explodes, these spiders will come pouring out. There will be casualties. The truly hardy ones will scatter on remaining legs to those dark corners of existence where few would think to find shelter. The ones who make it back before I finish reassembling my shattered skull will have stories weighty with wisdom they will refuse to tell. Because not everything in this life is meant to be shared.
I’m a man of my word, and that word is always regret…
…I’m trying to be the best man that I can,
Things don’t always work out in the end…
A spider lives inside my head
Who weaves a strange and wondrous web
Of silken threads and silver strings
To catch all sorts of flying things,
Like crumbs of thoughts and bits of smiles
And specks of dried-up tears,
And dust of dreams that catch and cling
For years and years and years…
*I absolutely ripped this device off from a fellow WordPress bleeder, the lovely and talented “Zeebam”. Her unique photography and poignantly emotive writings hit home in a certain way, like this piece here.
I don’t yet know where the Scorn lives. But when it comes out to play, it casts its shadow over everything. It permeates unsparingly, absolutely. The things it feeds on die with agonizing deflation. It feeds on all things. When it is here, it is the only thing that exists, and it will not be controlled. Those which it takes leave their death cries resounding through the air for eternity. And some days that is all I hear.
I suspect almost every day that I’m living for nothing, I get depressed and I feel self-destructive and a lot of the time I don’t like myself. What’s more, the proximity of other humans often fills me with overwhelming anxiety, but I also feel that this precarious sentience is all we’ve got and, simplistic as it may seem, it’s a person’s duty to the potentials of his own soul to make the best of it. We’re all stuck on this often miserable earth where life is essentially tragic, but there are glints of beauty and bedrock joy that come shining through from time to precious time to remind anybody who cares to see that there is something higher and larger than ourselves. And I am not talking about your putrefying gods, I am talking about a sense of wonder about life itself and the feeling that there is some redemptive factor you must at least search for until you drop dead of natural causes.
I’ve been reflecting lately on the pervasive idea that I don’t have anyone in my life who I trust implicitly. Obsessive ruminations feeding a chasm of paranoia. An inability to forgive, to see the other side, to let go. Precious solitude reflected in a negative. Strangers seem easier, but only objectively. There is no worry in the unknown there, because nobody actually exists to me until I have to look them in the eye. And then suddenly they are all too real, and in an instant they own a piece of me which I never knew I had, never knew enough to miss until it is ripped away. I tell myself lies like there aren’t many pieces left, in feeble attempts at self comfort, but the truth I keep buried in the back of my skull is that this will go on infinitely because two things are forever. And one of them is suffering.
Everything will be good for a time. A new job. A new person. A connection. A fleeting sense of normalcy. The illusion of purpose. Distractions. The crash is as inevitable as it is unpredictable. Violent end to a destructive ruse with no chance of self-sufficiency. A facade which cannot be maintained. Something triggers and the mask slips. And what’s underneath is a little bit less than before. Eternal rotting. Pieces torn away and dissolved. In time there will be nothing left.
I think I might be schizophrenic. Does doubt concerning one’s own sanity itself exclude the possibility of insanity? I am definitely paranoid and delusional. As stated here before, I can identify certain things in my mind as absurd and delusional on an intellectual level, but that does not prevent me from believing these absurdities to be true, on an emotional level. It is impossible to form or maintain any sort of healthy and lasting connection with another person when the things in your mind are constantly distorting and perverting your interactions with and perceptions of everyone and everything around you. Paranoia and confusion breed frustration and I only know how to react in anger and desperation. Those closest to me suffer the brunt of my unpredictable and destructive flailing throes of madness even as I doubt the very legitimacy of their existence. How can I make any attempts to resolve my issues when I don’t even know what’s “real”? This life is a fucking joke and I am the punchline.