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chem lab
March 17, 2005
WARNING - lots of people didn't like this. we'll talk about that here.
i've been doing chemistry experiments in my head. last week - or was it the week before? - i ran out of medication. the lamictal and depakote cocktail slowly drained out of my body over the days, the week - or was it two?
fittingly, the little amber bottles went empty around the time i began wondering if the effects of the medications, positive and negative, were worth it. not surprisingly, the little amber bottles went empty at about the time i couldn't afford to drop $75 on refills. i actually had a few of the depakote left, but the doubt had begun, and the experiment was on.
so, over the last couple of weeks - or has it been only one? - i've been able to observe the outcomes of deprivation, to map the path back to my own peculiar sort of madness.
sure enough, the draining hopelessness crept back, the narrowing of perspective, the loss of potential energy seeming to weaken not only my will, but my body, as well.
the manic spark did not truly return to my brain until the past couple of days, but it was sporadic, and sputtering, and not the flashes of brilliance i once felt. i think that takes a bit more time, as if mania needs to rebuild its strength, as if there were little tinder in my mind for the sparks to catch fire.
there was lots of drinking to factor in over the last couple of weeks - or did it only start last week? certainly, last week, it was almost daily. last monday night, i played ball with a distinct buzz, which actually seemed to help.
i was freer that night than usual, moving un-selfconsciously, running swiftly, spinning, seeing everything, seeing where people were, had been and would be, and all i had to do was make sure the ball was there for them, too.
every day of my life, every day of my life, every damned day of my life, it's fear and doubt that impair me, frustrate my life, stifle my writing, stymie my relationships, and certainly, absolutely, turn me into a hapless observer on the basketball court. for once, last monday, playing drunk, i played unimpaired, sober, more in touch with the moment than i ever am.
but the game, as always, is a world unto itself. my life bleeds into it, and the game bleeds into my life, yet they are separate worlds. the rest of the week unmedicated was conflict. freedom clashed with doubt, clarity with anxiety.
sunday, at an afternoon birthday party, i went, a wonderfully rich made-from-scratch devil's food cake in hand. i intended to remain sober, to not drink, for dietary and psychiatric reasons. i got there, and found it's nearly impossible to graze on crawfish and burgers on a beautiful day outdoors and ignore the keg.
sometime later, a friend we'll call mcpickle came to me, opened her hand, and told me to take the little red half-pill that lay there.
in the course of my life, i've had friends who acted as trustworthy guide spirits to me, people who i would name as the most important bad influences in my life. mcpickle is one of those people. she has encouraged bouts of badness, but has never left me alone in them. the first (and so far, only) time i tried mushrooms, she was actually not the instigator, but when things went badly, she was there.
i tried the 'shrooms on an evening when i was unmedicated, and in rare manic form. with my mind already firing, the mushrooms opened the throttle up even wider, and my brain simply couldn't take it. ideas i've struggled towards expressing all my life resolved themselves in my mind, but as i tried to communicate them, i could only approach the truth asymptotically - i could draw closer and closer, but not speak the words.
the frustration became maddening. i walked in small circles, talking in small circles, pounding my head, laughing maniacally with frustration. eventually, i recognized the symptoms as aphasia - "without speech."
as i started repeating "it's aphasia. that's it, it's aphasia," mcpickle came out of her room and asked me, "yes, it is, rob. but is it wernicke's or broca's?"
that was one of the few things all evening that stopped the rampage of thought in my head. i struggled. i looked at her. i told her i had no freaking idea.
mcpickle nodded and went back to bed.
for the next couple of hours, i got worse, eventually becoming convinced that everyone around me were only personifications of various elements of my own psyche. at some point, someone gave me pen and a stack of paper. the next morning, the house was strewn with paper bearing the scrawlings of a temporary madman, some of which made a frightening amount of sense. also worth noting were the several times that i wrote down what someone said before they walked into the room.
but, as i so often do, i digress.
the point is, at the end of the night, it was mcpickle that looked for me, found me in the room where i was in a fetal position in the middle of the floor, put a pillow under my head and a blanket over me.
the other point is, the understandable and not-unfounded fear of drugs tends to make people doubt or dismiss the mind-expanding effects as delusional, as false visions. but i know for a fact, empirically, that there's something to it. i have the awkward omnipresence of my hyper-analytical personality and the understanding of my own odd brain chemistry to draw on, to give me the foundation for belief. logic and memory remained inviolate, verified by the accounts of my friends and the written record i often leave scattered around the testing grounds.
so sunday, regardless of my state of mind after taking the little half-pill, truth survived, thrived. the truth of my aloneness remained - there was nowhere in mind to go without still knowing that i was there alone. the best moment of it all was mcpickle herself plopping herself in my lap to examine the contents of my iPod, that we had hooked up to the studio monitors. she sat there, and understood, and held me close, all non-sexual, but comforting.
the moment passed, though. things continued to slide. pressure at work increased, optimism and hope decreased. today, for the first time in months, i didn't go to work because i just couldn't do it, mentally. last night, i went to the store, spending $5.25 of my last $5.85 in the bank on a four-pack of murphy's stout, having already downed a couple. i used the $2.00 cash i had to put gas in the car - click, whirr, click, and done, just that quickly. the fuel warning light remained on.
it was happening again, the drain of will, and the beer was at once an indulgence, a crutch, and a hopeful antidote.
this morning, i wasn't hung over. just hopeless. i got up, leaned over the sink, disgusted with my body, my bald spot, my own face. i wanted to try, tried to want. once again, i could find nothing in today or tomorrow. whatever fun the weekend or yesterday had been, they were gone, done, and the meaning was gone, too. there was nothing to look forward to, nothing to work towards, no ledge of silly, dreamy-eyed hope or desire, no fantastic future to grasp at.
there was only the terrible truth and emptiness of being conscious, the meaninglessness of duty and routine. no love. there was no love in my heart. for a week - or has it been two weeks? or has it been two years, now? - i haven't believed in love, haven't been able to imagine how it feels, what it might mean.
today, my old friend john loaned me some money, $100.
i thanked him. some will go to put some more gas in the car. some will go to pick up my laundry tomorrow morning - i've recycled a handful of sweaters and shirts and pants for a couple of weeks now. some, a bit too much, went to food and drink tonight. and the rest, today, went to buy 30 tiny white pills in a little amber bottle.
Posted by Rob at March 17, 2005 12:26 AM
Comments
You just made me cry, Rob.
Posted by: Amelia Dye at March 17, 2005 02:17 AM
Does this mean you aren't going to make it up here in May? That would make me very sad :(
Posted by: Sheila at March 22, 2005 11:16 AM