I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea. When I quoted Pink Floyd in my last journal entry, I meant it. I don't need any drugs to calm me. I'm plenty calm.
Often, I suspect, far, far too calm.
However, it seems I do needs drugs to get me to wake up and face the day.
I'm off the wagon. I'm on the Prozac again.
And it's the right choice. Four different medical professionals have told me so.
And I waited all this time because of her.
Because I believed in her p.o.v, yes, but mostly just for her.
But it's easy to say "you should just pull yourself out of it."
Especially when your father isn't a batch of ash scattered over the North Dakota prairie.
Interesting note: when I started on this shit last year, I was high for something like 72 hours. Straight. It was both awesome and freightening. Mostly awesome.
Science ruins everything. I know I won't become happy, I'll just be allowing the happy chemicals to run free in my head. Potentially damaging their ability to do so without drugs. But they were all being fucking wallflowers, so shit on them.
I don't know why I'm still writing at this point. I've nothing more to say, really.
But then, did I ever?
Saw an amazing set by Lou Barlow last night. He played for well over two hours. I seriously expect the encore was longer than the set itself. He was drinking a lot, kinda fell apart near the end, rambling a long, dull story about a cat. No one else seemed to give a shit, but I felt for Lou. He loved that cat, and he lost it.
(That song, of course, was one giant metaphor for all relationships...meeting, loving, losing...).
He got maudlin. I got maudlin. Everyone else got bored. Whatever.
The point is (& I am driving at one), one lyric stood out more than any other last night.
It's fear that makes me wonder,
and I wonder why I'm afraid.
I wonder that myself.
I could go on for pages, but unlike Lou, I'm not drunk right now. I'm not an artist, either. I know that now.
Maybe that's why I'm afraid.
Edited; Segment from 10/16/04 journal:
There's got to be a catch...right? Can anything in life be this perfect? Everything I know tells me it's not possible, but I've been wrong before. I love being wrong.
I wasn't wrong. I'm never fucking wrong.
Fuck.
Often, I suspect, far, far too calm.
However, it seems I do needs drugs to get me to wake up and face the day.
I'm off the wagon. I'm on the Prozac again.
And it's the right choice. Four different medical professionals have told me so.
And I waited all this time because of her.
Because I believed in her p.o.v, yes, but mostly just for her.
But it's easy to say "you should just pull yourself out of it."
Especially when your father isn't a batch of ash scattered over the North Dakota prairie.
Interesting note: when I started on this shit last year, I was high for something like 72 hours. Straight. It was both awesome and freightening. Mostly awesome.
Science ruins everything. I know I won't become happy, I'll just be allowing the happy chemicals to run free in my head. Potentially damaging their ability to do so without drugs. But they were all being fucking wallflowers, so shit on them.
I don't know why I'm still writing at this point. I've nothing more to say, really.
But then, did I ever?
Saw an amazing set by Lou Barlow last night. He played for well over two hours. I seriously expect the encore was longer than the set itself. He was drinking a lot, kinda fell apart near the end, rambling a long, dull story about a cat. No one else seemed to give a shit, but I felt for Lou. He loved that cat, and he lost it.
(That song, of course, was one giant metaphor for all relationships...meeting, loving, losing...).
He got maudlin. I got maudlin. Everyone else got bored. Whatever.
The point is (& I am driving at one), one lyric stood out more than any other last night.
It's fear that makes me wonder,
and I wonder why I'm afraid.
I wonder that myself.
I could go on for pages, but unlike Lou, I'm not drunk right now. I'm not an artist, either. I know that now.
Maybe that's why I'm afraid.
Edited; Segment from 10/16/04 journal:
There's got to be a catch...right? Can anything in life be this perfect? Everything I know tells me it's not possible, but I've been wrong before. I love being wrong.
I wasn't wrong. I'm never fucking wrong.
Fuck.
VIEW 18 of 18 COMMENTS
- Those songs that you love, and loved to associate with her. Now the associations are stuck, but you still fucking love those songs. So you listen to them anyway. And listen to them.
- And listen to them, hoping for the erosion of memory. Allowing the days and nights to slip further away, into the darkness, the haze. Touching from a distance, further all the time.
Fuck. This is the worst part of missing someone. I fucking torture myself with songs that remind me of people I love and miss. I even had my daughter burn me a cd full of nothing but those songs. Just glad she never asked me why I wanted that strange mix of songs on one cd.
Ive never met anyone who liked being on anti-depressants. They all said it made them worse in the long run. I know, easy to say.
Man, am I tired of being right!
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