Oh hello. Isn't it a funny situation when everything seems lovely, charmed even, and you go to work and you are perky happy good-looking, and then things start moving along a bit fast and you are oh-so-capable and then after all of the nausea, missed sleep and racing thoughts you find out, as you sort of already knew, that you are hypo-manic or manic or just too fucking fast. Oops, that was a question - right, so isn't it odd? When you are spinning but you don't quite know it? Like the way we useta play records on the wrong speed? Was that a question? Huh?I have wanted to write many times but it has been hard to pin down, so to speak, exactly what I would be saying. The letters would be barely enough to communicate the hash of emotion and the words would be sluggish, with the slimy-dull trail that slugs leave behind. My brother's birthday was in the first week of February, and I remember the actual day very well - or more to the point, the actual moment when we heard that we had a baby brother. Now his birthday is a psychological squeeze, the paradox of his not-alive self. "I cannot fathom it," he once told me, in response to an awful experience I had had, and now those words are truly apt.
So rather than fathom, my clever gray cells have developed an altogether new situation that provides so much distraction from true feelings that I can pretend I have none (apart from nervous anxiety, of course). The clincher, the rub, as it were, may be that one of my anti-depressants is actually fucking me up. There is no way to really know at the moment so I am taking something on top of everything else to calm myself, and waiting to do it one-by-one. I am not going to change a whole buncha crap so that we can guess what happened.
I would like to state, for the record, or for posterity, or for my one dear reader and the dog, that anxiety is painful. It fucking hurts. It caused me to do things that showed less-than-perfect judgment. Other people may have less-than-perfect judgment anyway, but mine is usually e
xcellent, despite my other flaws. Fortunately, no one in my personal life has the opportunity to judge me, nor would they. And that is the patched-together first attempt to write; and so I boldly, or simply, go on, externally functioning and internally visualizing the old 'Road-Runner' cartoons: surely there was a swish, after he went "beep, beep," that no one could truly see, and no one had taken the time to deliberately draw. Too fast to decipher - that was the message. Aha! A goal. Perhaps a swith from the old Warner Brothers to the calming and contemporary Miyazaki?
