1 am thoughts:
Can I make it to 4 nights on about 4 hours of sleep total?
Today was interesting. I was just so exhausted, yet wired. I had to stamp 1032 postcards for work, so the repetition was good for me; I didn’t need to think too much.
I was on a strict diet of coffee, cigarettes, and ibuprofen today- coffee to keep me going, cigarettes to curb my anxiety, and ibuprofen because the headache that ensues after drinking 3 glasses of wine at 4 am is a bitch.
Oh, last night. I didn’t think I was going to make it out alive. I felt, I mean I truly felt, that I was slipping away. I have had a few episodes of sheer psychosis. I feel one coming. I thought maybe last night I was going to break.
I’m sitting here, blogging and watching Adventure Time.
I went to a show earlier tonight. It was an Animation Breakdown, sponsored by Cinefamily, for Devin Flynn. This guys is pretty nifty. He’s done animation for Wonder Showzen, Flying Lotus, Adult Swim…
He shared 2 hours worth of animation rarities. It was like a acid trip, to say the least.
1:30 am thoughts
My liver is a champion.
My coworker seemed concerned about me today. I’ve told her a little bit about what was going on. Not too much. She works in my department in human resources, so I feel that I need her to at least know, to some extent, that I’m going through a hard time. She’s definitely covered for me, since our boss is a Scientologist…blah, blah, blahbadyfuck. Wouldn’t he flip if he knew I’m starting meds soon…
Which reminds me, that psych never returned my call. I’m going to go back and grab my script for the Zyprexa. Right? Shouldn’t I at least try it out?
To be quite honest, I’m absolutely terrified of starting medication. Physically and mentally.
I wrote this poem a long time ago when I began my journey on lithium…. It’s called The Wonderful Doctor Rogers. When I submitted my first manuscript, the title of my poetic compilation was called The Wonderful Doctor Rogers and Other Glorious Affairs. (Read out loud, if you want…or not…I’m not the boss of you)
Blinking bulbs buzz around aluminum.
A quiet pulse pushes platinum
through my steel veins.
The monitors above me
spill LCD shadows against my chest.
Where am I?
A dozen rusty-edged cans
lay scattered around
the operating room.
They’re full of wheels and
bolts and screws.
The wonderful Doctor Rogers
shuffles through the white-lit room
lulling a crate of wires.
He turns to me, turns confused.
I cock my mechanical head.
With his large left hand,
he pushes my eyelids down.
I feel pressure on what seems to be my skull.
I listen to the sonic scalpel-scraping sound.
“Now, darling, be still,” he says
with a whispering croak.
“Don’t move an inch.”
A chisel chills my hybrid frame.
My eye sockets feel loose,
and my tendons the same.
The doctor hums a tune or two
as he works away on my skeleton.
“You’ll be good as new once
I’m through with you.”
My wrists pop back into place.
The floor, its swirled with
a demonic face.
This argentate plasma smells
like plastic. My embossed veins
are heavy with it.
2 am thoughts. Dear sleep, where are you?