Taking Pills With Coffee
I know I promised descriptions of the better nights I have been having. You'll get those.
You get this first.
I take pills to sleep.
I take pills to live.
Some of the pills are prescribed.
The Kitten circles my lap like a shark deciding on the moment to strike chum dumped into the ocean.
There are so many sounds in the night. The uneven wheeze of my own breath startles me. The kitten has too much room to run and the floorboards creak beneath the thumps of her paws. She sounds much larger than she is when she hits the ground. She sounds much less graceful. Her movements are quick, but so classically cat like. She could have been a model. If I wasn't holding her back.
Here are some observations from the last couple of days:
On Tuesday I saw a new psychiatrist. Psychiatrists are the ones that give you the drugs. I slept in until my appointment. I didn't feel up to work. I have been avoiding my stats classwork. With so many things. This, for instance. A playlist for my wedding-birthday, which will be discussed much later I'm sure. Sleep, mostly. I have been avoiding a lot with sleep this week. There were some concerns that I might be feeling bad because of the plume of toxicity that was released about 10 miles from my house. Perhaps a little more. It was most likely psychosomatic. The threat is no more real than the threat of the demons in the shadows. Which, incidentally, is why the new psychiatrist put me back on anti-psychotics. The previous doctors took me off the Abilify because they thought the mood stabilizers would be enough. The previous doctors were wrong.
Not too wrong- but persistent paranoia wrong.
There's probably possums, maybe raccoons, in the crawlspace above. I remember reading once that a woman lived inside a man's home, sneaking behind the ceiling tiles when he was awake, and I am not unconvinced that someone is doing the same to me. There's never any missing food, though. Or toilet paper. My sister asked me where I thought they were going to the bathroom. Honestly, I assumed they would sneak out through the garage to get supplies and find a bathroom. Not everyone goes to the bathroom often. Maybe they have a system of diapers and external catheters. How am I supposed to know? I can't plan around their needs. But I also keep an unusual schedule. And this place isn't that nice. There are probably nicer places for someone to sneak into and secretly live in. Somewhere with more comfortable ceiling tiles. Somewhere without a leaky roof. There will probably be consequences to leaving the raccoons alone. Someday they'll take over the house with the squatter.
In the afternoon I took the Lamictal and two Excedrin with a gulp of coffee. It did not go down smoothly. That's not what coffee is meant to do.
I hadn't woken up with enough time to take the mood stabilizer- which the psychiatrist opened and eyeballed. I was chastised for likely skipping more than a day here and there. "What do you do in the morning? Keep this in your bathroom with a glass of water. It's important that you don't go more than a few days without taking this- or we'll have to taper the dose again to make sure you don't have an allergic reaction." Honestly, I knew this. When I jumped back on the medication on my own. There was a minor concern that even though I hadn't had a reaction when I originally started them in Austin, the pills may betray me. Then I would have to get on Lithium. Which would logically necessitate a heroin habit followed by a bloody suicide, and I just don't think I'm ready for that commitment. Or, I could lose my sex drive and gain weight...and honestly, I'm so disgustingly conditioned to hate my own body I would rather be full on crazy than gain any more weight. Which leads to a cycle of wondering "why the fuck am I like this?" for a good half hour.
I was reading an article on Slate - partially. The click-bait title drew me in, I must confess. However, it taught me a valuable concept: in architecture there is something called the "desire line." I operate almost exclusively within the desire line. It's the path worn by people cutting across the landscape and off the paths created for them. I feel historically I am almost never on the right path. Honestly, I literally walk desire lines all across campus. From the train to the classroom I cut through at least 2 parking lots, 2 hedges, 1 sad little strip of crab grass and 3 regular grass areas. It's comforting at least that I am not alone, these are well worn paths. Procrastination is a well worn path. Tragic relationships and fits of partying and risky behavior. So many have cut through life this way, it shouldn't worry if I see an opening that way.
The rail line put up a small chain to deter people from creating desire lines and jaywalking across the street. There is a dedicated point of crossing with a nice little button that makes the cars stop eventually, but we all climbed into the rail line right behind the train and patiently waited for an opening to rush across. It was quite sudden. I took the train to campus in the morning, and when I returned the little chain blockade was up. Slightly agitated I gave in to this restriction and crossed at the crosswalk. No one presses the button. We still wait for an opening to exploit.
Then, on a bright afternoon, a rubber-ended cane slipped between the top two chains. It was followed by a very tan wrinkled arm in the blue plaid uniform of a retired manual laborer. The same shirt of which my father owns no less than 3. A loose-jeaned leg swung through as a baseball cap ducked under, all the while the peanut brittle arm wavered with the weight of the cane that could not find stable ground. The rubber tip carefully hit the very narrow ledge beyond the chains as the small 60-70 year old Hispanic man pulled himself through. He teetered at the edge, and I found that I could not tear myself away to make my way to the train. It could leave without me. I had to make sure that someone was watching in case this stand-in for my parents got hurt. He lurched forward, then back as another truck sped past. I don't understand the startling lack of concern motorists have for the elderly- maybe they hate their parents? Maybe they're as old as he is and are the type to feel no one should get hand-outs like safe passage across a road? Old Hispanic men who presume they succeeded on their own. Who vote Republican and agree that they should build a wall. Men who don't know they're only accepted by the Right at conventions and in public spaces where it's acknowledged that they need to court the "Latino" vote, but disparaged in dog-whistles they've gone deaf to. Slurs and hate they think applies to the other.
They're one of the good ones.
And this frail guy who could have used a boy scout to help him across was not.
I considered whether this man would be okay with me stepping out to help him. I could probably have signaled for people to stop. Or pressed the magic button. But I considered my own father's resentment when I bought him a cake for his birthday. The bizarre stigma against getting assistance from a younger woman. So, I just watched. Waiting to rush out when he got hit. To call 9-1-1. To be someone who cried for him so he knew he mattered. To dramatically hold his hand and tell him he'd be okay. Like that squirrel I once moved out of the street after it got side-swiped in front of me.
He made it across. Then I made it across. Everyone was lucky to be alive.
The hedges look fake in the soft glow of the night. Waxy. They have the benefit of a filter from the artificial lights. The hedges I cut through on my way to "study."
I think my coworker is getting closer to trying to convert me. It's odd to think that someone might feel they could save my soul. I think my sister gave up after her conversion- or perhaps it wasn't a conversion, just an open acknowledgement of belief. Perhaps her and my mother just try to trick themselves into believing some inherent grace will keep me from whatever fire or nothingness absorbs the people who don't make it to the holy afterlife.
Anyway. He's begun openly discussing his preference for Jesus rock. And I referred him to Sufjan Stevens, who, as I have mentioned, is secretly somewhat pious. At the very least, he's the only religious artist I consistently listen to...I also mentioned that a lot of rappers seem to be pretty into Jesus. He countered, of course, that they don't carry his teachings in their hearts or something. Artists who are truly into God don't create for themselves, but to further the agenda of the Lord. So, regular rappers who talk about bitches and want that ice cannot be true believers. Which is a level of exclusivity that I find kind of off-putting. Not that I could ever be religious. I'd never live it down. The witches I make blood pacts with in the night under the holy light of Sailor Moon would perceive this as a betrayal for sure.
He threw out some band names- and behind the sunglasses I was wearing because I forgot my regular ones, I shook my head, taking a strong drink of water like I came in severely hung over. The anti-psychotics are very dehydrating. I had seven 16oz glasses of water yesterday and a couple of 8oz cups. I was peeing every half hour. I wonder if this made me an attractive candidate for possible conversion. He didn't know who Sufjan Stevens is...like I said, I told him he was religious. And tragic. And tried to explain him without explicitly stating his obsession with suicide that birthed my obsession with him. Nor how disgustingly attractive he is. The best I could do to express that this was surely a lost cause, and though Sufjan was a herald he was never one this poor boy should be privy to, was to note that he had a song about John Wayne Gacy. He didn't know who that was. Which led to a mumbled explanation that he was a serial killer, omitting the homosexuality of course, and that Sufjan Stevens was sort of using him as an extreme example of how essential to humanity terrible secrets are. I read this AV Club blurb once about a contributor whose girlfriend refused to listen to the song because she felt it trivialized his victims. I can't really argue that this is an incorrect reading of the song. It certainly doesn't give much weight to their suffering in it's attempt to relate and humanize John, but I think there's merit to breaching the gap we create between ourselves and monsters. Anomalies they may be, they were as essentially human as anyone else, until proven otherwise. There's likely a small statistical potential for anyone to fall prey to whatever illness drives them. Which is a reading that should not be extended solely to white criminals, of course...
It was a difficult excuse to mumble.
The shrug-off that followed his repeated invitation to listen to something "positive" with "a good message" was less difficult but more regrettable. It's not my aesthetic. Which is harder to explain without mentioning the attempted suicides, and general mental instability. I don't think I will ever come clean with him about that. I don't think he could take it. Or understand.
I took karate classes for a few years. I was getting pretty good. I definitely enjoyed it. But we went to karate at the YMCA. This wasn't an issue for the first year or so, but my teacher had some marital problems or something. After he left a new younger cuter teacher came in, which seemed miraculous at first. Then he told my diabetic nephew that "faith" could help him overcome juvenile diabetes. I never went back.
I don't think I would be as composed if my coworker suggested The Lord could get rid of the nagging thoughts. If yoga and cocaine couldn't fix it I don't think any amount of church could.
Plus he goes to family chain restaurants all the time, and who wants that?
You get this first.
I take pills to sleep.
I take pills to live.
Some of the pills are prescribed.
The Kitten circles my lap like a shark deciding on the moment to strike chum dumped into the ocean.
There are so many sounds in the night. The uneven wheeze of my own breath startles me. The kitten has too much room to run and the floorboards creak beneath the thumps of her paws. She sounds much larger than she is when she hits the ground. She sounds much less graceful. Her movements are quick, but so classically cat like. She could have been a model. If I wasn't holding her back.
Here are some observations from the last couple of days:
On Tuesday I saw a new psychiatrist. Psychiatrists are the ones that give you the drugs. I slept in until my appointment. I didn't feel up to work. I have been avoiding my stats classwork. With so many things. This, for instance. A playlist for my wedding-birthday, which will be discussed much later I'm sure. Sleep, mostly. I have been avoiding a lot with sleep this week. There were some concerns that I might be feeling bad because of the plume of toxicity that was released about 10 miles from my house. Perhaps a little more. It was most likely psychosomatic. The threat is no more real than the threat of the demons in the shadows. Which, incidentally, is why the new psychiatrist put me back on anti-psychotics. The previous doctors took me off the Abilify because they thought the mood stabilizers would be enough. The previous doctors were wrong.
Not too wrong- but persistent paranoia wrong.
There's probably possums, maybe raccoons, in the crawlspace above. I remember reading once that a woman lived inside a man's home, sneaking behind the ceiling tiles when he was awake, and I am not unconvinced that someone is doing the same to me. There's never any missing food, though. Or toilet paper. My sister asked me where I thought they were going to the bathroom. Honestly, I assumed they would sneak out through the garage to get supplies and find a bathroom. Not everyone goes to the bathroom often. Maybe they have a system of diapers and external catheters. How am I supposed to know? I can't plan around their needs. But I also keep an unusual schedule. And this place isn't that nice. There are probably nicer places for someone to sneak into and secretly live in. Somewhere with more comfortable ceiling tiles. Somewhere without a leaky roof. There will probably be consequences to leaving the raccoons alone. Someday they'll take over the house with the squatter.
In the afternoon I took the Lamictal and two Excedrin with a gulp of coffee. It did not go down smoothly. That's not what coffee is meant to do.
I hadn't woken up with enough time to take the mood stabilizer- which the psychiatrist opened and eyeballed. I was chastised for likely skipping more than a day here and there. "What do you do in the morning? Keep this in your bathroom with a glass of water. It's important that you don't go more than a few days without taking this- or we'll have to taper the dose again to make sure you don't have an allergic reaction." Honestly, I knew this. When I jumped back on the medication on my own. There was a minor concern that even though I hadn't had a reaction when I originally started them in Austin, the pills may betray me. Then I would have to get on Lithium. Which would logically necessitate a heroin habit followed by a bloody suicide, and I just don't think I'm ready for that commitment. Or, I could lose my sex drive and gain weight...and honestly, I'm so disgustingly conditioned to hate my own body I would rather be full on crazy than gain any more weight. Which leads to a cycle of wondering "why the fuck am I like this?" for a good half hour.
I was reading an article on Slate - partially. The click-bait title drew me in, I must confess. However, it taught me a valuable concept: in architecture there is something called the "desire line." I operate almost exclusively within the desire line. It's the path worn by people cutting across the landscape and off the paths created for them. I feel historically I am almost never on the right path. Honestly, I literally walk desire lines all across campus. From the train to the classroom I cut through at least 2 parking lots, 2 hedges, 1 sad little strip of crab grass and 3 regular grass areas. It's comforting at least that I am not alone, these are well worn paths. Procrastination is a well worn path. Tragic relationships and fits of partying and risky behavior. So many have cut through life this way, it shouldn't worry if I see an opening that way.
The rail line put up a small chain to deter people from creating desire lines and jaywalking across the street. There is a dedicated point of crossing with a nice little button that makes the cars stop eventually, but we all climbed into the rail line right behind the train and patiently waited for an opening to rush across. It was quite sudden. I took the train to campus in the morning, and when I returned the little chain blockade was up. Slightly agitated I gave in to this restriction and crossed at the crosswalk. No one presses the button. We still wait for an opening to exploit.
Then, on a bright afternoon, a rubber-ended cane slipped between the top two chains. It was followed by a very tan wrinkled arm in the blue plaid uniform of a retired manual laborer. The same shirt of which my father owns no less than 3. A loose-jeaned leg swung through as a baseball cap ducked under, all the while the peanut brittle arm wavered with the weight of the cane that could not find stable ground. The rubber tip carefully hit the very narrow ledge beyond the chains as the small 60-70 year old Hispanic man pulled himself through. He teetered at the edge, and I found that I could not tear myself away to make my way to the train. It could leave without me. I had to make sure that someone was watching in case this stand-in for my parents got hurt. He lurched forward, then back as another truck sped past. I don't understand the startling lack of concern motorists have for the elderly- maybe they hate their parents? Maybe they're as old as he is and are the type to feel no one should get hand-outs like safe passage across a road? Old Hispanic men who presume they succeeded on their own. Who vote Republican and agree that they should build a wall. Men who don't know they're only accepted by the Right at conventions and in public spaces where it's acknowledged that they need to court the "Latino" vote, but disparaged in dog-whistles they've gone deaf to. Slurs and hate they think applies to the other.
They're one of the good ones.
And this frail guy who could have used a boy scout to help him across was not.
I considered whether this man would be okay with me stepping out to help him. I could probably have signaled for people to stop. Or pressed the magic button. But I considered my own father's resentment when I bought him a cake for his birthday. The bizarre stigma against getting assistance from a younger woman. So, I just watched. Waiting to rush out when he got hit. To call 9-1-1. To be someone who cried for him so he knew he mattered. To dramatically hold his hand and tell him he'd be okay. Like that squirrel I once moved out of the street after it got side-swiped in front of me.
He made it across. Then I made it across. Everyone was lucky to be alive.
The hedges look fake in the soft glow of the night. Waxy. They have the benefit of a filter from the artificial lights. The hedges I cut through on my way to "study."
I think my coworker is getting closer to trying to convert me. It's odd to think that someone might feel they could save my soul. I think my sister gave up after her conversion- or perhaps it wasn't a conversion, just an open acknowledgement of belief. Perhaps her and my mother just try to trick themselves into believing some inherent grace will keep me from whatever fire or nothingness absorbs the people who don't make it to the holy afterlife.
Anyway. He's begun openly discussing his preference for Jesus rock. And I referred him to Sufjan Stevens, who, as I have mentioned, is secretly somewhat pious. At the very least, he's the only religious artist I consistently listen to...I also mentioned that a lot of rappers seem to be pretty into Jesus. He countered, of course, that they don't carry his teachings in their hearts or something. Artists who are truly into God don't create for themselves, but to further the agenda of the Lord. So, regular rappers who talk about bitches and want that ice cannot be true believers. Which is a level of exclusivity that I find kind of off-putting. Not that I could ever be religious. I'd never live it down. The witches I make blood pacts with in the night under the holy light of Sailor Moon would perceive this as a betrayal for sure.
He threw out some band names- and behind the sunglasses I was wearing because I forgot my regular ones, I shook my head, taking a strong drink of water like I came in severely hung over. The anti-psychotics are very dehydrating. I had seven 16oz glasses of water yesterday and a couple of 8oz cups. I was peeing every half hour. I wonder if this made me an attractive candidate for possible conversion. He didn't know who Sufjan Stevens is...like I said, I told him he was religious. And tragic. And tried to explain him without explicitly stating his obsession with suicide that birthed my obsession with him. Nor how disgustingly attractive he is. The best I could do to express that this was surely a lost cause, and though Sufjan was a herald he was never one this poor boy should be privy to, was to note that he had a song about John Wayne Gacy. He didn't know who that was. Which led to a mumbled explanation that he was a serial killer, omitting the homosexuality of course, and that Sufjan Stevens was sort of using him as an extreme example of how essential to humanity terrible secrets are. I read this AV Club blurb once about a contributor whose girlfriend refused to listen to the song because she felt it trivialized his victims. I can't really argue that this is an incorrect reading of the song. It certainly doesn't give much weight to their suffering in it's attempt to relate and humanize John, but I think there's merit to breaching the gap we create between ourselves and monsters. Anomalies they may be, they were as essentially human as anyone else, until proven otherwise. There's likely a small statistical potential for anyone to fall prey to whatever illness drives them. Which is a reading that should not be extended solely to white criminals, of course...
It was a difficult excuse to mumble.
The shrug-off that followed his repeated invitation to listen to something "positive" with "a good message" was less difficult but more regrettable. It's not my aesthetic. Which is harder to explain without mentioning the attempted suicides, and general mental instability. I don't think I will ever come clean with him about that. I don't think he could take it. Or understand.
I took karate classes for a few years. I was getting pretty good. I definitely enjoyed it. But we went to karate at the YMCA. This wasn't an issue for the first year or so, but my teacher had some marital problems or something. After he left a new younger cuter teacher came in, which seemed miraculous at first. Then he told my diabetic nephew that "faith" could help him overcome juvenile diabetes. I never went back.
I don't think I would be as composed if my coworker suggested The Lord could get rid of the nagging thoughts. If yoga and cocaine couldn't fix it I don't think any amount of church could.
Plus he goes to family chain restaurants all the time, and who wants that?
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