Dear People Who I Care About,
As you may know, I cannot take care of myself. But so far, I still stand up in the morning. I still drink coffee and fry eggs and construct sandwiches. If you've interfaced with my exoskeleton recently, you've probably noticed little or no difference.
Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe the boiling water at the back of my brain has only drifted forward. Maybe the tiny skull-humans have been yanking on different wires of late.
I'm depressed. More accurately, I'm my own diluted version of depressed: not sad enough to use that word; not happy enough to jump in a lake. I can't compare my heart failure to anybody else's. I cannot hold variables constant or compare my malaise against a control group. What I can do is put my foot right through a wall. In the interest of preserving my toes, I haven't tried that yet. So I sit still and smolder...
I quit smoking weed a few days ago. That's fine. I quit taking Adderall a few weeks ago. That's fine. That's probably a set of sound decisions. They stopped working well. They stopped working, and I probably don't need tiny idiots tossing darts around inside my skull-bulge.
Drugs vs. no-drugs doesn't solve my problem. I can't rely on myself to do anything. I can't beg my body to sit up straight. All I can do is cycle through frustration, discontent, and the brief giddy interim.
So, I haven't been writing much. Who wants to read about privileged Americans who choose to sit at home?
Ah, the giddy interim! I get happy, but it doesn't last. I'm relieved when I'm happy. It still happens reasonably often, but I've recognized a trend. Happy or sad, I always feel like I'm standing outside my body and looking at myself. Maybe everyone does. Maybe I'm describing this wrong. Whatever this is, I'm not comfortable. Most of the time, I'd like to punch myself. Given those extra invisible fists, I'd punch myself right in the gut. I'd hit hard enough to be real sorry about it, and maybe even puke on my shoes. That's what I get. That's what happens when you can't shut your face about nothing.
Maybe a less shitty car would cheer me up. Pow! Right in the gut, you idiot!
I sure am pissed about agreeing to this rent-and-bills racket. Boof! You puked on your shoes, you fleshy illusion!
I'm being gently slapped by a thousand invisible hands.
(Camp is great. Send more cookies.)