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2019-06-27 16:36:07 (UTC)

At This Time Today

"Comes Indiana Through the Smoke" by Okkervil River

And this great big buzzing death-hole swells
At the corner of the carpet
Nurses going in and out
Well they all just step around it
And the room is moving in so close
As some moment's coming nearer
And your story's coming out so slow
But I come closer and can hear her

June 27, 2019 Thursday 4:40 PM

This song, talking about a hole that one walks around—brings up all that imagery from A Night In the Woods, from a short story "The Point," and to that Leonard Cohen song, and to that artist Adam Tan. I just love it. I know each piece of art is referring to a different void, but I like to imagine that it's all the same one as Charles D'Ambrosio's:

"The idea was this—that at a certain age, a black hole emerged in the middle of your life, and everything got sucked into it, and you knew, forever afterward, that it was there, this dense negative space, and yet you went on, you struggled, you made your money, you had the same hobbies, you got wasted, and you pretended it wasn't there, and never looked directly at it, if you could manage the trick. I imagined that this black hole existed somewhere just behind you and also somewhere just in front of you, so that you were always leaving it behind and entering it at the same time..."

I know I've quoted this before. It stays with me, man.

Oh, how have I been feeling, you ask? Homesick, I guess. I keep doing things I would only do at home. Like I finished A Night in the Woods again, and I've restarted it for what it probably the fifth or sixth time. The first time I played it, I was 18. Also right now I'm listening to Arcade Fire, which is ridiculous because I don't even like them anymore, but I can't stop going back to old things. Both Arcade Fire and A Night in the Woods remind me a bit of Adrian, because both were recommended by him, and there's also a character (the main character) that reminds me of Adrian—and the other characters almost seem filtered through his warped, whimsical perspective, which sometimes makes me feel better.

I don't wanna go home or anything, I think I'm just feeling... lost. And lonely. Like, I've been feeling this thing, where I don't think I'm worthy of anything or anyone. Which is my feeling much of the time, but it is another thing when it rises up and grips you at the spine.

Yesterday I had the most emotionally volatile day, where I spent much of it wanting kind of desperately to die, but also sort of ignoring that part of me that wanted it. And then I went to go meet a guy I met on Tinder for friendship purposes (seriously). I think my earlier mood swings were a misplaced anxious reaction to the prospect of this social date. Anyway, the actual meeting went totally fine, and I actually had a lot of fun and I liked the guy! I might invite him around if we have a celebration for July 4 'cause he was chill.

He was so honest. Within, like, a half an hour of knowing each other he'd told me he was on antidepressants (SSRIs) that gave him very vivid dreams. I didn't tell him that I was also on an SSRI. But I felt connected to him. I should've said it, just to let him know I didn't think it was bad or weird and I didn't need to know anything he didn't want to tell me, but like. I just couldn't say it. Maybe I was scared I'd talk about it too deeply?? I don't know. Anyway, I think he's taking Zoloft (he said sertraline), which is for MDD, PMDD, SAD, PTSD, panic disorder, and OCD. I wonder why his doctor prescribed him an SSRI, since usually you don't take zoloft, lexapro, or prozac if you're under 25 years old. It can cause an increase in suicidal ideation.

I remember this particularly because my sister took prozac before she cut her face open (circa... 2015???). I actually totally forgot until this moment that my sister actually had to stay inpatient after that. Anyway, whatever the cause (believed to be a bad reaction from mixing alcohol and medication—or at least that's what Caroline said, but I'd probably try to play it off if I were her so idk if I trust that), my dad really didn't want me to take an SSRI after that, which was fine with me because I was on Wellbutrin (SR, I believe—300 mg) and Seroquel (400 mg) at the time anyways and it was "working fine," whatever that means. I am not quoting anyone, I just want to make clear that I had very little concept for what "okay" even means. What it meant to me at the time was: keep up appearances and act normal until it is normal; cry in private for the most part.

I only ended up taking an SSRI (lexapro) because the *only* marginally good psychiatrist I saw said it might be a possible course of treatment for my anxiety, which he said was never targeted in the history of my diagnosis. Instead I was being treated for bipolar disorder, which he ruled out, and for depression, which was more a side effect of anxiety. He started me on a low dose and I never went above 10 mg when I was under his care (I only went up to 20 mg when my primary care doctor decided to try and compensate for the episode of depression/anxiety I predicted I'd experience at the beginning of my first semester of college—which I did indeed experience, but did meds help?????????? no actual idea).

I gotta say, I've never had as vivid a side effect w/ lexapro as he had. I wonder what that's like. He told me he had a dream he watched his mother eat compulsively (saying that earlier in his life she had had an eating disorder of some sort), and I think her teeth were falling out and she was eating those too. Spirited Away style of grotesque.

Very interesting. I also sort of wonder what he's being treated for. He said he used to be okay with gross stuff, but a couple years he became squeamish. Maybe it is PTSD. I dunno. Anyway, he was really cool! We nerded about Minecraft! He has a partial eidetic memory! I desperately, desperately want to be friends with him!!! Focusing on platonic stuff bc the whole excursion yesterday was strictly friendly and he may or may not be gay (I'm not good at judging, and honestly, it feels weird to do so).

Aside from that I felt pretty okay all the way through the presidential candidate debates, and then I took a dip, and then I went to sleep. And today I felt weirdly high and then sort of bad again and now I'm at this restless middle ground of perpetually unfulfilled potential and idk what to do. Because I am not going to do anything, but I want to. But I don't even know what I want to do.

I don't know. I'm both ready to work and completely uninspired. I am still vaguely uninterested in music. I am half-hoping the agony of yesterday will come back so that at least I might have something familiar—a swan dive into sad and back to the surface again. Nothing worse than reaching a low and then snapping right back up the next day into the upper tiers of the atmosphere. It's confusing. It's... I wouldn't say scary, exactly, but I do feel really insecure. Like, anxious about the prospect of being unable to sustain a single average mood. I swear to god I look different every time I look in the mirror.

I wake up and I say, "I guess this is how I am today," and then later it is worse and it is really only a matter of how MUCH worse—which is an entirely unpredictable margin—and then it is better and then worse. Is an approximate graphic of how my days go. Which is honestly why I wanted to kill myself yesterday. I kept thinking weird things, like, "I am a hole of a person," and I thought about the roof of the parking garage at the mall and how I am much too sensitive to live.

Which reminds me of what that woman at work said about her dog a few months ago. She had to put her down because the dog kept attacking people and sending them to the ER, and the woman said, tearfully, that "some things are too sensitive to live."

For that reason I sat on the stairs at work by myself and smiled and laughed and thought I should probably die because I couldn't do it anymore. Or, I didn't want to do it anymore. What with all the agony, and how everything felt stamped down in me, undone, and always incomplete because there is no stability in me to allow for work ethic. I felt done with it, but only casually so, obviously, because I didn't actually kill myself. I just cried a little on the way home and then I was fine.

I'd rather have this than nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Like, push me down until I die or something. It's what I've been saying for years. Don't dangle me. It's fucking tiring.

I'm okay. Whatever. Gonna bide my time until I'm supposed to eat this evening. And then I guess I don't know what I'll do.

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