Saturday, 21 December 2013

How deep I fell

I'm taking four different medications to make me sort of function. Just now, a pill of promethazine lodged in my soft palate and is releasing foul bitter taste in my mouth. This is making me sleep and I take it along with zolpidem, which makes me fall asleep. Plus 25 mg of clonazepam to make me a bit less of freakout on (unstable) feet. Yes, benzos, that addictive stuff. And, then, obviously, antidepressants. I reached 225 mg of venlafaxin per day and I'm still a wreck. Food tastes mostly like cement, with the exception of booze which tastes like nail polish remover. I'm scared and I feel guilty, sometimes I feel guilty for being scared and anxious about what's reasonably little things. Reason, however, doesn't enter my decisions on systematic basis. Kitty is lying next to me, she said Meow and farted. That's the high fibre kibble. Life would be so much easier if people could be fed kibble. One of the reasons I hate food is that I run a restaurant. I have too much food on my mind or something. Or my body just gave up and opted for a suicide by starvation, the time will show. I wonder whether I did something wrong, apart from just loitering around and not making a feather toy for Tähti. And not trying to work harder, not liking my job - some people would like to be hotel managers so much while they're wasting their life away as archivists and I'm not grateful at all even though it has many perks, such as easy life, the only possibilities of entertainment being work, booze which tastes like nail polish remover or running towards the woods, screaming incoherently. Oh, I forgot two more, one can walk down the road. Or up the road. There's nothing interesting within decent walking distance to disturb one's piece peace of mind. Now, I'm numb. Maybe it's that combo of sedatives, maybe it's just a state of mind, the other being overwhelming anxiety. I don't particularly like Giftmas. I mean, I quite enjoy those ten minutes of sheer undiluted sentiment and pathos when digging through the ornaments acquired 30 years ago, food used to be okay so let's give it a benefit of doubt even this year, gifts are of two sorts: those I procured myself and those that scare me shitless. Thus I'm getting an antique garnet necklace and a pink silk scarf, which is fine if I'm getting paid for them, and something oh-so-cool mother has been ranting about since November. I'm scared that she spent a lot of money on something I'm not going to like. I would love a good atlas of bryophytes (that's mostly mosses for those who don't go after all things green). Or a chocolate egret. (Why egret? No idea. Bald eagle in chooclate would be okay, too.) And nobody ever asks what I'd really want. Which raises an important question: what would I want? Just now, I'd want to be alone, along with my kitty. That's what I told the therapist. She shook her head and said that it's somewhat childish. To be continued, meds are kicking in.

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