There are too many thoughts racing through my crooked mind, crashing on the rocks, turning to foam and then to indistinguishable air. No ether though. Not yet. I’ll just have to start on whatever boxcar I can catch on this bullet train of cognition.
Robin Williams: (I enjoyed him a lot in his early years. Strange. . .as a kid I always enjoyed his dramatic scenes the best. Like in Mr’s Doubtfire. Sure he nailed that shit, he was fucking hilarious, but it was always the sad scenes, like when he finds out his wife’s a bitch, he’s losing his kids, etc. . .those were the scenes I really enjoyed because they seemed so genuine. It’s one thing to purposefully make an idiot of yourself on camera. There’s definitely a degree of separation there. And you know (hope) the audience is laughing with you. But to really drive home a scene involving real emotion takes a pain that is both buried and readily employable. Assuredly I could conjure some tears of my own in less than five and a half minutes–evidence that I’ve got some intense shit seething in there, no doubt–but I’d have to be alone. Fuck cameras. Never liked them pointed at me. At any rate I’d give them one hell of a take on a panic attack.)
So now that I’ve shown my obvious respect for the man I can say what I’d set out to. “If only he’d had the suitable treatment in capable hands!” they all say. I say given the proper medications this man could have killed himself in a hell of a lot more style? A belt? (right?) Come on man, I thought you were a performer! It’s obvious he lost his passion. For someone who lived his life as an entertainer his climactic scene was, well. . .anticlimactic. He just lost the strength.
That is the effect of anti-depressants. I’ve had enough experience to know them intimately. Sure, they work, some of them anyway. I tried a few things and they’ve got me on Effexor now. An SNRI, and apparently in high enough dosages it even has an effect on your dopamine receptors. A very distant chemical half-cousin twice removed of amphetamines, which makes no fucking sense. They say speed is the bane of schizophrenics. Why the fuck would they put me on this shit?
I’ll give it to them though, it doesn’t make me any more psychotic than normal and it does help my depression. If Adderall could produce a clean high with minimal tooth grinding all while maintaining some sort of appetite and sleep schedule it would be comparable to my experience with this drug.
Negative side effects? You bet! They are not so obvious to the shallow-minded. Of course as with most of this class of chemicals, it affects my sex drive. Albeit not to the point of complete absentia. This hadn’t bothered me at first. I had given up my interest in fucking. It always became something empty for me; a reminder of my loneliness. Of course, I never got close to any of those women. I was incapable of it. And so the only company I sought was very brief and very physical; usually pretty hazy with alcohol and plenty of street drugs to top it all off. So of course I abandoned that pursuit. Gave up all the love-seeking below the belt; accepted my isolation. Stopped seeking for anyone to put a band-aid on a heart that’s already hacked to pieces and far, far beyond repair. If anyone will ever be capable of that sort of shit, it’s me. Just me. Alone.
So disregarding the above, now I’ve met someone. And it must be different because, well, I’m not out looking for a quick fuck anymore. And we’ve had enough days now just enjoying each other’s company. That’s something, right? It feels new and alive and warm. But I can justify all I want. Still, it’s a good thing the Effexor has calmed my drive because it’s been a few years. A few years and I’m in love and I don’t want to perform like a fucking acne-ridden teenager on prom night. Pop!
See I’m getting off the subject again.
Negative side effects. The hardest for me to deal with personally would be something bordering on, hinting at, almost but not quite, apathy. A lack of depression. Call it strange. I’ve lived with a degree of sorrow for many years of my life. Most of them. Is that not who I am? Is that not who GOD fucking made me? Is that not FATE’S fucking plan for me?
Either way it’s a feeling of losing yourself. I just feel shallow. Before where my thoughts were far ranging: diving to the depths of dark seas, soaring over the clouds and back into the cold earth where the worms make cold ribbons and roots break apart whole mountains. The hardest heart. Fucking roots man. Sometimes I just want to sit down and feel the pain. We’re old friends. It’s therapeutic.
In fact, it scares me. Why? Because the pain is a reminder of why I am where I am. Why I let go of what I did. The things I discarded lest I lose myself again. A keepsake of the final kiss goodbye. Days I miss those ways I used to defend myself against myself. The ways I was destroying myself. If I can’t remember those days of the worst pain of them all, who’s to say I won’t go back one day. Back to the fucking meaninglessness. Because without meaning there is no hope. Without hope nothing can survive. Without life there is no love. Without love there is only emptiness. Where there is emptiness? I guess you find god but, well, I don’t want to go back there anytime soon.