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10:24 p.m. - 2002-11-25
Okay, paxil, you kept me from wanting to kill myself, but I'm not so sure the new version of me doesn't deserve to die.
Like a truckload of gravel dumped in a pond, itís taken my depth away and left me in the brighter shallows. My former razor sharp scalpels have been replaced by clumsy ski gloved-digits, unsuitable for dissecting a matter to its very cellular structure, no longer matter at all.

It doesnít matter, or never did, or matters more than ever but floats beyond or beside me, blurred by a stream of unawareness, unawartitude, functional drug use, blood stream invasion of a chemical that keeps me from knowing, caring or wishing to understand.

I always wondered just how much mentally handicapped people understood. Are they locked in a lack of communication with full awareness, full understanding? Are the sad for their predicament? Of course degree matters to a degree, but for the ones who just canít let us know what they are thinking, or even if they are thinkingÖ

I feel like I have retarded a part of me, but Iím not so sure that I really want to reestablish the relationship with the depths that part of me allowed. It was unpleasant for the most part, but it was me. Iím scared it would consume me if left unchecked, but it seems that wish for lobotomy may have come true in pill form for olí hecka.

ButÖwhat?

I have very little to say anymore. It is all reflex now. It is disappearing from my mentality. The old me is disintegrating. I like to be alone now. I used to hate it. I donít obsess over much any more. Before, nearly everything. I donít fret at my lack of control over the world around me as much, I used to nearly shake with frustration.

I respected that depressed, angry, ironic man who was wasting his talent and really, his life, while the world and the years passed through him in such a painful way.

This guy, the one that does his shit, the one that tries to let it all wash over him instead, the one who has resigned himself, the one that feels a surface tension of disquiet rather than a shattering explosion of guilt, happiness, anger, shame, pride, fear, love, connectionÖconnection, the jury is out on this motherfucker.

The pill has disconnected me.

I donít want it back, but I miss it so much.

 

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