Writing a Dream

Unforgiven


I guess getting treatment does mean losing yourself. I started Invega and since then have not done much of anything as far as writing. I’ve just been sort of here, doing nothing. I did so some editing, but making grammatical corrections is hardly creation. The only creation I really do is drawing odd pictures at 1am for no apparent reason except to bring about some sense of normalcy. I don’t even really know why I draw them. It’s more an act of compulsion than anything. Sometimes it’s odd, almost random shapes while other times it’s faces. Here are some photos cropped down for size.

 

Other times I just seem to be writing random things down on paper and not on the computer, again, as if by compulsion. Here is an example.

Due to some odd compulsion, I feel like I have to stick them on the walls of my bedroom so that’s where they are. I talked to my therapist about this and we came to the conclusion that I am trying to find the voice I lost once I started taking the medication. Although I am sick, I’ve managed to still hold onto logic for the most part which I think is the reason why I’ve not gone completely over the edge. I know doing these things doesn’t make any logical sense, but for some reason I still like I have to do them. When I started taking the Invega, within a few days, that little voice I’ve heard virtually my entire life was silenced. Trying to live without it is…well, I can’t really describe it. It’s like trying to relearn how to live your life after learning how everything you already know. Simple things like reading and tying your shoes feels different and can be difficult at times. With reading, I can look at the words and understand them and know what they are trying to tell me, but when you’ve had a voice in your head other than your own reading to you all your life, when that voice is gone, it’s a very different experience. Essentially, I am having to learn how to read to myself all over again; this time with my voice doing the talking. I know. Technically speaking it was always my voice, but then again, it really wasn’t.

I find myself sometimes pausing while doing common things in life like putting away dishes. I remember the other day doing this and feeling embarrassed because it was something so simple, yet I became confused when putting up a bowl. I’ve always been so good at hiding things so as I’ve always done, I keep quiet for the most part when these things happen, but sometimes I can’t hide such matters. While speaking with one of my doctor today, I found myself wondering if I were using my own voice and becoming confused with what I was saying. Then a black butterfly flew through the room and I was the only one that could see it.

I think about films such as Donnie Darko and I read things from people that say “Oh, he’s so cool! I want to be just like him!” Are you kidding me? Donnie Darko was a paranoid Schizophrenic. I know it was just a movie and he was the hero and I can appreciate a great art film, but he really was going through something similar. Something was, in a sense, distorting who he was. Do these people think this is fun? Really? You know, I’d cry over this shit, but this god damn Invega has me so numb that I can’t feel a god damn thing! I might as well not even be breathing! I can’t feel anger. I can’t feel sadness. I can’t feel happy. I’m just here, taking up space. This is NOT fun. This is what hell must be like. I guess I must have really screwed up in a past life to deserve this.

I lost my voice. I lost a voice that actually helped me. Yes, by definition, it made me insane, but it brought out some of the most beautiful things about me as well. Now that she…yes, it’s a she…is gone, I can’t write anymore. It feels like that part of my brain has turned off. It feels like the connection just isn’t working anymore. I sit down to write and for the first time really in my life, I have a block. I used to be able to sit and just write and write and write. Now the only thing I can write are things like this which is really just me speaking out loud and writing it down. Call me insane if you want. I don’t care anymore. That’s another little side effect of the Invega. My apathy level is piquing. I am getting to the point where I just don’t care one way or another what happens to me. If I die, I die. I would say I want to care, but I don’t care about that either. I’ve had enough. This is pointless.

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