Difference between revisions of "Sadtober"
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[[User:They Self|They Self]] ([[User talk:They Self|talk]]) 13:03, 11 October 2017 (MDT)
[[User:They Self|They Self]] ([[User talk:They Self|talk]]) 13:03, 11 October 2017 (MDT)
Revision as of 13:47, 11 October 2017
Notes for a back chracter, each note in preference.
Idea / fiction
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It was just my own crisis. The morning I waited for my wife to rise, I shouldn't have done it, I should have leaped into action with the children although that isn't fair on her. She has a cold, has menopause, has just had a face infection, her husband is depressed, she has had back surgery, her best friend has had a stroke, she is morphine, valium, neurontin, and other things too, we both smoke that awful skunk. It wouldn't be fair almost to dash out with the boys, not that I could. I have a Tramadol withdrawal, that is like a cold, and I only took it a few days this week, to deal with the pain of my head injury. I wasn't prescribed it, but we have plenty Tramadol under the bed. I should be worried about valium habits, morphine habits, I have been presribed valium, and I ate them up quite quickly, two a day, especially when I smoked that awful skunk. I take 2 Citalopram daily too, I should have not taken 2 valium last Sunday, after my head injury. I now have to wait all month, to see if I will get better, or of any of it will get better. Will anybody get better. My mouth feels like closing, I feel like muttering, today I felt like running away for all of the month of Sadtober, it felt like a foregone conclusion, a starting point and ending point, I just kept quiet in the end.
When I began managing the shop, one of the first things I thought about were the problems that consistently occurred on Monday mornings. It always seemed to be, although it might not have really been, but it seemed to be that Monday mornings were a fractious and dangerous time, which could set the tone for a whole week. I started being in the shop on Monday mornings, an hour or more before it opened. My wife said this was good role modelling for the staff. I made sure the week started well, and then any hand over went smoothly. I waited around all the morning making sure everybody was happy, and that any communication difficulties were sorted kindly.
As if to prove that I had forgotten this aspect of my work, I made this Monday morning a hell for so many others, especially my business partner, by overreacting, panicking in sadness, writing angry messages, engaging in fighting, you know all what else, an awful scene of attrition. When you wake some days you don't even know how fragile you are. I was like Godzilla with a sore head, knocking my body off the buildings, and so unhappy with myself. I had ten staples in my head, and I had forgotten they were being removed that afternoon. The procedure was painful, but I sat through it, I have become not attracted to pain, but in a special place of my own where pain is quite acceptable. I left the surgery and felt the cold air, now rushing into my skull. My head didn't like it. Being held together with staples last week, my head was in one manner tied together, held in place. Now the two sides of my head, split by my fall, were like fingers gripping to hold a body to a rock shelf.
I collapsed straight to bed for an hour, I think I was in shock, I was so cold. I wooke up, and my wife was also rising, both of us threatening to pick the children up from school. I went to the pick up and then later, offered to play football in the cold, which I did, fprgetting that my head was open. I had smoked some of the godawful skunk, but the shock of kicking the ball hurt my head, and so I returned home to take Tramadol. That night I took morphone, too, but could not sleep. I rose late in the night and drank a can of beer, smoked heavily of the the awful skunk, and returned to bed to listen to a podcast about Catalan independence. Feeling mad after 40 minutes, I rose again, drank another can of lager, and smoked much more of the godawful skunk. I returned to bed, but this happened again. Finally I listened to the audiobook of Frankenstein, I don't think that was an accident.
I am not jealous of other couples, of other people, by all means they have their lives and I have mine, and all these entail. But increasingly, I see that we are both ill. My wife is on so many painkillers, and the godawful skunk too, but we live with the prospect of her spending whole days, many hours at the very least, in bed. "I don't want this to be my life," she says, and for so many years, I didn't even realise it was my life too. If you come home from work, or from any trip, and don't immediately have to lie down for two hours, and spend those hours moaning in pain, taking valium, morphine, neurontin, and so forth, you might not be fully aware of our situation. My situation. Our situation.
Not sleeping, I was a wreck in the morning, and yet I still did good work, I am minutes away from finishing a book; by which I mean the final. final edit before typesetting and printing begin. It's been two years, but now we are very near to having before us a real life copy of How To Do Privacy in the 21st Century, my new work. Other than that, my head was most exposed today, and I should have been resting, but I was not able to. In fact I seem to have had a mad burst of work today, and in the evening, wife and I visited a new local diner, a cheap and good Carribean place. She was ill and distracted, but we were out, and that was that.
We returned home and watched the first half an hour of Powell and Pressburger's 1944 film A Canterbury Tale. Thereafter I did what I do best, which is drinking beer and cleaning the kitchen, while smoking the godawful green skunk. My mood had been kindly stabilised by the women in my life, my wife, my business partner and my sister. I owe everything to everybody, still.
A person is supposed to be on Citalopram for six weeks, and then the person can feel better perhaps. This is like a magical operation, because if the roots of the feeling are not purged, then what is the point of taking drugs. I wonder today of any amount of drugs could get me back to work. I am not sure if the problem is being able to work, it is being hurt at work. That is, when I think back to starting this work, starting this business, being in this business, that is what I have done to myself. However work has eneded up this year, however it has panned out, I have been hurt. Even if it is a little hurt on a daily basis, or a significant hurt that has kept me off work for days, or longer, it's hurt.
It isn't anyone, it's me. The thought of going into that situation again, when I am guarantted to be hurt, this can explain why I am in bed, this can explain why I am physically dropped at the thought of being at work. I am not sure if I did any work today, or what was happening. I would have finished my book, I expect, I had to finish the book today.
The new doctor had my report from Accident and Emergency and she asked me that drink was involved and I said it was. She then asked which level of bevvy merchant I was, whether merchandising at this level was a problem and I told her it was not. This was an isolated incident, I told her. I was not wrong in saying that my head injury and the drinking of alcohol combined as they were, were the basis of an isolated incident. The fact is that I drink plenty all of the time, but I never ave head injuries. In this sense the accident, if that is what it was, was elective.
What happens with Citalopram, she said, is that it can and will take six weeks to work. Then we take it for six months. Then and ony then do we ask if we are feeling all right and if we are feeling all right we then removed the Citalopram very slowly indeed, until we are taking no Citalopram but are in fact happy. Nobody mentions work. Nobody mentions self harm. We all think about the Citalopram and how effective that is going to be. I take 20mg, but it will take three times that, it will take three times the amount of death in my head to allow me to take that hurt from work, any more.
This is a Thursday, and earmarked for healing. What does that mena, perhaps coffee and the godawful skunk, and some morphine, some of the dreaded oramorph, which exists in a capsule form, and is virtually useless to me, but which might perhaps cause me to be still for half an hour.
I took it anyway and lay still for an hour, after sending the book away. The book is nothing, I would much rather be able to go to work and not be hurt than write a book. But I know my place this week, and i know the effect I have on others, it's because I am hurting that I am not always available to be my best. I am the best I am at this job, it is very far below what is acceptable and so I get hurt.
Despite it all, and disproving my medical record, and without damaging my head, I carried on drinking beer and then wine, this was later on in the day, and I was also smoking the godawful in godawful amounts, binge smoking, chain smoking, and did not take Citalopram but worked on my website as I drank, and even wrote some drunk emails, that is embarrassing, but I wrote drunk emails, it takes so long to do, to write a drunk email, about half an hour per email, and they are usually asa short as I can make em.
Nothing can get me to bed in this mood, because nothing can beat alcohol for raising me momentarily into a state of self-belief. This sounds like the most dangerous story I have ever told. Just skipping back a few days, looking at the announced patholgies, and the confession here and now, that numerous drugs and habits now tackle the hurt, which I am tired of feeling. One day I will be able to flood myself with its feelings, the feelings of that hurt, but I had better be ready. I would be safer doing that somewhere far away, far away from everybody.
Last night would have been the most I have drunk since my accident, which was only 12 days before, and which was not entirely an accident, more of an elective head injury. The staples from my head injury lie remarkably clean. My head feels more like it has had staples in it than ever. Last night I smoked the godawful weed, having begun the day earmarked for healing with some of the dreaeded oramorph. I don't know ti today, but I have not learned properly how to take it.
Slow progress through then, there are never any hangovers at this advanced level. In the evening, my wife and two friends are at a restaurant, and then at a city bar, and then at a city hotel bar, a vast, dark, illuminated place, built on the lack of disappointment of alcohol, filled with people that are likely there just now, as I write, spending so much money, spilling themselves in drunken temas across the town. Late home, I am exhausted, how could I not be, but just in case, because worry has taken over bedtime now, because to lie awake is to worry for death, a half a [[Diazepam], as there is quite often a half Diazepam in the candle holder.
Ill health, recovery, excessive drinking alcohol, depression, were you to sleep an extra hour for each of these needs, you would meet the needs of these needs by staying in bed and sleeping, or acting out the nearest equivalent, for an extra five hours. That is no reason, but a retrospective look back at the day, when I rose at 2PM, these may have been the causes. I was of no use to the family, my wife told me so because she needs to recover too, and she was in such extreme pain, and also needed sleep.
The equivalent of sleep is what people that are depressed, if there is such a thing, know about. I am lying in bed for reasons of sensory deprivation. I can hear what is going on, and I can feel the covers, a deep warmth that is, with my limbs perfectly arranged so I am not aware of them. I am speaking to no one, I am waiting for sleep, I am having the odd lucid and unpleasant dream, quite a few are about my head injury.
I took the Citalopram later in the day, and smoked some of the godawful skunk. The family dressed up smartly and went to a 50th birthday party. At the party I made an effort, I listened to a man who was a linguistics teacher, he was supposed to be according to everybody that was there, and according to himself, the most famous professor of linguistics in the world, or at leasat one of them. He showed absolutely no interest in listening to me, but was engaging and clearly intelligent in telling me his entire life story, I listened to the whole life story. I accepted that my life story may not be so grand, but I did wait ofr my turn to speak, although it didn't come. I met a friend afrom school, for some reason he was in Edinburgh. He told me how much he loved morphine, how much he enjoyed sucking the capsules, as it gave a fonder slower release. I smoked more godawful when I arrived home, and took half a Diazepam in order to watch a little of the old Japanese film Godzilla, and the newer Italian film, City of the Living Dead. Neither did much for me, because I was sinking so fast, and I listened to piano excercises, blues scales, church modes, other scales, all on my smart phone until my wife arrived and I dropped away.
Another day is kindly given over to healing, but I am spending the time hurting and not healing. The worst things in the world were waiting on waking, what I would call black thoughts, the stuff of Anomie, thoughts of self harm (where is it, what is it, how will it affect me?) the asaking of an awful question (if you want to hurt, then how did you feel about having your head stapled ten times?) and that familiar desire to run, to faint, a distant hirting desire that spells out one mode of being: THE BED MODE.
My wife was kind today, she let me adopt the mode, she left me to the bed, and I sucked one of the Morphine, just like my friend had mentioned. I sucked myself off, in fact, to a curious new place, somewhere my friend had been, although I am sure he had sucked himself off to somewhere finer than I arrived to. Sucking morphine, I realised that when the tablet was cited as oramorph, it really was in fact that, the liquid form of morphine. When you suck it in this form, the capsule dissolves gently in parts, and the goo that is released begins to coat your teeth, or your gum, or whichever area of the mouth you are containing it.
That and Citalopram at about 6pm, after more of the godawful skunk, that weed they keep selling us, that godawful skunk weed, that we keep buying.
I awke with no plans, one awakes with no plans on days like these. There were plans the night before, many of the plans involved leaping into action on Monday morning. There were a pile of papers on my desks, a pile of envelopes and scraps of paper to be dealt with, but none of them were. Again, I played the license to the full, and I lay down. Once more, godawful skunk, a sore head, only on the outside, mostly sore at the memory of the scar, My scar, and the fear of exhaustion, that is a real fear. I don't much move for knowing the results.
Sucking Morphine and wondering what to do next, what to read or watch, or whether to lie there in bed, in the dark. There I ponder: "am I fit to make the bottom fall through the floor?"
Sucking morphine like this, having established the truthful path to abuse, it is not any salve for depression. Yet when the morphone wears off, that is when things happen, this is a funny thing. When the morphine is presumably in effect, I feel very little that is different. Maybe I am less mobile, maybe I am less contained. Either way, when it is not there, the morphine, I long to go back to this place that I can describe only as a non-place. There is less care, or maybe I care less.
Today i am in bed all day. You are at work, as are your ilk. The motorways are full, the offices are humming, the shop floors are busy and I am in bed, with as much darkness as the shutters, the curtains and the drugs can provide. More morphine later makes the movies Godzilla and Capricorn One less tolerable, unwatchably curious really. The movies make about much sense as the stage acting and screen sets allow. In fear of the night I smoke as much of the godawful skunk as I can and then take Diazepam, just to be sure I have had everything, and that I feel nothing.
Maybe when I awoke, the certain parts of me that are running the show knew that I had plans for myself. I don't see how this information can change hands so readily, but it does. It's like that first trip to the doctors, now 10 months ago. How did the doctor know, after I had told her what was going on (low mood! anxiety! self harming! and more) that I had a problem with my neurotransmitters? This must happen every day: Doctor! I am depressed. Yes, she says, he says, yes, he or she says, this is a problme with your neurotransmitters, and how I am able to see that without looking into your brain, and by simply listening to you moan, how I am able to know that is one of our daily medical miracles. Hence Citalopram is delivered again.
Then I knew, this morning. I was to move upon my to-do list, move upon it with with vigour, or with anything I could muster. Or perhaps I will sleep instead, until one pm, and this after sleeping through the night, and sleeping the sleep of the soundly drugged. Then therefore, this Tuesday I began to work for the business again, after anothre week of doing virtually nothing, I began to work for the business again, and spoke to my business partner. I wrote her a letter last Friday it was, in the letter I tried to say without apology, that I could see the effect i was having on those around me. It's monstrous really, that is to say, I have the effect of a monster.
I remember when my father had a head injury, five or so years ago. The injury was horrid to look at, monstrous even, and when I expressed shock, he laughed it off. I thought that my father was being brave about this, but the fact is that when such an injury heals, or begins to heal, it barely hurts, and it becomes much worse for others, who have to see it, and then imagine the injury again, and again, and again, while they are in your presence. And they don't just imagine the injury happening to you, but worse, themselves. As the injured partty, however, you feel nothing, and can see nothing of it, and forget about it for most of the day, at least until you see the horror in people's faces.
The depression has made me a monster though, not the injury. There are connections between the two, tenuous but real. Otherwise, I am unpredictable, and a threat of harm to myself, and that is not something that is much tolerable to others, I am afraid to say.