I Feel Good: Something’s Wrong

Today, as I was going anxiously about my business, as per usual, I was struck by a momentary epiphany. I found I wasn’t going about my business anxiously but peacefully, actually. Puzzled, I examined what the fuck. The fuck I felt good, I found.

I instantly knew that something was wrong. I don’t feel good. That’s just not what I do. I’m not even sure any more what it is like to feel good. Provisionally, I imagine feeling good is what it is when one lacks any pain, discomfort and anguish, physical and mental. Damn. That’s one hell of a definition.

Am I alive or what?

So, yeah, I noticed straight away that I wasn’t in any pain at all, which manifested as a significant lack of something. I wasn’t even feeling anxious, which is my default setting, and for a while, I was meditating on whether or not I’m still alive. How the fuck am I supposed to tell when I don’t feel anything?

My feeling good freaked me out something fierce. Fortunately, this suspended condition didn’t last. As I proceeded to go about my business peacefully, I soon noticed I was in fact going about my business anxiously. Whew. That was close. I have no clue what people who feel good on the regular do about it but if it’s you, my sympathies to you, because this shit is scary as fuck.

Yeah, I like my expletives. *shrug*

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It’s Weirdly Quiet

When it’s quiet
I think I’m deaf or dead
But—
How do I tell?

So, I say (quiet)
Hey—
Anybody out there?

Sometimes
The cat comes (quiet)
But all remains—
Quiet

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Quiet out there

 

Staring into That Good Night

So it’s night and I go to smoke
Outside
And see—so many fucking stars
Just hanging up there
Flickering like crazy

(Maybe
Some of them are planes)
Anyway
Here’s the epiphany:
I feel existential fear
Because I’m so tiny

So tiny
I can’t see but a microscopic bit
The whole of it I can’t see
Because of these spiky things
Of roofs
Thrusting upwards into the sky
(Not going gentle into that good
night)

They’re cutting out a miniature piece
For me to see
While the whole of the universe
Is laughing at me
Bastard

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Walls Make Neighbours

There’s a wall between me
And the gritty city street
Just a wall
Of concrete or brick or shit

One and something feet maybe
Separating me
From everything not-home
Not-nice, not-warm, not even

A not too thick wall
Between me and someone
Next to me
Above me
And next door—the post office

That’s not too much
When you think of it
A teeny-tiny willy-nilly wall
Between you and all not-you
And that’s it

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Abstract concrete

I Have a New Psychiatrist (That’s My Life Now)

My old psychiatrist retired (probably to devote himself full-time to his drinking hobby) and was replaced by a new psychiatrist. Unlike the old guy, the new lady is less than a hundred and doesn’t appear to have a drinking problem (good for her).

I bear no grudge against her (yet), but as per usual, I’ve been quite passive-aggressive at our first date. She surely hated me at first sight, which is only right and mutual because I hate people by default. This might explain my passive-aggressive tendencies.

My new psych person had the old psych person’s office completely cleared, so now she practises in a large and mostly empty room. I’m scared of open spaces, so here you go. Also, she brought in a new table and positioned it in the wrong place. I’m OCD, so here you go again.

I tried hard to conduct myself, so I didn’t point out that she ruined everything for me. (She even moved the nurse’s station to the wrong wall, and nothing will ever be the same.) We had the following largely disappointing conversation.

Psych: So, how have you been feeling?
Me: (What I thought: That’s a question beneath your profession. If I were feeling anything else than poorly, I wouldn’t be here, right? Elementary, doctor.) What I said: Poorly. (What I didn’t add: But I accept that it is what it is and I let it go, as my positive affirmations have me believe.)

Psych (staring at me): You look anxious.
Me (staring in a wall behind her): (What I thought: Right, that’s because I have anxiety, just check my bloody chart, duh.) What I said: Yes.

Psych: What about we try increasing the antidepressant dose?
Me: (What I thought: Whatever. It’s not like I’m a doctor. Oh, wait. I am a doctor. Whew.) What I said: Okay.

Psych: And what do you do?
Me: (What I thought: Ow fuck, now we’re going to chit-chat? As a doctor, you should know that it’s not what I do but how I deal with it. Also, don’t try to outsmart me. You’re no match for my intellectual arrogance.) What I said: Work from home.

Psych: You don’t talk much, right?
Me: (Nothing. Why state the obvious.)
Psych: OK, so see you in a month.
Me: (If I live to see the next month.) OK.

I guess I’m not a very amiable person. Actually, I’m sure of that because I spend a lot of time with myself and I hate every second. I’m such an annoying little smartass. Currently on more antidepressants than before, so we’ll see.

I’m an Asshole (and a Fire Hazard)

Currently in depths of depression slash anxiety, earlier today I was considering slashing my wrists but as per usual, I reconsidered because I don’t have my hair and nails freshly done and we must consider the feelings of those who find my body. Sorry for this killer intro, but it’s important to establish that I’m even more unbalanced than my normal unbalanced in order to gain insight into my following actions, which, I promise, are quite amusing (unless you’re the one taking the actions, of course, but that only makes it the funnier for you).

Working wasn’t working out for me today, so I resorted to the consolation of my disconsolate blog and checked out my notifications. (On a side note, if you’re anything like me [I hope for your own sake you’re not] and love tinkering around with new nifty features, go ahead and take the new post notification option in the Reader for a test ride.) So here I am, reading the comments on my blog and finding a note from Ellen, who expressed a mild interest in my curious capability of pulling a poem out of three random words. On this note I noted that the next thing I know, I’ll be pulling a poem out of my ass.

I thought to act on this dubious promise (threat?) and to gather inspiration, I went to check out my ass in the mirror. Kidding. I went to empty my ashtray, which is what I call a jar with a lid sitting at my balcony, which I religiously fill up with butts (not butts as in asses but butts as in, you know, butts). I usually throw the whole thing out when it’s full, but I’ve run out of jars, hence I had to keep the jar and relieve it of its contents only. I did this, on which I realised I’m such an asshole.

My anxiety agrees with this evaluation. I’m not only an asshole, I’m also a fire hazard. I emptied a jar full of fag ends into the dust bin, which obviously contains flammable materials. What if one of the dead fag ends wasn’t entirely dead and ended? What if I burn the building down? (And in case I don’t, for future reference, what’s even the correct and safe way of disposing of fag ends?) Now I’m terrified, courtesy of my assholeness and anxiety, and I’m periodically going down to check whether the bin has flamed up yet. So far, it hasn’t. Doesn’t make me any less anxious. Would you believe my stupidity? Please do nominate me for the post-mortem Darwin Award.

A Quiet Day: An Apocalypse Is Impending

It’s been such a wonderfully quiet day. No one called me, no one mailed me, no one came banging at my door in the misled belief that when I’m the concierge, I can set their problems and the world to rights.

Only the cat has been disturbing me. She’s excited I didn’t leave her forever after all, as she was home alone the whole day yesterday. So tonight she’s been climbing on my desk when I was working or sitting sullen and awake on top of the radiator, further from me than usual because the human put her big reference book at the cat’s usual spot.

Humans suck. I agree with the cat. This quietness means one thing. An apocalypse is impending. I’m scared to go to sleep. Which is why I’m typing this, in bed, in the dark, with the cat nowhere to be seen, which means she’s up to no good either. Catocalypse is coming. 

My Father Is Visiting and I’m So Scared

I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me.
—Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy

My father is visiting tomorrow in the middle of the night. Specifically at 8 AM. This illustrates his lack of both sense and sensibility because it’s four hours before my wake time. It’s not even a real hour.

I’m deeply metaphysically terrified of meeting my creator. By which I mean my father. I don’t specialise in family psychology but I suspect that the presence of terror might constitute an abnormal response to the stimuli presented. I was probably terrorised as a child and the primitive parts of my brain remember, though the protective parts of my brain repressed the memory.

My father occasionally calls me to inform me that I piss him off. He uses this in lieu of greeting and doesn’t state any particular reason. I’m not even curious. The reason is probably because I exist anyway. Totally legit, though my father had better blame himself for this fact. It’s not like I made myself exist because I had nothing better to do and thought it would be a good idea.

I certainly blame my father and my mother by association for producing me. It wasn’t very fortunate and everyone would be spared a lot of pain in the ass if I hadn’t been born. I don’t particularly appreciate being alive, as has probably transpired. A shame I was conceived before the rise of the Don’t breed, adopt motto. It’s probably Don’t buy, adopt, but whatever.

While waiting for my fate, aka father, I shot the crazy night storm that is currently happening. You’ll have to imagine that because I shot it with my phone through my filthy window (courtesy of the cat) and the camera captured—nothing.

Nothing

What a Quiet Night Tonight

When it’s so quiet
You think
You should hear yourself breathing
But you hear nothing

Have you gone deaf
Have you died
What’s happening
You’re terrified


Has it ever happened to you that you thought you went deaf because you couldn’t hear any sound around? The house is quite quiet tonight and it doesn’t seem right. I had to double-check that I’m not deaf, that I’m still breathing and that I’m probably still alive. I’m still terrified though for no good reason.