Coming out of the previous posts about depression, loneliness, the masturbatory agony, the pity party I was in. . . to look back on that is like looking back on a bad dream. The Prozac is in effect now. I feel, even still, some rawness to those past bad couple of days I had. It’s like a bowling ball or kettle bell sitting on your chest has just lifted. The weight of my depression still has left it’s mild ghostly feeling on me. That being said, I’m better. I resumed my weight training. I’m easier to get to sleep. I made the foolish decision that I no longer needed my meds. That my mind had transformed through my finally getting a job, and having a place to call my own. A place I pay rent, like an adult. Even had sex not too long ago. One nighter. So I ventured off the medicine thinking everything was on its way to being in place with all my other issues dimmed in the background. Then, as the medicine wore off, came out my system all gone, the darkness came out. The dim shit in the background got pronounced. “You’re never going to be a professional writer!” You’re never going to be a best selling novelist!” “You’ll never meet someone!” “No one will love you!” “Be in love with you!” “You can’t make friends!” “You can’t keep friends!” “You are scared that you are going to die alone and sad like your father will and your uncles! Sexless, loveless men who genetically bare the same curse in the blood you do.” “Depression.” “Autism.” I must never get off my medicine again. My brain is sick and damaged beyond repair. Depression of my kind is going to be with me until I am dead.
I have to make progress on these things. These relationships.