this morning i swallowed the new amount of make-a-sturdy-ground-under-you capsules and unfortunately took it with a high amount of caffeinated tea that tasted like the drama benches in high school and being maniacally high and ruining my status with tears that hate us and it felt good to be reminded of a time not so far away that is over there but i can’t touch it and i knew that i would suffer with the tremors the dosage is up but not real bad i’ve had worse like when the piglets are running in the field all coming for me and I have no where to run but mud

i’ve been a mess all morning thinking i’m going to cease walking at any given moment, but i don’t feel that anyone is given any moments they are often stolen moments - i never wanted to be such a thief

in drama class i should’ve volunteered i wanted to but i couldn’t raise my eyes high enough to look hierarchy in the eye and i didn’t feel like saying that my medication was interfering –interfearing- with my ability to function like a halfway competent machine i mean human so i didn’t volunteer i just sat there on the edge of the stage halfway on halfway off shivering in my sunlight-park-and-mommy sweater wondering if i was deserving of this earthquake that rattled inside me and why no one else could see it

it was hard to walk hard to talk and hard to type
i came back here alone wanting to gripe but i read and fell asleep and woke up when jamie and rob came in and i was one with jello i was one with jello i was
i had a bland blank stare that was really comfortable and quite unintentional my eyes were stretched open yet i was so tired i wanted to close them i felt really gone far away and i liked the feeling i felt drained and i wanted to write about it but i felt too tired and i was glad but then i tottered over to this computer and typed this out in a stream of consciousness and it is saying nothing of what i wanted to say is there another way to achieve literary greatness in the sleep and wake of depression in the ebb and flow of progression into the state called obsession with the darkness?

it isn’t as sadly dark like it was this is a warped hypercolor extended world i am trying to create but it doesn’t stay for long maybe because i am trying to create it should i just leave it alone stay at home? become a clone? oh jesus, nevermind, another one of me will drive this world to her knees how do we know its feminine what are we really and how do we know
i want to write
i want to think with splendor
i want to be celebrated on my unbirthday make that my dieday yes Happy Dieday to me
Happy Dieday to me happy dieday to lisa
Happy Dieday to me
why do we get our presents and gifts all wrapped up in silk and ribbons only after we are buried far far down with the worms and the germs of other rotting bodies? and how can we be so literary and genius if we want our minds to be so numb and painless? make me gone i want to write i want to write i want to write i want to write

11/25/2004

Author's Note: This was published online at the Psychoanalytic Experience. It is from a non-published collection called "Little Pool of Sadness" from 1996 which includes approximately 30 of these stream-of-consciousness pieces I used to survive my depression.

Posted on 11/25/2004
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