Wife smacks me with words....

Anonymous said...

"Whadabunchacrap. Suck it up."

This comment came from my adoring wife, who in addition sent me a hilariously scathing letter about my last post, particularly for thinking I could possibly hide any mood change from her all-seeing eye, although she did admit her illness made her, perhaps, just a little less perceptive than usual--quite an admission from the all-knowing spouse.

I totally agree with her comment, of course. I tell myself the same thing but it doesn't help until my chemicals improve.

Yesterday I didn't cry because I was too zonked out by the antipsychotic I added to my regimen Thursday night, which allows little feeling--I was moving through water all day. I kept as busy as I could despite my gnawing cold. Today I am irritable, I don't want to be bothered by anything or anybody, I can be snappish. I feel bitchy. As I have said before, this is often a good sign of coming out of a depression, even a short one. Have I told you my bipolar daughter has been in crisis lately and I've been on the phone with her a lot? She most needs me when her illness acts up, although it takes a different form than mine--she tends to go into mixed states more, with alternating tears, curses, and laughter in a matter of minutes--very emotionally labile. I tend to get stuck for months on one end or the other. I just wanted you to know that whatever my state, I can always forget myself for the benefit of my children.

I pray I don't fall for pain pills or antihistamines again. I still feel like such an ass. My feelings are in accord with my being, I think.

I wrote a villanelle this morning which I think expresses some of the angry ambivalence of a mixed state, a state neither depressed nor happy, rather bitchy and unstable, although, of course, these mood tones are transformed into something else once you commit to a poem:


Waiting

Look! Fireworks fang the bloody sky!
The end has come; the button’s on repeat.
I’m just waiting for my dog to die.

Faces melt and bones electrify.
When we’re gone, someone pull up the sheet.
Look! Fireworks fang the bloody sky!

The sport of kings has changed to genocide:
“Kill them all, kill all the fucking sheep!"
I’m just waiting for my dog to die.

I didn’t vote and someone asked me why:
“One madman or another must compete.”
Look! Fireworks fang the bloody sky!

It’s easy, this apocalyptic cry.
If you brought hope we’d all fall at your feet.
I’m just waiting for my dog to die.

He’s old, he limps and barely hears my cry.
He won’t get off the floor to fetch a treat.
Look! Fireworks fang the bloody sky!
I’m just waiting for my dog to die.


Kathleen, of course, didn't like the poem, as it included our aged dog. But what can you do? A writer needs material, and the more depressed I am, the worse Kenyon looks to me.

Neil Young's tune is on the radio, "Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless." Aren't we all? Ka-Ching! I never liked the song. I never liked his falsetto or three-chord-repetition songs like this one, not to mention his ham-handed lead guitar playing, but I have come to like Neil better in my dotage, just as I've finally begun to accept what little talent U2 has to offer--mostly Bono's.

How I digress. I want everyone to slap me today. I want people to throw rocks at me to help externalize my own anger towards myself. I think Kathleen will do a fair job of it.


Two Kilorats,

CE