The official Kilobunny, courtesy of Jennifer:
I don't want to jinx myself by prematurely pronouncing myself improved, but to hell with superstition.
On Saturday, July 28, I did not cry. I have not wept since. I have experienced hope. I have experienced pleasure.
At Kathleen's suggestion, with the small checks I recently earned for my poems, I treated myself today to an outlandish shirt, part of the Wrangler "Silver" series--a western shirt with faux pearl snaps, black with maroon and truly silver pinstripes--shimmering silver from some special thread. A shirt fit for a manic.
I shall wear it when performing. My next gig is at "Art in the Gardens" in the Botanical Gardens of Fort Bragg, August 11. Any locals should be sure to come as it is a grand party.
Just before midnight on July 27, an old friend and bass-playing band mate of mind called to say, "I love you, monkey." We have a long history of monkey speak. He's even crazier than I am. So we talked monkey-crazy for a while and I explained to him my ongoing plight. The next morning his brother, an old guitar-playing band mate of mine, called as well and was in good spirits. I hadn't heard from either in a long time. Coincidental conversations? Or was the universe winking at me?
The period of time for which I've been taking a full dose of the new medications I suggested to my psychiatrist is now about two weeks, exactly the amount of time one would expect before a response. Am I finally coming out of the woods when I was neck-deep in bear shit? After 16 fucking fucking fucking months, am I going to make it this time and finally feel like Thomas the Tank, "a useful engine?" As Captain Picard says, "Make it so." Please make it so. I will of course let you know if my euthymia holds.
Do you know how long it's been since I had a feeling of hope? A feeling that I am not entirely worthless and that my life may not have been entirely wasted? To not fear every phone call, to not perceive every detail of existence as an inscrutable, Sisiphyean boulder to push?
BTW, the Zyprexa, like the Seroquel, made me no better, perhaps worse. All it did was ratchet up my melancholic seizures to later, because I slept later. So instead of falling apart into hopeless tears at first at 11 AM each day, I would instead begin disintegrating at 2 PM. It fooled me early on the first day after a dose before I realized the new pattern. Sneaky, sneaky chemicals.
Cross your fingers and pray, chant, or meditate for me, send flaming arrows of good karma my way. If my mood holds you'll be treated to a different kind of subject matter, though naturally my readership will decline, since nothing sells like misery. I don't mean this as a criticism but a simple acknowledgment of human nature. Thank you all for sticking with me.