I wanted let my readers know that I'm slightly better since my 5 kilorat nadir on Tuesday. As I wept at my psychiatrist's office on Wednesday, I told him I wanted off the Cymbalta, as I didn't trust it anymore, and that the Seroquel, according to Kathleen, was making me much worse. And it was.
I asked for an antidepressant combination that helped me ten years ago: Prozac + Wellbutrin. Though at first he didn't agree, he later did, saying that he had to "listen to his patients." I was empowered by desperation: "These are the medications I think I should be on." Having him concede made me feel more in control of my fate. I haven't cried since that session.
I don't claim to be well, just not as sick.
I want to be well. If Jesus were nearby I would outshout the lepers.
Despite my depression, over the last four months I've had four magazines pay me for poems: Byline, Astropoetica, Grasslimb and Contrary. I had an essay published in Umbrella and have another essay coming out later this month in Blue Fifth Review. Meanwhile Sam Rasnake (whose blog I recommend, link below), editor of Blue Fifth, has honored me with a broadside--an independent feature, so I understand it--where a poet reads his poem on audio. Mine is "Almost Eden," a love poem.
Although an ex-poet, I can still send old ones away. And however small the check, I can call myself "a professional"--even if I can't make a living from it, not by a longshot.
I'm too tired to write more, but in my next post I hope to tell the tale of the wild cucumber.
Until then, at 3 Kilorats,