For three days almost I have felt slightly better with no explanation; no change in meds or therapy. Less rumination, esp. about suicide.
I've been reading "The Noonday Demon" again by Andrew Solomon, an excellent book I recommend. He subtitles it "An Atlas of Depression," and certainly the moniker is deserved.
Meanwhile I summoned the courage to revise some of the "Dark Sonnets" posted here before. I hope to offer the revised series in the coming weeks, beginning with today's "I."
Once more this fell infection of the mind
Galls itself, one wound gouges another.
This pus of pitted surfaces will find
More cells to infiltrate, more smooth to smother.
I put a stethoscope upon my head
To eavesdrop on the stuttering machine,
Heard nothing but the clawing of the dead
Inside a skipping jukebox’s routine.
I dream of pills and guns and mangled cars,
The sordid images of methods used.
They haven’t answered “Is there life on Mars?”
As yet. From judgment shouldn’t I be recused
Until they do? Because no life in me
Obtains beyond blessed fatality.