I hate being me. I really do. It sux. It really bites. I cannot remember a time, outside of early childhood when I was ever really happy.
My Aunt Charlotte committed suicide when she was 37. I never knew her. She died before I was born. But sometimes, I sense her in my apartment, and I know we could have been good friends.
She drank household cleaner. So she died (after living through it for a few days), by poison. It was 1957. In those far off days no one really knew very much about what it was like to be us. No one really understood what a manic depressive was, and no one really cared anyway. People were too busy with their bourgeois 1950′s values and how to “appear” as “respectable”.
She left behind a son, who later, also committed suicide.
These days, I’m too jaded, too infused with the values of a fallen society, (how ironic) to even contemplate suicide. I am too much the coward, not enough of a trail blazer, to even think about it. I’ve been too indoctrinated with those same 1950′s bourgeois values to even consider it.
Besides, I’m too busy at the moment, painting 4 paintings per hour, and worrying about the plot of the Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck) to really have time to go there.
Yeah, it really sux being me. And you’re lucky that you’re “normal”. Glory in that. Roll around and marinate in it. While you’re doing that, I’ll be in the chapel talking to my Aunt Charlotte, who might just be, the best friend I ever had.
Please hand over my bottle of generic Fluoxetine. I hate it, and it tastes like shit outside of the capsule (ever tried to “half” a capsule???) but it keeps me from the edge. I’ll take it with a Sailor Jerry’s chaser. Nice combo. Not quite as debilitating as Abilify and not as heavy as Lithium.
Ever tried pouring concrete into your brain? Yeah. It sux. And it’s a lot more uncomfortable than my current cocktail.
