Exhausted. Worn down and running on bare metal. Whether the drugs are helping or dragging down on mere being is something no longer discernible. My mind is a chemical kalediscope of up and down and in and out, like one of those movies from the Sixties but without the funky soundtrack. Trying to keep it together, without being subsumed or consumed by madness on all fronts.
These past few days, thoughts of wanting to be dead haven't stopped. Thoughts of active ideations of suicide are not there but I'm fighting to stay away from that edge. Something I've already come too close to.
Not the first time. Not the last.
I didn't want to look into the abyss. I was forced to gaze into it.
Take the meds. Slow it down. Up the intake. Breathe in this lithium night. Take the edge off. Forget how much you lose as a writer and a thinker. Be living, not alive. Mere existence is a crawl. Life to the fullest accompanied by near-psychosis, or breathing day to day without fulfillment of purpose.
Damn the disease. Damn the drugs far more so.
I take the meds. And I will live and be haunted for one more night.
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