The Rattling Fuzz & Hum.

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The new, new to me, latest to me, my third, CPN.
Community Psychiatric Nurse is very nice,
Much, much better than the last,
Hopefully as good as the first.

She worried about me, something I said, I said the word, the word that triggers, that word was harm…followed by another, risk…followed by another, myself…followed by another, others.
Is it me, is it the pills, is it a reaction to pills, is it real. It is real…
But what is the reality…

My concerned CPN hastens an appointment to my Psychiatrist.
I can see he enjoys meeting me, his face takes on a serious hue,
when he hears those words. His face tense, he looks me fully,
eyes locking, he’s deep in thought, searching me, searching him.

New meds! Yeah! Deep joy! What fun Christmas will be,
as my mind gets use to the surges of different drugs, again.
Again the surges of the strange and wonderful waves.
Waves I try to enjoy, jumping up and over as they flow by me,
Waves I dive under and through as they crash around me.

So now the sixth drug is given to play with the poor, innocent mind.
One drug, the same one taken off three months ago, given again.
Another drug, new, powerful, I feel it snatching parts of me,
Leaving me swimming in the ocean, far before the waves form,
only to suddenly be right where those large, looming crests, crash.
Leaving the mind a smog and the mouth ajar, open, dopey.

My Black Dog, Fenrir.
Fenrir becomes
No longer the dog.
The dark and forbidding
Stood in the corner learing
Fenrir the shadow, the village idiot.

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Troches, Pilules, Bolus…

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Juvenile Snowy Inkcap

Take as many as you like,
Have as many as you like,
Ask for as many as you like,
Everflowing, neverceasing pharma.

Overloaded, overworked, underfunded, underappreciated, undervalued.
Psychotherapy no no no…take these,
they won’t help but they will keep you busy until…Mind busy, emotion busy, confused busy, confused, busy mind.

Nobody, no Doctor, no Community Psychiatric Nurse, no Psychiatrist
are in any doubt I need help, need psychological help.
Yet there is no space for me.
Change those meds again, keeps me busy until space.

I can get everything I like  prescribed to me for all sorts of minor ailments,
Let me list the many I have had:shampoo, five steroid creams, three moisturisers, nail treatment, anti-heartburn, aspirin, statins, three other creams, eyedrops, eardrops,
pills for side effects of other pills, anaesthetic & steroid injections.
The list goes on and so…does the money, seemingly unchecked to pay for these prescriptions, whatever I like, pharma companies will charge the cash-strapped NHS for all my requests, doctors give with abandon.
Yet there is no funds for psychotherapy, which makes no company profit yet gets results in less time it takes for pills have any therapeutic affect, and perhaps never will.

I’m now on my fourth different pill for my depression in under three months, I’ve been  on pills since February, none do me any good, I suspect they have made things worse. I cannot tell what is illness, what are the pills effects, what are side effects, what are counter effects, what are bad reactions. I cannot tell if my illness persists or is it the pills persisting the effects…the edges of both are now so blurred no corrective insight can see clearly.

The black dog, Fenrir, the name I give my depression. Fenrir is now both the illness and the supposed cure.
Fenrir likes SSRI’s, they prolong and never cure, they hide without ever ceasing, just a coping mechanism as bad as alcohol.
Fenrir likes those pills for he can dance all day and all night, snarling the tune, laughing and mocking me.
He, they, me…are my friend and my enemy all the same.

Just another day closer…

 

Today, The Day, After, Next.

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Silky Rosegill

Today, the same.
The day, the same.

After, the same.
Next, the same.

Just the same, no change, alive but not caring if so, not that I want to…not be. The black dog chasing me, chasing after me, after me, me. A night out with friends, where I have nothing to say and all that escapes my mouth, snagged on barbed wire, is all to reflect upon the inadequacies of my own inferiority. How all said is boring, is hateful, is to be despised, all me. How all makes me call myself, again and again, over and over, continuously, outloud and inloud, ext and int, dexter and sinister, “you cunt”. Why all makes me different, sets me apart and not a part, makes me less, why it is all me who does it.
Why cannot I stop talking, put a cap on it, swallow it instead of spitting it out all over myself, over everyone, over anyone. Why cannot I talk like them, like others, like those, silky and smooth, rose water to minds, funny and interesting, conversation unstilted.
Thus my black dog, Fenrir, drags me down by it’s teeth, pulling and tugging, fighting every effort to try for the light, for the air, it’s grasp tight and unforgiving, mocking in it’s blood red eyes and snarled smile, it’s growled, mocking laugh. My depression has a name, and that name is Fenrir.

Every Day a Little Closer

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Juvenile Hebeloma.

Every day is a day closer to death.
Yesterday I didn’t want to live.
Today I don’t want to live.
No doubt tomorrow I won’t want to live…
But I live in hope I don’t feel that way…
Or I live in hope I don’t live.

Death, the feeling of wanting to no longer live.
The answer to the question which hasn’t been asked.
The ultimate answer in the dark.
The answer not asked for.
The solution to the unstated problem.

No longer wanting to feel life.
No longer having to feel life.
No longer having to feel an answer,
To a question never asked,
A question never asked for.

The smile hides,
The laugh confides,The humour buries,
The zany disguises.
I wear my veil.

I never talk about myself in blogs, if I do it is as a third person, it/they, those blogs were never about me, they were/are about how the world makes me feel or how somebody else feels or exists. Today I start to talk, unashamedly, about my ongoing depression, my acute, severe, clinical, psychosis depression. What ever words ‘they’ call IT. The Emperor with no clothes, the elephant in the room, my ghost in the machine. My clouds, my smog, my…

Every day is a day closer to death.