Tuesday, July 25, 2000
@ home 0725 hrs
I think anyone who has ever been diagnosed with some kind of depression and succumbed to the use of pills to cure it has knocked back a few weeks worth of Wellbutrin SR. My doctor prescribed it a little over a week ago when the Celexa wasn’t working. I haven’t felt any improvement on either pill, though.
The first couple of days on Wellbutrin were really weird. It was like living with one foot in reality and one foot in a dream–it wasn’t a pretty dream. The world seemed particularly gray even during our 105 degree, bright and sunshiny days. The best way to describe my mood during those days would be extreme apathy. I just didn’t care. What everyone was living for and saw in life, I couldn’t understand. I didn’t (and don’t) see the point of working and living just to die. My view can briefly be summed up as: Existence is futile.
Those days have passed but the weird sleep patterns have remained. Every night since the second day I’ve been taking these pills I’ve woken up right around 3:30 am. Every night. Even while in Dallas after a long day of swimming and drinking. Sometimes I can get back to sleep, sometimes I can’t. Those days that I can’t are often very long.
Now I’m sure you’re wondering why I don’t stop taking them. Because. I don’t want to know what the withdrawal added on to my depression would do. That’s just something I don’t think I want to experience. A few weeks ago the pain inside got so bad that I put a cigarette out on the top of my left hand. Call it release or masochistic or whatever. All I know is that it pulled my attention away from the internal ache for a little while and focused it on the much more easily dealt with physical pain of burning oneself.
I haven’t fallen down that hard in quite a few days, but it always comes back. Some people try to help me with it. Most of them have never felt it, others have. My favorite suggested cure is: “You need to find yourself.” How does one go about finding oneself? Is it deciding on a career? Is it learning to lock everything unique away so you can be just like everyone else? I, personally, think that anyone who says and believes they’ve “found themselves” is [a] full of shit and [b] already dead. Giving up the search by saying you’ve found yourself is death. A living death. The search can never end while you still breathe.
“You just need to find yourself and be comfortable with who you are.” Who am I? Are you saying you don’t like the me I am right now? So, if this is the real me would you rather not know me? What is comfort? Isn’t that kind of like lying in a casket? No insecurity, no worry, nothing.
I like to consider myself as nothing more but a searcher–just like everyone else in the world but different. Different because we’ve each experienced individual and diverse aspects of life; viewed events through slightly disparate lenses. I don’t know if my search will bring the cure to this malaise or only worsen it. I’ll let you know when I’ve “found myself.”