The Prozac Diary

Feeling tired. And restless altogether. Exercise helps. I can do push-ups everywhere. Hands on the floor. Just below the shoulders- feet joined. Up and down. Breathing in and breathing out. After a while I feel the muscles starting to work. A slight tension, lactic acid kicks in. I can almost visualize the process. Continue breathing and the muscle warms up. It takes now somewhat more of an effort and I need oxygen more. I focus on something else and feel a light film of seat covering my body. I close my eyes and can almost feel how serotonin comes to the brain. Relaxation starts and the muscles work almost on their own. It feels good. It was hard to get motivated and start but now it feels really good. I switch to abs and sit ups. First nothing , then the pain shots up in my lower abdominal region. S’been a long time that I didn’t train. Try to remember the envelope theorem and continue. Mental diversion helps. Key is in repetition. Pain dulls and I can go on. Another shot of serotonin. And the feeling that I am alive and functioning.

I stop after 40 minutes. A feeling of bodily satisfaction and a bit of mental pride always come after exercising. I can almost feel it. Almost because I’ve spent all this time laying on my bed and thinking how good it would feel if I did exercise…. I could coin a new syndrome to describe my condition: hypertrophy of the imagination.

it's not sex, it's guilt that drives the world

I did something really dumb. Don’t know what happened really. It somehow started because I couldn’t watch Violetta die. Got both antsy and oppressed. Thought I was going postal. Watching all the others around me. So I left.

A pity really. It was a fantastic rendering. Really enjoyed. Or part of me did. Or part of me knew that I could be really enjoying this. If. If only.

Anyway I left just after Alfredo’s father visit and fled. Literally fled. Came home to a mixture of self loathing and pity. I should have gone to Anthony’s party. Might have helped. Instead I got myself a glass of wine. At home. I felt the walls closing upon me. As if the lungs couldn’t get enough air. As if my ribs were getting tighter. As if misery has become solid and the air to breathe was turning to water and I would slowly, excruciatingly slowly dive under and drown.

It is a strange feeling when things you like start failing you. My first opera was with my dad. funny how now children seem to be unable to sit tight for a Walt Disney animation movie and only a few decades ago, it was normal not to fidget around for a 3 + hours.

Not sure I was better brought up and certainly not terrified by some father figure. No terrified but this was the condition for obtaining the treat. And being allowed to tag along .to go to . to enter the world of adulthood. To sit next to him. It was such a favour. it was bestowed upon me when I was 8. I was finally allowed not to stay at home. I would have kept still for even longer. Did I get bored then? Probably. Can’t remember. Opera music is an acquired taste. And I doubt I would have adopted it spontaneously. But why does it matter now? In the same vein I am not so sure that learning to read was an exhilarating experience, can’t remember how it felt. b-a ba. But the pleasure of reading that one I remember. It even remains true today.

Should have taken a book really. But the same restlessness prevented me from reading. And I looked at the knife and I though that it would calm the urge to . it would be doing something. It felt childish when I had it in my hand. I dropped it and when back to drinking wine.

« S’il y avait de l’encre à l’hôtel d’Angleterre, pour vous couper les veines, vous n’auriez pas de raison?”

Maiakovski wasn’t going to help.

the damn thing is supposed to take up to 3 weeks to start having an impact. must be the placebo effect,then.

So far, I am exhausted.  totally sleep deprived. I wasn't sleeping well, any way but boys,the nightmares now have a formidable intensity .

maybe that's how they cure you from depression, it's so hard to stay bloody awake, you can't feel anything else...

and I drink like a camel. water,I mean. I am thirsty like never before.

let's hope it settles after a few days...

I give up, I give in, I stop resisting. I look at the blue-white powder-filled two-part gel capsules and  have a distinct feeling of failure. low-grade depression says J.

who likes being low-grade anything?  how do you distinguish between low-grade depression and high-grade procrastination and whimpiness?  that's suppose to affect menopausal housewifes. not me.  wonder if my balls are going to shrink or what.

mind you, as a result, was super easy to get the drug. the nurse practitionner obviously didn't know how to handle a 6-foot something cry baby in her office and wrote the prescription faster than had expected.

well, what's the fuck. time to stop debating. glass of water and hop.

let's face it: i just can't stand this sliding feeling anymore. couldn't stand the others anymore. (remember the écorché?  the encyclopedia britannica defines it as  "A figure drawn, painted, or sculpted to show the muscles of the body without skin",

well, that how I feel when I get out of home. not very convenient to move around in society, you must admit.

well, I've done it, swallowed it. will see what happens next.