It still takes effort to start writing, and keep writing, but at the very least I'm not at the "impossible to be engaged with anything" stage of the new medication. Or at least, this is what I'm hoping; that it is the medication that is to blame for my recent troubles in reading and writing and not that this symptomatic of a bigger shift in my thinking/ life.
For the past three weeks, right after the Lobster Johnson post in fact, and which made my "not as debilitating as the previous type of medicine" post impossibly naive and hopelessly premature as all hell, I've been stuck in a lethargic and apathetic doldrums in every possible way.
In that first week I was forced to come to terms with something and been forced to acknowledge the utter brick wall of reality.
It was an act which was rather tough and unforgiving and which without medication likely would have been impossible. This thing which had existed in me for a very long time and that I just couldn't rid myself of, became, through chemical means, immanently rid-able. Though, this wasn't done without pain and fallout. I spent the first part of that week at home, sitting on the couch, staring at the walls. Thoughts became a daze. Occasionally imaginary conversations would start up to guide me past or headlong into problem points. We all have our demons and mine took every opportunity they could get their hands on. It was a very unpleasant time. My collision with reality was total. Hopes were shattered, desires were crushed, the way forward was completely lost. It was a staggered time of mental self-abuse and castigation. But it passed, and past a certain point, rather quickly because, where in the second part of week one, where a fog ruled my thoughts before, now there were no thoughts at all.
I did not exist in the way that people do. You enjoy a sunset, you taste the air, you resound to music. But during this time I was incapable of all of this. I just was. I saw, I drew breath and I heard. For the rest of this I was vacant, empty. Something had fallen away and a great echoing void was left behind. I did not consume a shred of fiction during this period.
This lasted for the rest of that week and most of the week that followed.
I've always been someone who sets himself tasks to complete and checklists to finish so this time of induced apathy was alien to me.
Of course, due to the nature of the medication, the distress I felt at this was limited. In fact, I say that this state was alien to me, but it wasn't that at all. It just was. I didn't have much thoughts about it. This state was me and at the time it felt natural. It's only now, in retrospect, that I have become convinced that the medication was, and to a lesser extent still is, to blame for it.
Then, somewhere along the way, occasionally, something would start to seep in and I found that the visual at least began to be able to hold my attention again. In week 2, To pass the time I continued playing Nioh. Its repetitive gameplay was pretty much perfect for the state I was in. Engaging but mostly about pattern recognition, so not much thought required. In week three I got into it and managed to finish its storyline.
While playing I usually had youtube on; Angry Joe playing Southpark the Fractured But Whole and SuperEyePatchWolf's anime videos mostly. I might dive into some anime soon because of that last one and I've already watched One Punch Man over the weekend. I'm not sure what to watch but some dude I work with fervently recommends me One Piece. I've also ordered my first ever manga: Junji Ito's Uzumaki. I find I'm actually looking forward to it quite a bit.
I finished the complete Nemesis The Warlock, which was disappointingly uneven over its run even though book 2 (specifically the Two Torquemadas) had some incredible potential at its midway point, where our anti-hero travels through time to witness the end of his saga and where he gets some disconcerting news.
But, as is usual with 2000 ad, the balance between the comical and the serious is a little bit inconsistent, so even though I loved most of its ideas and some of its moments Nemesis ended up being a bit of a dud for me.
Apart from Nemesis and some other one-shot comics I maybe managed to read 60 pages of The Blood of Elves. I can't remember a thing of it though.
That's pretty much it for fiction. I've in fact barely glanced at my books.
This, obviously, is rather worrying, both for the blog and for me in private. Fiction is what I do. What can I do if that drops away? I'm still in a bit of a holding pattern right now, taking it day by day, trying to just do what I want. The problem is of course that I don't want anything. I'm just passing time again. Counting the hours until death or a miracle. It's not depression so much as it is an awareness that likely nothing will change in my circumstances. Despite all my personal self-improvement I can't change how I am, in those ways that I would most want to change. I wish I was different but it can not be done. The problem right now (and always) is that I'm too aware of this and that I am unable to accept myself, have peace with myself.
The world is too harsh for me. I'm too sensitive and too weak.
But where before this would make me filled with sadness and self-pity, and a lament for my own condition, now I find I am just angry.
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