I awoke at 420 Sunday morning. A cheeky irony, considering that I’d only just run out of weed the day before yesterday. Restless. An unquieting sort of restless. It coated me, like some insoluable, immutable slime. Did this restless feeling almost resemble anxiety? Wanting the comfort of deep sleep; unable to get there.
I glimpsed my Self on the cusp of unnerving unease and stirring agitation. The stirring, insatiable monster that lives inside. I tried the scalding/steaming-hot-shower method of relaxation ~ once … twice … three times … four times in five hours! Unquieted … unquieted … unquieted. And then, after the fourth shower, a mild serenity. The insatiable monster went back to sleep. And so did I.
The initial comforting sedation I felt when I first started the Seroquel XR has waned somewhat. I miss it. Is that deviant? I’m not sure, one way or the other. The psychological stress of distancing myself from weed makes me feel a pinch of unease – despite the Seroquel XR. I keep it company the best I can. Acceptance, not resistance.
My creative muse continues stuttering and sputtering in the wake of my recent psychiatric biochemical storm. Words, projects, stories live and breathe inside my head. In fact, they’re dancing and singing there, as I write this post. They seek their own external expression. Relentless, in their quest to taste the world, tasting them. I find myself in a sort of surreal creative labour – engaged in a birthing of creative forms. Forms with differing periods of gestation.
I want to begin considering my limitations and vulnerabilities seriously, in the context of my talents and skills. I can make a contribution to humanity. I feel like I haven’t, these past two traumatic years. I will not play broken wing. Instead I will ask myself the questions demanding my asking. What can I do? What do I want to do? What must I do? Like many other aspiring writers, I have relied too heavily on episodic binges of intense inspiration, and have discounted the benefits of regular writing practice. I have pondered, contemplated, wondered for so long. Could I really accomplish, creatively? I’ve long doubted, wishing for immediate surity.
Photo: Penelope's on The Drive ~ taken 24.03.09
{3 goals i have set for myself}
daily writing practice ~ storytelling ~ maybe even an ecourse
I glimpsed my Self on the cusp of unnerving unease and stirring agitation. The stirring, insatiable monster that lives inside. I tried the scalding/steaming-hot-shower method of relaxation ~ once … twice … three times … four times in five hours! Unquieted … unquieted … unquieted. And then, after the fourth shower, a mild serenity. The insatiable monster went back to sleep. And so did I.
The initial comforting sedation I felt when I first started the Seroquel XR has waned somewhat. I miss it. Is that deviant? I’m not sure, one way or the other. The psychological stress of distancing myself from weed makes me feel a pinch of unease – despite the Seroquel XR. I keep it company the best I can. Acceptance, not resistance.
My creative muse continues stuttering and sputtering in the wake of my recent psychiatric biochemical storm. Words, projects, stories live and breathe inside my head. In fact, they’re dancing and singing there, as I write this post. They seek their own external expression. Relentless, in their quest to taste the world, tasting them. I find myself in a sort of surreal creative labour – engaged in a birthing of creative forms. Forms with differing periods of gestation.
I want to begin considering my limitations and vulnerabilities seriously, in the context of my talents and skills. I can make a contribution to humanity. I feel like I haven’t, these past two traumatic years. I will not play broken wing. Instead I will ask myself the questions demanding my asking. What can I do? What do I want to do? What must I do? Like many other aspiring writers, I have relied too heavily on episodic binges of intense inspiration, and have discounted the benefits of regular writing practice. I have pondered, contemplated, wondered for so long. Could I really accomplish, creatively? I’ve long doubted, wishing for immediate surity.
Photo: Penelope's on The Drive ~ taken 24.03.09
{3 goals i have set for myself}
daily writing practice ~ storytelling ~ maybe even an ecourse
Take a risk, Roxanne!
It’s time for you to reach up, reach beyond, reach out.
It’s time to surpass yourself.
It’s time for you to reach up, reach beyond, reach out.
It’s time to surpass yourself.
3 comments:
More tomorrow friend- just wanted you to know I was here now- in the wee hours- Hugs for now :)
So glad you crossed out the words maybe even! Blessings on your risk-taking. (And thanks for a little bit of education, I'd never heard the term 420, the origins are fun).
Wow. I feel for you and your struggle. I smoke da ganja to help when I have suicidal depression. It works quicker than anything else. They have tons of quick downers (ativan, etc.) but no quick uppers. That's where weed comes in for me.
Anyway, I love your writing in this post. Tell me, does your creativity suffer from the meds? Mine does. I can still write well but my painting has suffered, which depresses me even more!!
Hang in there as best you can and I will too.
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