It's strange to me to realize that other people don't quiver when confronted with the slightest upset. Was a student unhappy with a grade? Did someone fail to return my hesitant grimace/smile as we jostled past each other into the New York City cattle cars? This last example may have been due to the pulverizing heat once one reaches the lower stairs, but in my mind it is a direct assault on both my humanity and my attractiveness. In my interior landscape, all of these trifles are call for immediate alarm. Stop everything, we've hit boiling point. I often wonder if perhaps death, or at least five-hour crying jags, will provide some sort of relief from the anxiety of not having quite enough special cheese to make tacos.
It is worth noting that the persistent intolerability of existence is represented by the lack of cheese often. So sayeth me, motherfuckers.
Recently, though, due to limited supplies and not having 12 hours to stand outside marveling at the wonders of the luminous trashcan lids and all the ways they represent the varied bleakness of my childhood, while conveying this inarticulately to my tortured audience until I pass out (you know what I'm talking about), I've had to turn to pharmaceuticals to clear the cobwebs from my brain. Actual, doctor-prescribed medication. The horror of white pills. Surrender flags are white, you know.
The first hit (I like to refer to it as a hit, because it makes it sound illicit and therefore solidifies my status of a someday wasteoid) of Wellbutrin caused a dizzying high that made me feel that everything would, perhaps, be okay. Okayness is troubling. The first hit of Lamictal made me enter a world of fog and echoes, in which everything reached my brain ten light years after its initial emergence, by that point significantly dimmed. It also made me fucking wired, as well as super stupid.
In fact, it's still making me fucking wired, though the stupidity has faded and some level of acuity has returned. I pretty much never sleep, which gives me a lot of chances to stay up, worrying and being profoundly weird. I worry that my students will send me mean emails (I've had a few). I'm worried that I'll lose my job. I'm worried that I'll never write poems again. I'm worried that the earth is being assaulted and I'm only helping by staying up all night, burning fossil fuels to keep the lights on so I can write inflammatory things on the internet. I'm worried that...shit, I forgot. I just know I was worried.
However, I think I've reached the great, cosmic who-gives-a-shit I used to seek via other means. Sure, I still worry. I've also reached the point where I don't care. Is it possible to worry without caring? It is, particularly if you're of two minds about everything, like I in all my Mercurial glory always am. I still worry. I have reached the point where worrying doesn't feel all that bad.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. I am fucking terrified of both paths, but I am finally ready to actually walk down them.
Also, fuck Frost. I hate that guy without any real reason.