17 Apr 2017 - Charles Freck
[insert greeting]
Day 53 on escitalopram. The tiredness is definitely back, after a very brief absence. Even though I went to sleep last night and woke up this morning at regular times, I nodded off during my first class (which otherwise holds my attention well, and I never sleep in). I was so tired this afternoon that, after a late lunch, I took a nap that ballooned into a three hour sleep, and even after that, I'm still ready to crawl back into bed and stay there for thirteen or fourteen hours.
Mood: 3. It would be higher, but the dreams I had during the short-sleep were bitter, and the productivity I lost whilst napping saps any good mood.
My head feels like it's full of mountain fog, and summary refuses to precipitate out of the mist, like making out what is carried in whispers within a hall blanketed with dust. I no longer recall exactly how I felt today, just that it was distinctly not good, with the pervasive sense of being a failure, as always. And the desire to connect, somehow, some way, with someone.
The theatrics of suicide occupied my thoughts this evening, in the period following my sleep when I berated myself for being weak, for losing time, for having too much confidence in myself and leaving my water bottle in my lab. In a sick way, a not insignificant part of me wants to attempt it, next year, when I know that I'll be discovered by the people that will be hurt most. I want it to be bloody, and messy; I want there to be a long note for reading and Requiem in D blasting over my unconscious body. I want there to be too much cheap wine, too many blades, careful incisions made to spill life, but not so much to end it. I want to spread the suffering I've experienced, in the most shattering way possible.
They say that depression is just anger that has no outlet and thus turns within itself. I'm not sure how much I feel that that's true, but I think that there's a certain degree of old anger behind my tendencies as of late.
I don't know what to say.
Until then.
Charles Freck, becoming progressively more and more depressed by what was happening around him, decided finally to off himself. There was no problem in the circles where he hung out, in putting an end to yourself; you just bought a large quantity of downers and took them with some cheap wine...
At the last moment, he changed his mind on the decisive issue and decided to take the pills with a connoisseur wine, instead of Ripple or Thunderbird...Back home again, he uncorked the wine, let it breathe, drank a few glasses of it, and tried to think of something meaningful but could not, and then, with a glass of Merlot, gulped down all the pills at once. However, he had been burned. Instead of quietly suffocating, Charles Freck began to hallucinate.
The next thing he knew, a creature from between dimensions was standing beside his bed, looking down at him disapprovingly...
"Your sins will be read to you, ceaselessly, in shifts, throughout eternity. The list will never end."
-A Scanner Darkly; Philip K. Dick
17 Apr 2017
Day 53 on escitalopram. The tiredness is definitely back, after a very brief absence. Even though I went to sleep last night and woke up this morning at regular times, I nodded off during my first class (which otherwise holds my attention well, and I never sleep in). I was so tired this afternoon that, after a late lunch, I took a nap that ballooned into a three hour sleep, and even after that, I'm still ready to crawl back into bed and stay there for thirteen or fourteen hours.
Mood: 3. It would be higher, but the dreams I had during the short-sleep were bitter, and the productivity I lost whilst napping saps any good mood.
My head feels like it's full of mountain fog, and summary refuses to precipitate out of the mist, like making out what is carried in whispers within a hall blanketed with dust. I no longer recall exactly how I felt today, just that it was distinctly not good, with the pervasive sense of being a failure, as always. And the desire to connect, somehow, some way, with someone.
The theatrics of suicide occupied my thoughts this evening, in the period following my sleep when I berated myself for being weak, for losing time, for having too much confidence in myself and leaving my water bottle in my lab. In a sick way, a not insignificant part of me wants to attempt it, next year, when I know that I'll be discovered by the people that will be hurt most. I want it to be bloody, and messy; I want there to be a long note for reading and Requiem in D blasting over my unconscious body. I want there to be too much cheap wine, too many blades, careful incisions made to spill life, but not so much to end it. I want to spread the suffering I've experienced, in the most shattering way possible.
They say that depression is just anger that has no outlet and thus turns within itself. I'm not sure how much I feel that that's true, but I think that there's a certain degree of old anger behind my tendencies as of late.
I don't know what to say.
Until then.
Charles Freck, becoming progressively more and more depressed by what was happening around him, decided finally to off himself. There was no problem in the circles where he hung out, in putting an end to yourself; you just bought a large quantity of downers and took them with some cheap wine...
At the last moment, he changed his mind on the decisive issue and decided to take the pills with a connoisseur wine, instead of Ripple or Thunderbird...Back home again, he uncorked the wine, let it breathe, drank a few glasses of it, and tried to think of something meaningful but could not, and then, with a glass of Merlot, gulped down all the pills at once. However, he had been burned. Instead of quietly suffocating, Charles Freck began to hallucinate.
The next thing he knew, a creature from between dimensions was standing beside his bed, looking down at him disapprovingly...
"Your sins will be read to you, ceaselessly, in shifts, throughout eternity. The list will never end."
-A Scanner Darkly; Philip K. Dick
17 Apr 2017
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