Impact

Diez anos

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Tue, 29 Jan 2019 16:55:00 +0000

I had just

finished bathing, standing before

the steamed-up mirror

brushing my hair

when it hit me:

the fetus inside the belly

of one of the sisters

whose life was

cut short by the

Nissan Pathfinder

I was driving

would be a child almost 10 years old now

(barring other tragedy)

I gripped the sink, brush

fell to the floor

my head splits and divides

again

my mind detaches from my body

again

how is it possibly possible that

two sisters are gone,

one child never was

and I am still here?

Approaching...fracturing

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Mon, 28 Jan 2019 20:10:00 +0000

This is an image I created while on house arrest probably in mid-February, 2009

In 6 days it will be February 3 again.

This time it's 2019

the 10th anniversary of a fissure

of a fracture

not like of a bone, like an ankle

or a rib

though that definitely happened too

this was a a cataclysm

that I still don't know how to heal

10 years later

Post from 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 28 Sep 2016 01:18:00 +0000

Who am I if I'm not suicidal?
What is life like?
Where am I uncomfortable because I'm not suicidal?
It feels anxiously flat, a nervous nothingness
So I feel OK waking up in the morning, I can accept being alive for another day but what do I do with this day to make it worth living?
I enjoy my pancakes with jam
I appreciate the trees while we go running but
I'm not making anything I'm not
serving anyone I'm
just living
I'm not in the level of pain to which I had become painfully accustomed
I still want to get small enough that I disappear
I don't feel I deserve to

another post from 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 28 Sep 2016 01:18:00 +0000

notes from a psychotic episode

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 28 Sep 2016 01:17:00 +0000

I have apparently just survived psychosis with catatonic features. I was convinced I was dreaming, and kept waiting to wake up, but I didn't. It was very unsettling. I think most people sometimes feel they are in a dream state, but I was convinced. Something was wrong with the nerves in my hands, I was holding my arms in a cramped position, and couldn't keep my eyes open or focus them clearly.

I was inpatient for the first ECT and 2nd, then went home. I wasn't allowed to eat until after having the ECT, and Dr. F slots were later, so I was HUNGry. I couldn't feed myself. Jer took a video of mom feeding me soup. I was holding my hands out in front of me like claws, and had my eyes half-closed.

Sharp had 3 hallways intersecting in a trident. They had a nice patio with molded concrete tables and chairs.

Kept looking for ways to prove I was alive, tether to reality - for example, ordering food from Bread and Cie, or seeing my family, or eating sushi or thai food.

I thought i was dreaming, but the dream was taking way too long. I kept waiting to wake up, trying to wake myself up, opening my eyes to only see a sliver of the scene in front of me, having my focus caught between the hands in front of me and the scene beyond - i couldn't adjust the focus of my eyes for depth perception

Sunday - spoke only a few words at a time, in low, difficult to hear voice.I kept sliding down in the chair, almost falling out, then pushed self back in , so dad put his knee in front of my knee to give me a guide. My glasses also kept sliding down my nose.

Monday speaking more fluidly. I took a medication from a spoon - before took it, non-responsive. 1-2 hours later, Otto arrived, and became more animated, and helped me break out of catatonia. Couldn't slow the thoughts down enough according to Jeremy. I remember taking medicine in applesauce.

Hardwood floor in my room at UCSD, nice big windows, but shabby old wooden furniture in the lounge. Room had a bed adjustable like in a regular hospital - could recline, sit up supported, etc.

Once i started to suspect I was NOT dreaming, I had to find was to prove I was alive, in the world, that things were happening, or that I could control what was happening, in which case it would be lucid dreaming. I thought I was in a boring version of Inception - instead of explosives and folding over skylines I was trying to manipulate what kind of dessert I would get served.

Aurora outpatient - there were people who came to an all-day program and a part-day program. The all day program had really supportive fellow patients in it, and this counselor named Terry who....

Bar-code scan on patient bracelet for meds.

I thought it was night when it was day. The only ways I felt alive were to be in motion, walking in cirlces, to kiss Otto, or to pee. They had me pee in cups a lot. I also vomited at REI. There were things I thought were dreams that apparently were real. For instance, a man with a plastic bladder and catheter coming out of his zipper, just sitting in public as it filled up. There was a very round large young woman with short hair who was constantly yelling - I pictured her like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland. Apparently she was real too. Yelling about her parents being mean to her. I shared a room with an Amanda, and people kept mixing us up - or i kept getting mixed up thinking they were addressing me when they said her name. I kept trying to open my eyes to wake up, but I just kept seeing little slivers of a room, not the whole thing. My eyes were stinging too. I remember going under for the ECT, a loud ringing coming into my ears. The staff there were nice - but my Dr. was kind of arrogant, i felt.

They took my blood pressure and temperature multiple times a day. I had to pee in funnels, and they always wanted to know if I had had a bowel movement yet that day. But I was SURE i was dreaming! I couldn't wake up, so then i started to wonder what was up. I saw my hospital room in the dark, and a very ugly green and grey carpet in teh hall. Nurses kept asking me how i was, and i couldn't answer. I couldn't make any works come out. I would nod yes or no but somehow it came out in reverse, like: Jessica, do you want to go outside? Me: thinking yes, but shaking my head no. Dr. Fidaleo in his black leather jacket telling me I have to talk, i have to tell h im what's wrong or he can't help me. But I couldn't speak!

I threw up in mom's car. She was looking for a backpack to replace what she gave Otto. Otto got food poisoning and was vomiting all night, so mom took me out to let him take a nap. I couldn't coordinate my hands to feed myself so mom and Otto had to feed me for a few days. I was walking with a ahuffle and couldn't walk in a straight line. I didn't shower for several days so Mom rinsed me off in Jer's shower. I don't think I brushed my teeth either - Otto and mom ahd to do it for me. I was grabbing at things that weren't really there and wiping things offof myself that weren't there. Thinking you are in a dream is a psychotic symptom.

I couldn't use the restroom alone. My mom had pull down my pants and sit me down on the toilet. They turned on the water to get me going. i emitted high-pitched giggles that were apparently quite disturbing. I held my hands stiff in front of me. i had my eyes closed for several days. Whenever Otto came I would get more alert and happy. He did some music and movement with me - he played the ipoad for me. I wrote a maze and wrote 'what am i doing here?'

asking what do I need to do to get out of here? Couldn't pass mental status exam - couldn't keep track of where I was, date, season, time. Jer said my skin was 'waxy'.

Otto and I spent night at mom's house. after REI trip I threw up my meds and dinner. Mom and Jer talked, we came to his house, Jer said should take me to Dr. Fidaleo for assessment, but shouldn't have another ECT. Dr. F. said clearly psychotic, needs stabilized inpatient. I couldn't control my hands well enough to connect my pen to the paper to admit myself voluntarily, but they admitted me anway.

Bathroom, and chairs - I couldn't coordinate to get my butt in the chair, or on the toilet - my spatial relations and depth perception were all messed up. They had to push me down onto the chair .

I used my email and web pages to prove to myself that i was alive - I was catatonic, but i was able to remember my gmail name and password! Email cuts through psychosis. Then when I remembered my website! I had external proof I existed! I did research on myself - watched all my videos, looked and my postings, and 'got to know myself' again from the outside. I wanted to wake up and get back to life because it looked like I had some interesting things to do - I got notice I was invited to a residency, and I wanted to make sure it was real.

Katie and Jer came to visit me at Sharp and showed me videos of Alice on his phone. My limbs were 'waxy,' in the sense that I held them in a single position in front of me. And left them where they were placed. I remember rubbing my thighs and not having full sense of feeling in my fingers or my feet. Standing up was a trick, as was sitting down. I couldn't speak but I could sing, so Otto put me on the iPod and i sang and danced around.

"We're going to get you good medicine. You're safe" These reassurances helped me a LOT. They asked me if I was restless, if that's why I was moving my hands in such a funny way.

I had to drink with a straw. When I was drinking something, or peeing, or eating it was like proof I was alive and awake. I kept getting hair in my mouth. I was seeing only a slice of what your eyes normally take in.

Catatonia - once started getting treatment with Klonopin started being able to feed myself. When wore off I went catatonic again. Had to titrate K at higher level - 0.5mg 3x day - was a lot. Signified my thoughts must have been racing around. I moved my hands quickly in circles, then clasped them to show I felt stuck.

Apparently my face was fairly expressionless - I would show some recognition of family members and hug them stiffly, but when Otto came I would smile. Otto also got me to dance and move more freely than otherwise.

I was at Aurora inpatient, then outpatient. Aurora inpatient - did lots of community meetings where we had to rate our mood, our level of depression. Got to go to gym sometimes - but there weren't enough machines for everyone. I would jump on the stationary bike for ten minutes right away, then try to fit in between the guys using the weight machines. We played some silly 'therapeutic' games, one called Mexican Train I think. We had arts and crafts. They have two units for returning military, PTSD cases, and there was a woman named Natalie who slept on our unit but did everything with their unit. Our unity was combined substance abusers and mentally ill, so there were people going through detox, some of whom were in a very bad mood about it. There was a lot of complaining about the staff, about other patients. Everyone hated my roommate, I think - she had had a surgery to reduce her size - gastric bypass - so she couldn't eat very much at a time. How did I get released from there? I moved to their day program, and didn't want to run into the people I knew from inpatient at lunch. Did I imagine all this, or did it happen?

Otto and mom had to drive me - got a ride at Fashion Valley twice. Was getting much more desperate to end my life. I wanted to get ECT started right away, and they thought it would go faster if I was inpatient, so I checked in to Sharp Mesa Vista. I remember being in my room waiting for my treatment, and I was so hungry. I checked in at the ECT unit, then the staff hooks you up to an iv which drops in the anesthesia. i woke up a few hours,? later the second time it hurt a lot - i had sore muscles, headache.

i said i would give ECT 2 weeks and if it didn't help I would kill myself. Since ECT induces a seizure I had to stop taking the gabapentin and Klonopin and instead took requip to control my restless legs - these are dopamine agonists, stimulates dopamine receptor - Doxepin is a tricyclic antidepressant that has a sedating side effect, but may have been activating also. Makes you sleepy, and can make one delirious.

Catatonic disorders are a group of symptoms characterized by disturbances in motor (muscular movement) behavior that may have either a psychological or a physiological basis. The best-known of these symptoms is immobility, which is a rigid positioning of the body held for a considerable length of time. Patients diagnosed with a catatonic disorder may maintain their body position for hours, days, weeks or even months at a time. Alternately, catatonic symptoms may look like agitated, purposeless movements that are seemingly unrelated to the person's environment. The condition itself is called catatonia .

A less extreme symptom of catatonic disorder is slowed-down motor activity. Often, the body position or posture of a catatonic person is unusual or inappropriate; in addition, he or she may hold a position if placed in it by someone else.

I wanted to shave my legs but had to do so supervised by a nurse, since razors were considered dangerous. I didn't do a very good job.

Food poisoning - dehydration, so got concentrated levels of meds I was taking, several things contributed to my psychosis.

I didn't communicate.

"Nods yes when asked if thoughts are racing, no when asked if feels safe'
Senior Behavioral Health Unit - super nice people - special favor to Katie and Jeremy. All their beds were full monday, but got a bed in the evening and Dr. Kim called. Dr. Fidaleo was not cooperating, so we had no records to show insurance - luckily, they did cover it mostly. Dad paid $3k out of pocket, but could have been much worse. Hospital room is $1800/day, plus meds and doctor care. They had made a garden out of round concrete outdoor ashtray containers with flowers and fruits and veggies, and I got taken on a walk there a few times. We sang karaoke - I did "yellow submarine". There was a grumpy New Yorker named Anchel, a woman named Artemizia who kept calling for help in Spanish, and Patsy who wore a kerchief over her bald head.

I was transferred "Against Medical Advice" because Dr. Fid wouldn't sign the forms.

I remember having to sign lots and forms at all these different hospitals, agreeing to be treated and I guess not holding them responsible for what happened to me.

The ECT clinic - the women who worked at the check-in were always friendly. I remember getting a needle in my arm to start an IV, then a huge ringing starting in my ears, then nothing - blacked out.

Otto brought me music I recognized - having things I recognized helped me connect to the 'real world'. He plugged me in to the iPod but I wasn't coordinated enough to operate it. I couldn't make it through a whole song without getting impatient and flipping around to a different one. I was dancing, but couldn't get on the beat, and felt like I think Dad and mom look when they dance - awkward. I was listening to Manu Chao and Citizen Cope, plus the happy morning song.

Went kayaking one day on Mission Bay.

Triggered

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 28 Sep 2016 01:11:00 +0000

It's seven years after The Accident and
I'd 'recovered,'
mostly

Living in a small town in the Dominican Republic,
where the biggest road only had one lane
in each direction,
where I only had to drive 10 minutes
to get anywhere,
I was OK
mostly
but not really

I would still dissociate
behind the wheel -
feel like it wasn't me driving,
that I was controlling the puppet
that was my body
from some abstract
floating space
I would grip the wheel, repeat
"I'm driving, I'm here, I'm driving"
over and over

Now in Los Angeles
of all places
some of the biggest freeways,
the most traffic
in the world.

We got a house where
I don't have to get on a freeway
in my daily life,
maximum drive is only 20 minutes
and E. drives whenever we have
to go on the freeway.
Fine? Fine

And yet
I find myself screaming
involuntarily
body clenching
sure I'm going to kill someone
again
It's horrible
Of course it upsets E.
he tries to reason with me
but

I am beyond reason

Triggered
It's happening

Again

More notes on psychosis

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 00:08:00 +0000

I started the Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) in the first place because I was growing more desperate to end my life. I went in-patient because we thought it would get the treatments started faster. I remember being incredibly hungry because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink before my treatment, and one day they didn't get to me until 11am. I said I would give ECT 2 weeks and if it didn't help I would kill myself.

Since ECT induces a seizure I had to stop taking my regular gabapentin and Klonopin because they inhibit seizures. Instead they put me on Requip to control my restless legs. Requip is a dopamine agonist, meaning it stimulates the dopamine receptor, which probably contributed to my psychosis. The also put me on Doxepin, which is a tricyclic antidepressant that has a sedating side effect, but it may have been activating in my case. It makes you sleepy, and can make one delirious.

I got dehydrated from vomiting, which could have concentrated the levels of the medications in my blood and contributed to the problem.

I thought i was dreaming, but the dream was taking way too long. I kept waiting to wake up, kept trying to wake myself up. Thinking you are in a dream is a psychotic symptom.
When the doctor determined I was psychotic and needed to be in the hospital I couldn't control my hands well enough to connect my pen to the paper to admit myself voluntarily, but they admitted me anway.
I opened my eyes and could only see a sliver of the scene, having my focus caught between my hands in front of me and the scene beyond - I couldn't adjust the focus of my eyes for depth perception. My family reports I had my eyes half-closed for several days. I thought it was night when it was day.
I was caught in a non-responsive catatonia. "Catatonic disorders are a group of symptoms characterized by disturbances in motor (muscular movement) behavior that may have either a psychological or a physiological basis. The best-known of these symptoms is immobility, which is a rigid positioning of the body held for a considerable length of time. Patients diagnosed with a catatonic disorder may maintain their body position for hours, days, weeks or even months at a time. Alternately, catatonic symptoms may look like agitated, purposeless movements that are seemingly unrelated to the person's environment. The condition itself is called catatonia .
A less extreme symptom of catatonic disorder is slowed-down motor activity. Often, the body position or posture of a catatonic person is unusual or inappropriate; in addition, he or she may hold a position if placed in it by someone else."
They gave me some medication in applesauce, from a spoon, and I became more animated. My brother the psychiatrist says my thoughts were racing too fast to be expressed, and the medication slowed them down. Once I started getting treatment with Klonopin (Clonazepam) I started to be able to feed myself. When it wore off I went catatonic again. They had to titrate the Klonopin at a higher level - 0.5mg three times a day - it was a lot.
I moved my hands quickly in circles, then clasped them to show I felt stuck.
Whenever Otto came I would get more alert and happy. He played music for me on the iPod, and got me dancing and singing, even though I couldn't speak.
I couldn't use the restroom alone. My mom had pull down my pants and sit me down on the toilet. They turned on the water to get me to pee.
I emitted high-pitched giggles that were apparently quite disturbing.
I held my hands stiff in front of me. I exhibited 'waxy flexibility,' remaining in positions other people put me in.
I drew a maze and wrote 'what am i doing here?'
I couldn't pass a basic mental status exam - I couldn't keep track of where I was, the date, the season, or the time.
Nurses kept asking me how I was, and I couldn't answer. I couldn't make any words come out. I would nod yes or no but somehow it came out in reverse, like: Jessica, do you want to go outside? Me: thinking yes, but shaking my head no.
I kept sliding down in the chair, almost falling out, then would push myself back in, so my father put his knee in front of my knee to give me a guide. My glasses also kept sliding down my nose. I couldn't coordinate enough to feed myself for a few days. I couldn't walk in a straight line either. I remember rubbing my thighs and not having full sense of feeling in my fingers or my feet. Standing up was a trick, as was sitting down. I kept getting hair in my mouth.
I sought ways to tether myself to reality, to prove I was alive by associating with things I could recall as familiar from the real world. Things like ordering sandwiches from the restaurant Bread and Cie, or eating sushi, or thai food - the familiarity of the food helped me orient.
I used my email and web pages to prove to myself that I was alive - I was catatonic, but was able to remember my gmail name and password! Email ritual habit cuts through psychosis. Then I remembered my website (http://jessicafhirst.com/)! I had external proof I existed! I did research on myself - watched all my videos, looked and my postings, and 'got to know myself' again from the outside. I wanted to wake up and get back to life because it looked like I had some interesting things to do - I got notice I was invited to a residency, and I wanted to make sure it was real.
Once I started to suspect I was NOT dreaming, I had to find ways to prove I was alive, in the world, that things were happening, or that I could control what was happening, in which case it would be lucid dreaming. I thought I was in a boring version of the movie Inception - instead of explosives and folding over skylines I was trying to manipulate what kind of dessert I would get served.
The only ways I felt alive were to be in motion, to walk in cirlces, to kiss Otto, or to pee. They had me pee in cups and funnels a lot. They kept wanting reports on my bowel movements.
I vomited at REI, perhaps from food poisoning, perhaps from a virus.
There were things I thought were dreams that apparently were real. For instance, a man with a plastic bladder and catheter coming out of his zipper, just sitting in public as it filled up. There was a very round large young woman with short hair who was constantly yelling - I pictured her like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland. Apparently she was real too. Yelling about her parents being mean to her.
"We're going to get you good medicine. You're safe" my brother tried to reassure me. He got me transferred 'against medical advice' from one hospital to another, because the doctor wasn't adequately treating my psychosis and catatonia.

Empty

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 02:58:00 +0000

I am having a crisis of emptiness
of lack of creativity
the faucet that used to be always flowing with ideas and images has been
turned off
and I can't get it to open up again
I feel stuck inside myself
Dry
Dried out
But not like a raisin, which has become something else with flavor and character
more like an empty seed pod that can
recollect a time when it used to hold a seed
a seed that could grow in a million different ways
but now is just
empty
Earlier today Otto tried to help me get started again
He put me to work with some empty plastic bottles,
started recording my audio and taking pictures
I felt impotent
I couldn't bring myself to do anything besides
crush the bottles
Then he told me to get in the bathtub
He sprayed me with shaving cream and dumped
'clean' garbage on my head
I yelled in disgust and anger
He didn't make me want to make anything creative
He just made me mad
So now I've spent the rest of the day
depressed and stinking of shaving cream

Electro-Convulsive Psychotic Catatonia

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 21:20:00 +0000

Yes, you read right.
I recently resorted to ECT, or
Electro-Convulsive Therapy,
out of desperation to rid myself of the continuous desire
   to be dead.
In ECT they anesthetize you, paralyze you and then
   shock your brain.
The best I can understand is that it's similar to hitting
   CTRL-ALT-DELETE
when your computer freezes up.
It restarts your brain, sort of.
The good news - it made me feel better about being alive.
The bad news - it mixed up and erased a lot of my memories from the surrounding days,
AND
due to some combination of stopping one medication and
starting another,
being dehydrated from vomiting due to food poisoning, and
who knows what else, I became
psychotic and
catatonic
after the third treatment.
Those words get thrown around casually,
as in
"I felt catatonic the morning after that big shin-dig" but
I was psychotic and catatonic in the
   clinical sense of the terms -

detached from reality, stuck inside my head
a little help from Wikipedia:
People experiencing psychosis may report hallucinations or delusional beliefs, and may exhibit personality changes and thought disorder... this may be accompanied by unusual or bizarre behavior, as well as difficulty with social interaction and impairment in carrying out the daily life activities.

I suffered from the delusion that I was dreaming, and I kept
trying to wake up.
I fell into a "distorted or nonexistent sense of objective reality." (Medical Dictionary)
Meaning that I forgot who I was, couldn't feed myself, and couldn't see clearly -
I had something like tunnel vision, and often felt I was seeing things
   in the dark even during the day.
They tell me I had my eyes closed or only half-open for a few days.
I had a roommate in the hospital named Alexa, but I couldn't comprehend that fact and thought I was both Alexa and Jessica,
   or that nurses were getting my name wrong.
I just saw her as a shadow in the corner of my room, and I was afraid of her.

I wasn't sure I existed in the real world,
yet when my boyfriend sat me in front of a computer I
robotically typed my username and password
and checked my e-mail -
so strange, that I was mostly out of this world and yet
I could check my e-mail,
an action sufficiently habitual that it
broke through my psychosis.
I had a break-through some time later when I remembered the address of my web page,
and looked at it as though learning about a stranger -

My brother took a video of my mother feeding me with a spoon and I have my eyes closed and am slurping like a little bird.
I was also holding my hands like claws in mid-air above my lap,
which is a part of catatonia called 'waxy flexibility'
My brother could put my arms in a position and I would stay stuck there.
I would stop halfway down to a chair
or the toilet
and need to be pushed the rest of the way down.

A little more help from the online medical dictionary:
"In catatonic stupor, motor activity may be reduced to zero. Individuals avoid bathing and grooming, make little or no eye contact with others, may be mute and rigid, and initiate no social behaviors. In catatonic excitement the individual is extremely hyperactive although the activity seems to have no purpose."

I must have had aspects of stupor and of excitement, because I kept
running my hands over my thighs, and moving as though I were
putting on and
taking off pants
from a seated position.
I didn't bathe for several days and my mother finally put me in the shower to rinse me off because I stank. At least that's what she told me -
I can't remember.
I don't remember most of what happened in the days surrounding the ECT, or my psychosis.
I thought the dream was lasting much too long and I
couldn't wake up.

I thought I had imagined the existence of the doctor who performed the ECT -
I couldn't recall having met him, I thought he was part of my dream.
I couldn't speak - couldn't form words and say them out loud.
This doctor didn't get it, he really didn't
get it.
"Jessica, you have to talk or I can't help you,"
he said, as though my silence was voluntary
and deliberate.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 18:21:00 +0000

I haven't been able to write lately I've
not really been able to think
the pills have plugged the holes in my head that
let in the gremlins of self-destruction
but those same holes seem to have been the ones that let in
air

so my creativity is suffocated
wilted
I'm used to having more ideas and flights of inspiration than I can usefully develop
and now there's a roaring silence and overwhelming
emptiness
a flatness

I don't feel like myself and I certainly don't feel like an
artist
I am trying to appreciate the absence of the urges to
hurt myself,
the fading of the wish to be dead
but I'm caught up in anxiety about not having the wish
to do
or create
anything

on being water - more of Palmer Fishman's nature metaphors

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 06:09:00 +0000

I've never had an easy time meditating.
or sitting still
the two together have been disastrous

once I was with a good friend
watching water falling off some rocks and into a river.
When I concentrated, I became The Waterfall, Itself -
that particular space through which the water was falling.

The Waterfall, Itself isn't any particular molecule of water, or bubble, or twig
No, it's the water-filled path between the edge
and the pool below
So the water molecules or bubbles that I could follow with my eyes are like my thoughts -
just falling through -
and similar in their ability to distract me from
my integrity, my wholeness, from the Waterfall, itself.

More recently I have been trying meditation anew
my therapist sometimes talks about 'surfing' various emotions.
I was walking my dog along a beach favored by surfers, and I saw them sometimes catch a wave, take a ride, and sometimes just get pounded.
Either way they always ended the ride sinking back into the water.

I thought I'd rather think of myself as the ocean itself than as the surfer -
whatever storm would, like the twigs in the waterfall, just be passing through, and even
during the fiercest storms some other part of me would be calm.

That is what I need right now, the presence of mind to keep some part of me whole and calm,
even when other parts
of me are getting rocked by a hurricane.
Whatever wave is an energy passing through me,
but it is not me,
as I'm trying to learn
even when I have thoughts of ending my life, these are only thoughts,
they are not me, and certainly
not all of me.
They are a fierce turbulence that will pass.

SNAPback - depression's backlash

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 01:38:00 +0000

I am doing intensive therapy right now, and it is kicking my ass.
I felt like I was doing better for a couple of weeks, and then it was as though I'd been stretching a rubber band that had reached its out limit.
And SNAP I was back in pathetic depressed misery.

The therapy is interesting, not like anything I've done before. It's a mixture of talking about patterns from my past and childhood (yaddy yadda), but also cranio-sacral therapy, which I don't understand but seems to help, meditation and concentration exercises, and work on changing my thought patterns.
It's definitely both cognitive and behavioral, but with a different language from the CBT that just always pissed me off with its facile promises.

I wrote this in a cafe in La Jolla, on a January Saturday. I think it's only part I, since it stops without really ending. I hope to add a more hopeful part II!

In the land where everyone looks happy,

Fit, and fashionable,

My downcast demeanor is

Distinctly unattractive

The sleek hair, the beatific smiles

Directed at me with a tinge of

Disgust

“Don’t infect me”

ROAR!

The gremlin inside me is hungry

I am increasingly sure he lives off my pain

Conditioning my nervous system to always turn

Toward the anguish

When given the option

In this land of eternal summer where men can wear

t-shirts in January and girls can wear sandals

I am trying mightily to retrain my brain, to

Coax it

Prod it

Drag it

Toward the chocolate scones and puppy dogs

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

My mental count of imagined steps

On the sand

In a circle

The idea is to concentrate more on my counting than on

My anxieties

6, 7, 8, 9,

Laughter carries across the café

A two-year old gets tickled by his father

ROAR!

The gremlin inside me calls more insistently

He scrapes out my insides

With a spatula

I am all hollow despair

1, 2, 3, 4,

"What nourishes you? What gives you pleasure?"

Even the words sound corny, or cheesy, or somehow dirty and inappropriate

I think of nourishing breakfast cereal, or

The pleasure they talk about in pornos not
hugs, or the easy comfort of being with friends because

I've withdrawn from warmth

as if it would burn me

A post got published....!

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 21:02:00 +0000

on the Depression Bipolar Support Alliance website. I can't tell how anyone would find it without having the link beforehand.
Here's the link:
http://www.dbsalliance.org/site/News2?news_iv_ctrl=-1&id=8947

My first impulse was to be happy - yay! I got published! Someone who could resonate with my words might see them, and feel something!
Then I thought
No, no one will read it
who looks at this website anyway
and how would they find my poem
even if they wanted to?

And THEN I thought -
these are the negative spirals of thought that get me into the deep dark hole of black death badness.

So
I CHOOSE to be pleased,
at least mildly,
with my modest triumph.

And I still hope my words find their way to someone who will
breathe a sigh of relief or
laugh out loud in recognition or
furrow their brow and think
'hmm I wonder if this is what my
(girlfriend/husband/friend/son/grandmother/colleague)
is going through.
maybe I get it a little better now.'

self-interrupted, a video by Palmer Fishman

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 19:28:00 +0000

A short experiment in how the editing process can add layers of content...

The brain, disorganized by a major depressive episode
Actively distracted by
withdrawal from some tired psychotropic medications and
the lag time to achieve a
'steady state' (at least in the blood) of
some shiny new pills

The video
shot as a log of one day's effort to get
dressed and out the door
Edited by s t r e t ch ing it out and
excising
alternating
seconds
then adding back in slivers of
greenery, the search for relief
itself another interruption

If you want to view it in full size click here: Self-Interrupted on youtube.com.

Verbally Constipated

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 22:01:00 +0000

I loved the book Catch-22 for the way it spins out the ridiculous contradictions of war. People today say the phrase 'Catch-22' in reference to a no-win situation, but this use leaves out its absurd dimension.

I feel like shit. Again. Stuck in the hole where my life has no meaning because I can't work, because the only thing I seem to be able to do, art, is incredibly competitive and involves regularly putting my Self up for review and often rejection.

Sometimes I can write, sometimes I can't. Right now I feel verbally constipated. Stuck inside myself. Too many feelings, thoughts, fears, frustrations, overfilling the balloon that is my head, and I can't find a channel OUT.
Not being able to express myself at all well traps me in solitary confinement.

That other post I just made? I wrote it weeks ago.

I have been having a really hard time lately with my father. Again. Been having a hard time again.
We go around these circles, sometimes coasting but more often scraping against one another like pieces of dull metal that don't fit together, shrieking, grinding, wearing one another down. Some people say we clash because we're so much alike. I don't know, I just know it's painful.
I hope someday to be able to write about our relationship and see some humorous absurdity in it. Maybe like a Catch-22. Someday.

Compulsive Vehicular Slumber

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 21:30:00 +0000

the car/train/bus starts moving
it finds its rhythm and velocity
my head loses its own
some neuro-psycho-bio trigger connection
motor movement = danger
danger I can't control
tragedy I can't stop
so I
shut
down
is this my reptile brain reaction?
can't control it, can't stop it, so play
dead?
in this dimension I fall asleep
repeatedly
I fall

photo by Manuela Bernasconi

each time I jerk awake it's a
new accident
new impact
new lost
new trauma

photo by Manuela Bernasconi

I am not my friend Christiana Figueres

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 21:59:00 +0000

I met Christiana Figueres when I was about 22 years old. She was just starting to work on climate change, as was I. She was struggling to found a non-profit, the Center for Sustainable Development in the Americas, and I was working on the US pilot program for carbon offsets at the US Department of Energy. I remember she and her partner in the venture were maxing out their credit cards to cover costs.

Her brother, Jose Maria Figueres, was then the President of Costa Rica, and he announced wanted to start a constructive collaboration with the US government on climate change. My friend Aimee Christensen and I, both young and wonderfully naive, sat down and decided to write a bilateral agreement. Since we weren't lawyers and had never written an agreement before, we looked at previous agreements for language hints.
"Look, each paragraph starts with whereas. Let's start each paragraph with whereas."
From this inauspicious beginning we drafted a statement of intent that was eventually signed by President Figueres and then-Vice President Al Gore, at the White House.

A couple of years later Christiana and I were both in Chile for a conference we had organized for the pilot carbon offsets program.
It was also my birthday, and Christiana took me to her favorite Chilean fortune-teller. My Spanish still wasn't good enough for me to really understand her, but I SO appreciated Christiana's intention to share something special with me. She also gave me a small stone box with a dove carved on the front that I still use to hold earrings.

I liked Christiana because she was real. You could feel that she was real. She had passion and also compassion.

I thought we would be working together, one way or another, for years. I thought we would both do Big Things.

If you've read any of this blog, you know this was not to be.

Christiana is now the Executive Secretary of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change, which means she is in charge of the ENTIRE international negotiations process. WOW.

I have been working to accept that I am not like Christiana, that I am not doing, nor will I be doing, Big Things on the same scale. Or in the same way. I cry sometimes, I want so badly to still be part of that world. I wish we were colleagues still. I miss it.

Today I cried because SHE cried, while talking to a group of young women activists at the negotiations in Cancun. I can't believe what a hard job she has, and I'm so thankful she is doing it. Regardless of the outcome, over which she has little control, I am thankful she is there. Someone who can still cry for what our leaders are unwilling to do.

The blog wonkroom reported on the meeting. Here is what Christiana said:

"It’s you. It’s the next generation. Look: We’re doing this but this has nothing to do with us. It’s all about you. It’s all about you. We’re the ones that have caused the problem but you’re the ones that are going to have to pay for it, right? The fact is, I’m the mother of two women about your age, and I realized many years ago that I had inherited a planet that was a diminished planet. And that if I didn’t do something about it, my daughters would grow up in a planet that had been severely diminished by what we’re doing. And I just can’t look at my daughters in the eyes and not do whatever I can.
So, it’s you. It’s about the kind of planet that you’re going to have. It’s honestly not my planet. It’s yours, okay? We borrowed it from you for a few minutes. But you will take it over very soon, because it’s yours. And you’re going to have to give it over to your children.
Honestly, there’s no perfect job here, okay? Nothing that we are going to do in Cancun is going to be perfect. Don’t expect perfection. Nothing is going to be highly ambitious. Nothing. Everything here is going to be one step, and everything is going to be insufficient. But it is the best that this group of people in these circumstances, with these political constraints, in this economic environment, can do for the time being. And as soon as this finishes we have to start pushing for the next step. And so it goes. But each one of us that is here has the moral responsibility to do the absolute best that we can at that moment under those circumstances. So what inspires me? It’s you."

Gratitude is healthy

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 09:25:00 +0000

One of my best friends, Yael Flusberg, recently posted some potent wisdom about gratitude on her blog. She writes about her daily practice of making a list of things for which she is grateful. And, as she notes, not in a cheesy way. Even the messy stuff:

“I did not curse out so-and-so when she suggested I do XYZ, although internally I wanted to go ballistic on her.”

Yael is also an amazing poet, as you will discover when you read her post.

She inspired me to make my own list this morning:

12/7/10 9:29 AM

· I am grateful for:

· Coffee, even when it’s not the best coffee
· A warm butane heater on a cold Barcelona morning
· Desiree and Axel, who have become my friends during the two weeks they’ve opened their home to us. For the funny videos we've made, and all the laughter we've shared.
· Having sufficient traction and stability to totter and then right myself when stressful situations arise. As opposed to falling over and getting sucked under for days.
· Finding a studio to rent yesterday. It has a big window, a wood floor, and open space with lots of other artists in the building, but not on top of me. It’s in a fun neighborhood, not too hard to get to from our (hopefully) new house. And it’s cheap, by Barcelona standards. I have a place to work!!!
· Yael, who makes a daily gratitude list and who intervened helpfully in a stupid, repetitive Hirst family pattern (in which I am also a guilty party)
And if I'm going to be honest, I'm also grateful that, with the ongoing email help of my psychiatrist, I've been able to achieve a modicum of psycho-chemical balance in my brain. I know all the subtle and dramatic signs that I'm doing better -

that I am even capable of being somewhat social,
that I'm sufficiently relaxed to let the lighter parts of me show.
That I am sleeping OK most of the time.
That I'm thinking about living, not dying.
That I feel confident enough to start making plans, and
that I'm stable enough to follow through on most of them.
That I can be more gentle with myself when I still can't do or be everything I wish for.
I don't give all the credit to the pills, but without them I lack the traction to do the work. I may hate this fact, pero es lo que hay - that's how it is.

Thank you Yael, for this exercise. It sounds so obvious, but it made me realize how much time I spend focussing on the negative. And how much energy I get from at least acknowledging the positive.

what my dog Benedicto is grateful for... illustration by Raquel

Te Gusta o No Te Gusta / Take It or Leave It (like it or not) Y/AND Es Lo Que Hay / That's All There Is To It

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 22:18:00 +0000

Time for some bastard linguistic anthropology with Palmer Fishman.

It all started when I wanted to be sure the plug-in heaters were sufficient to warm a potential apartment.
"Sure,"
   the agent said,
   "I can go turn them on first thing in the morning, then you come by before my lunch
   (which lasts a standard 3 hours by the way)
and take a feel."

The next morning was sunny and unseasonably warm, so we had no idea of the heaters' effectiveness. When I mentioned this to our agent, she, sensing where I was going with this, cut me off.

"Te gusta, o no te gusta el piso?"
Literally this translates to
   "The apartment - do you like it, or do you not like it?"

What she means to say is something akin to our expression,
   take it or leave it.
As in,
if you like the apartment,
   rent it, and if not,
   don't, but do
   not bother me with all your complications regarding heat or light or whether the fridge smells bad or what time of day the sun comes in.

Otto and I realized we now had the key to understanding so much of Spanish (or at least Catalan) culture that had so far confused us. I should emphasize that this is not a question of language per se, but of different uses of the same Spanish language in different cultures. These expressions don't exist in Central America, at least not in the same form.

When a restaurant manager seemed very put out that I asked him to stop drilling holes next to our table until we were done eating, his expression said
te gusta, o no te gusta, i.e.
if you don't like it, get out of my restaurant.

When the people who sold me a faulty cell phone the day prior don't understand why I'm upset that they won't exchange it?
Te gusta, o no te gusta.
You don't like your phone? Buy a new one. (they really said this to me)

When the organizers of a performance festival did
nothing
while an artist with a lit cigarette deliberately
blew smoke as he chased my friend with respiratory problems around an enclosed space, and I complained, what was their response?
Te gusta, o no te gusta.
The name of his piece was Toxico, what else do you expect? It's part of his concept to harass and provoke his audience, in some cases to the point of vomiting.

Understanding te gusta o no te gusta also helps explain why Spanish housing prices cannot be explained by classic 'Western' economics. It also helps explain why classic Western economics doesn't really work, period.

from the Wall Street Journal, November 26, a comment on the article "A Home Price Puzzle in Spain":

"You have to understand Spanish thinking and logic.
My house is worth 500,000 euros and it matters
not that the identical house next door just sold for
350,000 euros.
If anyone wants to buy my house they pay
500,000 euros and
that is the price and
therefore the valuation. "

Te guste o no te guste.

the commenter adds:
"My bar is doing no business so I put up the price of beer. I kid you not."

Today we discovered a corollary, or perhaps an underlying axiom would be more accurate:

Es lo que hay.

It's what there is.

That's all there is to it. (translation according to Yahoo! Answers)

This expression is generally uttered at the end of a lengthy complaint about one's job, spouse, car, house, phone service, dinner, or sex life.
It means, things really suck, but
   what can you do?
   That's what there is.
   There is nothing else.
   Nothing better.

Es lo que hay.  So we deal with it.

Otto commented that this is a fatalistic perspective in which the person does not have agency to change the situation. He further noted that it is a secular version of Latin America's lo que Dios quiere, it's what God wants.

So, to conclude, if

Es lo que hay / this is what there is

then your options are

te gusta o / you like it or
no te gusta / you don't like it

but either way, don't complain to me.

House-Less

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 19:51:00 +0000

I haven't written because we've been house-less. Not homeless, to be sure, but still uncomfortable. We're staying with some dear friends and enjoying one another's company, but we feel very unsettled. Unsettled mentally and physically.
Otto and I have been fighting more because we're stressed. We almost broke up over something I can't recall right now. Neither of us has space to work, and as if in cahoots with the demons my computer is also breaking down.

House hunting in Catalunya continues to be an adventure. People are very bathroom-centric compared to the Americas, always wanting to show off their bidets or fancy sinks.

As I noted in my piece Toilets of Catalunya, online real estate listings always feature the bathroom prominently, often to the exclusion of any other room of the house.

Heating
In the US we generally think of Spain as at an equivalent level of 'development' in terms of everyday lifestyle. Equivalent leaves a lot of room for variation. Many many houses and apartments here lack central heating, and despite what you may have heard about the Mediterranean climate, it is in the 40s.

Heater with butane tank

It is COLD. So you have to check and double-check that a house has heat. I think Franco liked it cold.

Interior Bedroom

Interior Rooms
I'm not sure if US building codes require all inhabited rooms to have windows. But in Spain, they don't. So a 3-bedroom apartment may have 2 bedrooms with no windows whatsoever, and the third with a small window to an interior air-shaft. We stayed one night in an interior bedroom in a hostel and I felt like I was going to suffocate.

Beautiful view of mountain with freeway in foreground

Message? Nothing's perfect, we are used to being extremely comfortable in the US, and not having a stable home can ruin a relationship fast.

dance fever

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 01:06:00 +0000

I used to dance a lot. I used to teach b-girl basics. I lost interest in pretty dance and became intrigued with uncomfortable movements. I moved to Nicaragua. Now I'm in Spain, where I've been watching amazing videos by yak films and their Oakland-based dance form, Turfin. The dance is beautiful, strong and graceful, and the film-making is refreshingly artistic and non-commercial.

They made me want to dance again.

I wanted to show the funny conglomeration of the different movement languages that combine in my moving body: b-girl, hip hop, modern, and my own special brand of deliberate awkwardness. Having technical problems related to the music I laid over the movement, so here's a low-fi version just to give you a giggle:

Outside the US you can still see a better-quality version from YouTube (I hope):

Reflections on a Sacred Killing / Eid al Adha

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 00:03:00 +0000

An introduction
Eid – celebration, or festival (in Arabic)
Eid al-Adha / Solemn fesitval of Abraham/Ibrahim

In this case, the celebration of God allowing Abraham to keep his son for another day.

I remember this story from Hebrew Sunday School and
in my childish way
the Sunday School version made me angry

“ya know what? You seem to like your son a fair bit.

I don’t really need him. I just wanted to

Test your faith, see how

Far you would go for me.

Kinda like gang initiation rituals, except I’m

God so

It’s kosher.

To prove I’m not such a bad guy to follow for all eternity, I’ll

Let you keep Isaac (Ismael) around

And to show your devotion,

Give me a sheep

Instead.

I’m hungry.

--------------------------------

Interlude
for the first time I am posting words and images from the same event. I took a lot of photos of the entire process, including the severed heads and the butchering process. It's real life, a lot more real than buying meat in the supermarket. It was done respectfully in this case. I left the graphic images out of the blog in deference to those who may squirm, but I myself have spend a lot of time with them.

The main part

This sheep is lying here in the grass,
in the sunshine
at the foot of the mountain

Breathing

I can see his sides rise and fall

He seems calm

With three of his legs tied together so he

Can’t run away

Resigned, I can still see his

Nostrils flare

since the accident I have been

preoccupied

with the quickness of death, the

fineness of the line between

waiting at the bus stop to go to work and being

gone

here today I am given the opportunity to be

with death

in the moment it happens, but this time as

an observer

but this time

a planned death, a sacred death, a ritual killing

some of the others are unnerved, uncomfortable and

can't watch

I think of the Thich Nhat Hanh meditation on one's own death and I

breathe

slowly

with the sheep

prayers

I can feel how different this is

the men are saying prayers

the slaughter is quick and humane

the animal is calm, there is no panic, no struggle

I am calm with the animal

Although he was immediately unconscious

when they slit his throat

the breath is still leaving the body

the blood is draining out, creating

steam and then the muscles

contract and the

now untied legs

move as though still alive

when they remove the intestines I can see they are also

still contracting

it takes 24 hours for life to leave the meat,

the men say.

this is not television, where I've seen countless

human animals 'killed'

this is how death happens in real life, after a

sacred slaughter

this is not my car accident

this was planned, this has been repeated for

thousands of years, since

Abraham

this is a celebration, not a tragedy

I can sit with this body and be calm

this is so different

Sleep! Revisited!

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 22:05:00 +0000

Last night I relived the sheer joy of falling into bed,
exhausted, and
falling asleep almost
immediately, with just a few
glorious minutes of nestling into the covers
under my brand-spanking-new handmade
Palmer Fishman bedspread
(yes, it's WAY COOL and you MUST HAVE ONE of your
very own)

I slept all night!
Well, no, not really.
But when I woke up at 4:30am my
   legs weren't twitching, which in itself is
   wonderful.
The Neurontin (gapapentina in Spain) made me
  run into the wall and
  stagger down the stairs to the bathroom but
   walking like a drunk is an improvement over my
   previous situation

[on a side note, I like the Spanish drug warning labels much better. There's only
one, and it's a picture of a car with a warning triangle around it. Gets right to the point]

[This post is in direct response to a concerned reader's comment that my blog is mostly sad and negative. I wanted to make sure I include my triumphs as well, no matter how small]

diplomatic? and other unintended consequences of US foreign policy

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 21:07:00 +0000

Diplomatic - and other consequences of US foreign policy

You're special,

the staff at the US Consulate told me

Every other American

Ever involved in a similar accident or case

(ie, that involved someone else dying)

   has been sent to 'preventative prison' until the case is resolved,
   which can take days, weeks or months
   (by preventative they mean preventing you from fleeing Nicaraguan justice)

I was the first (in their experience) to be given
unsupervised house arrest after only

2 days in the local jail.

They didn't officially know how it happened, but

they thought my whole case was

marked by the

humility and genuine sadness I and my family expressed.

I laughed.

But surely everyone is humble and sad
in this situation
(of having accidentally ended the life of one of the people they
supposedly came to serve)?'
All the expats I know here work in NGOs, aid agencies, or as missionaries

No, actually not.

Other Americans have been perceived as arrogant and demanding

of special treatment. The Nicaraguan police, courts, and

press don’t like that.

Right after the accident happened the media assumed
you would be the same, and there were media reports of a
frivolous, reckless gringa who cared nothing for Nicaraguans.

The reports changed tone after my first day in court, when I was so distraught and horrified that I kept a
sheet over my head, sobbing and banging my head against the table.

How else could I feel, trapped in a nightmare-turned-reality in which my car had somehow ended the lives of two women, gruesomely, who were just waiting to catch the bus to work?

I can’t imagine anyone else feeling any less torn apart.
But apparently such is the reputation and stereotype of Americans here
that people assumed I was and would be
unrepentant, uncaring, and refusing to take any responsibility for the situation.

I wanted to throw up when the Consul General said the Embasssy wanted to learn from my case to help them deal with the next one.
Next one, he said,
accepting these accidents as just another
inconvenience of living in Nicaragua.

speed bumps in Spain

Weight-Lifting and the Flu - next in a series of Palmer Fishman's Mixed Mental Health Metaphors

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica Hirst / Palmer Fishman) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 04:47:00 +0000

Weight-Lifting, Flu and Chemo
more Mixed Mental Health Metaphors from Palmer Fishman
(now with illustrations!)

You have to try harder
Get out there and do it
Just make yourself get out of bed
Nobody else wants to get up early for work,
but they do
You're lazy
You're making excuses
You're weak
You think you're special

Even people who love me
people who supposedly understand the nature of major depression
Say these things to me,
sometimes wrapped in prettier packages

This is what I tell them:
Go bench-press 500 pounds. Now.
Too much? How about 100?
OK, you could do that on a good day,
after being healthy and in training for awhile
with a spotter?
But this week you have the flu
and the weight falls on your chest.
Nobody blames you or
calls you a weakling
you have a fever and you're vomiting and
can barely walk
It's understandable.

But if I have no desire to be alive
which is a damn sight more serious than a fever and I
can't force myself to get out of bed
even to eat or go to the bathroom
Why do you think I should
'JUST'
be able to bench-press 100 pounds?
Or go to work?
Or make it to a meeting?
Or answer the phone, for that matter?

What if someone you know is fighting cancer
They're in chemo and
can't keep food down and
generally feel miserable and everyone's
worried they might not make it through
You don't call them lazy because they can't
maintain their usual hectic schedule

But say you have major recurrent depression and you're
always worried you won't make it, you're not even sure what 'making it'
means anymore.
You think you might feel better if you don't 'make it'.
You can't enjoy or desire
anything.
Even your favorite things.

Yet your coworkers call you a slacker or
your friends give you advice from another world, like
'when I feel a down I go to yoga and it really helps' or
'you just have to chill the fuck out'
Completely missing that this is not just
a little down
This is on the same scale of 'bad' as cancer treatment.

So please don't think I'm lazy
I'm trying as hard as I can
I need the equivalent of chemo, and if
I'm on serious drugs or had ECT, believe me that
the side effects also suck the life-force out of me and I am indeed
fighting for survival
so
I 'just' can't bench-press anything

today. or maybe this whole month